#AND A GODDAMN SMILE THAT HAS BEEN ROTTING MY BRAIN FOR A WEEK NOW | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tteokdoroki · 3 years

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oblivious | k.takami

♡ pairing: keigo takami x gn!reader.

♡ word count: 1.8K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, assistant!au, fluff.

♡ summary: usually, when it comes down to smooth talking and flirting, pro hero hawks has all the boxes checked right off. except for when it comes to his assistant, who doesn’t quite seem to get it. or the one in which miruko meddles with hawks’ love life on valentines day.

♡ warning(s): please read ! tooth-rotting fluff, cheesy pick-up lines, just keigo being a dorky boi! :D

♡ author’s note(s): goood evening my loves! here’s a little fluff fic for you on valentines ! it was requested a while ago by @mocha-focha but i figured today would be the perfect day! i hope youu enjoy, sorry this is so last min! happy valentines day <3

♡ masterlist | requests

keigo couldn’t tell if he found it more adorable or more annoying.

your obliviousness that is.

on one had, your cluelessness to the number two’s attraction towards you was most certainly adorable. the way you grew flustered when he walked by or leaned down to your height to tease and compliment you. the way your gaze dropped shyly to your desk when he’d ask something minuscule of you. keigo knew he intimidated you; after all, who wouldn’t be in the shoes of japan’s second most beloved hero.

the winged hero had wanted you ever since he first laid his avian eyes on you, after he’d stumbled back into his agency to complete paper work for that day’s patrol. you had been unpacking boxes at the desk outside of keigo’s office, hired to be a temporary assistant while the last had quit due to said blonde ‘being too much to handle.’

keigo still remembers the way your eyes had flittered to the floor as soon as he came into view and the timid way your name had slipped from between your pretty lips when he’d asked for your name.

the blonde swears he could never get tired of the sweet taste of ‘yn’ on his tongue.

you were nice company and worked well with keigo, since you were resilient unlike his last assistant. he couldn’t fault you anywhere, not in your kind smile and precious gestures ( you always brought him a chicken sandwich when you came back from your lunch break ). you were a gem. the only ‘annoying’ thing was that you never quite understood his flirting.

sure; some of keigo’s methods like bringing you little gifts of shiny things and rocks were a little unconventional... but he couldn’t help it! he was a goddamned bird after all and it wasn’t his fault you mistook the dead rabbit on your desk as a cruel practical joke instead of a proclamation of love. and okay, maybe keigo giving you extra work so you could spend more time with him after office hours was a little over the top; but at least his pickup lines got through to you.

they were cringeworthy of course but at the very least; they made you grin even if you were a bit confused. one time you thought he had been practicing on you to test on endeavour on their patrol later that day. another story for another time.

so maybe the most annoying thing wasn’t your obliviousness to keigo’s advances but instead the reactions and teasing from his friends. just like now.

“so what’s it gonna be today keigo?” rumi asks from the winged hero’s left, her rabbit ears twitch and pick up on his light scoff— while he mentally prepares for the incoming barrage of teasing. “’are you the alphabet because i can c u and i together?’”

“no rumi, i’ve got better than that.” keigo barks out with a shift of his crimson wings, the number five smirks from beside him and keigo rolls his eyes with defeat, hating the way his wings often conveyed his underlying emotions. the elevator they both travel in comes to a slow stop on the thirteenth floor of the hawks agency where the man himself hosts meetings in his office. the whole reason rumi was even here was to attend some dumb mission briefing the commission wanted to set them on but more than likely the bunny like hero would be here to tease keigo about his failed attempts at flirting with you. “just you wait!”

she enjoyed making his life a living hell. “i don’t know, nothing can quite beat that ‘i’m not a photographer but i can picture you and i together’ line you used last week!” rumi winks, swiftly exciting the elevator as the doors chime and open up, just narrowly avoiding the flurry of cursing and chirps from the bird-like hero.

said blonde follows with a huff, making a b-line for his sacred office as he sets his mind on getting the meeting done. the sooner it ends, the sooner rumi can get the hell out of his hair and stop bullying him for having a crush on his personal assistant. only, keigo is stopped in his tracks when he notices you innocently perched at your desk, tapping away at some document on your computer— one that he probably could’ve and should’ve done himself. hawks almost hates how he catches himself blushing over how you complete such a mundane task, the squint to your eyes and the slight pinch to your brows in concentration ( which is adorable to him quite frankly ) make his heart flutter.

he finds himself coming to a stop just in front of your desk, causing rumi to slow up ahead and turn around to watch the chaos unfold.

your typing ceases quickly when you notice the shadow on your boss looming over you— his gold and piercing avian eyes staring right back down at you as soon as you look up. “oh! mr hawks, you’re back—!”

“yn, i seem to have lost my number, can i borrow yours?” hawks blurts out the cheesy line, almost instantly regretting it right after.

there’s a beat of silence between you both while your face morphs into one of confusion. why would he need to borrow your number when you could just locate it in the personal records you had access to? in the meantime, miruko has taken it upon herself to fill the awkward air with pockets of wheezy laughter. you blink up at your boss, once, twice, three times before reaching for your notebook with all of his important details written inside. “mr hawks, if you wanted me to read your number out loud for you again , you could have asked! i'm more than happy to!” you say your words slowly, just to make sure he understands— your boss can be a bit of an air head sometimes and it is your job to help him out.

“no—yn, no i—” keigo instantly shakes his head, the red tint of shame blaring across his cheeks in a shade that almost rivals the red of his wings. said appendages puff up and flutter with embarrassment and it doesn’t help that his fellow hero is laughing at him so hard that she’s bent over and struggling to breathe. “baby—i meant i was asking for your numb—“

you smile up at him with sweet innocent eyes that have his words dying in his throat. “i didn’t know you had a baby! congratulations mr hawks!” and then you return to typing.

keigo wants to die, physically deflating right in front of your desk where he stands.

rumi, who now seems to have recovered from her laughing fit passes by keigo with a pat to his back, he only pouts while she wipes the remainders of amused tears from her eyes before perching herself on your desk, practically leaning over you. you look up once again, feeling shy under the gaze of yet another esteemed pro hero but greet her politely with a bob of your head.

“yn, hun, can i ask you a question?” the number five asks you, warm grin helping you relax just a little.

“yes miss miruko?”

you find the woman shaking with laughter above you before she pets your hair endearingly, the gesture almost makes you pout and you have to remind yourself of where you are and who you work for. “firstly, love, you can call me rumi, i know you’re shy but i don’t bite…” you paw gently at your cheeks in oder to fight the growing heat that burns brightly under your skin, growing ever so flustered under miruko’s silky voice and knowing gaze. “secondly, hawks isn’t a father nor does he have a baby— he was addressing you, sweetheart. and finally,” rumi pauses, patting your head again as her bunny ears twitch with amusement and mischief. “how do you feel about the bird brains over there, do you like him?”

takami jolts up in his place, impossibly redder than he was before while he makes an attempt to shut rumi up with his ruffled feathers. the bunny simply catches the red feather between her hands, giving them a little tickle to distract her fellow hero , tilting her head down at you as if to ask ‘well?’ you gulp, feeling yourself become nervous as the two wait for your answer expectantly. of course you had nothing but positive feelings towards your boss; he was kind and made the time out of his busy day to talk to you— but why did they care so much as to ask you for your opinion? you were only his assistant and saying anything bad about the number two hero would surely get you fired.

hesitantly, your gaze flickers between the clearly entertained miruko and the highly embarrassed hawks— forcing you to take a deep breath before delivering your anticipated answer. “well—! he’s a great boss, i— i couldn’t ask for better, why wouldn’t i like a boss who gives me an hour and a half’s lunch break?” you sigh in relief at your answer, assuring yourself that it won’t have offended anyone but your heart rate is quick to spike when miruko squishes your cheeks and tilts your head to face your flustered boss.

“no sweetheart,” she corrects herself, pointing over at keigo who cowers into his wings. “i mean, do you like him as in... would you date him?”

you swear on all might’s life that you almost pass out from her words, mind swirling with a thousand thoughts. why would she ask that of you? sparing a glance at your boss once move, you realise what all of this is about. his hot blush, the way he avoids your stare, his flustered state to match your own. he likes you, just as you like him. rumi was only being a good wing woman, one that you were grateful for— as you’d never make a move on hawks on your own, no matter how many feelings you’d harboured for him in the time that you’d worked for him. You had been oblivious to his romantic gestures this whole time and now; the situation for you to confess had presented itself to you.

to hell with it.

“yes,” you breathe as best you can through squished cheeks, staring at keigo with eyes dreamy enough to make his heart soar. “why wouldn’t anyone? i-i mean, mr hawks is so sweet and kind to everyone he meets, fans or not! and…and he’s really pretty— i mean handsome… and his eyes—“ you cut yourself off upon realising the tangent you’ve gone on just to prove your attraction to your boss, looking away shyly and rumi let’s you go with a sweet chuckle.

but just as quickly as you look away, the softness of a little red feather tilts your focus back to him. “glad to know you think so yn,” he winks, making you giggle shyly. “i’ll pick you up tonight at seven for valentines, then.”

and who were you to say no to him.

997 notes · View notes

keilemlucent · 3 years

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pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other��s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

you’re all that i need, underneath the tree

characters: dabi, shigaraki tomura

genre: tooth-rotting fluff with a sprinkle of angst

notes: aaah okay! set in the break my bones but act as my spine universe, between part one and part two but after dabi’s apology!! poor dabi gets dragged out with the happy couple to go hunting for the perfect christmas tree :) | title credit: underneath the tree by kelly clarkson

warnings: pining, daddy kink (without the kinkiness), generally toxic relationships

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

And so what if you’re more excited than Tomura is about his agreeing to come, even though it was Tomura who asked for his assistance; so what if it makes his chest swell with that irritatingly tingling sensation, the one that seeps into his veins and shoots through the rest of his body, the one that makes him feel like he’s buzzing. What’s it matter, anyway?

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

Snow crunches under his heavy boots as he trudges along behind you, staring at the back of your head with a glare so vicious, so ferocious it could melt platinum.

Dabi hates Christmas.

Smoke from a large bonfire, lined by families—good looking couples with tiny carbon copies of themselves, gloved hands tenderly cupping hot chocolate as the children chatter animatedly, little squeals of laughter overlapping the indistinct noise—blows into his face and he chokes on it a bit, the tiny glowing embers it carries with it through the air burning his eyes.

Dabi hates Christmas.

He’s only coming because Tomura’s his fucking boss, he had told you curtly when you swiveled around in the front seat of the Maybach to express your excitement to him, forcing his eyes to stay on the white leather beneath him, unable to bear the way he’s sure your face is falling at his sharp words. He hates Christmas.

But Tomura had snorted a little to himself the moment the words left Dabi’s lips, because God, what a fucking lie. He doesn’t voice the thought, but he doesn’t need to—it’s clear in his ruby eyes as they meet sapphire through the rearview mirror, an amused little smirk present on his scarred lips as he raises an eyebrow in mocking question.

Yeah. Alright, fine. He’s a fucking liar, so what? Yeah, alright, so maybe he’s only here because of you, because he knows that if he had refused, the entire trip would’ve been ruined, and he couldn’t have that on his conscious, couldn’t handle that on his conscious.

It’s his turn to snort at himself, rolling his eyes. What a pathetic excuse for a man. It’s a real funny joke, though; a man who can kill indiscriminately, who can kill delightfully, without batting a fucking eye as bits of skull and brain splatter on the toe of his boot, can’t handle the thought of even one more of your salty tears staining his soul.

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

❅ ❅ ❅

This place is way too extravagant for a Christmas Tree farm, Dabi mutters to himself as he trails behind you, seething azure darting around the venue with a deep scowl, taking note of the large stone building that doubles as a gift shop and a café—all baked goods made on the premises and handcrafted with love, of course—with crystal windows that gleam in the weak afternoon sunlight and gentle curls of smoke escaping its chimney. Scattered bonfires blaze among the grounds, each with a group of Christmas tree hunters arranged in a loose circle around it, keeping warm and roasting marshmallows. The sticky sweet scent drifts through the air, Dabi wrinkling his nose as it hits him. That soft clop-clop of horseshoes against matted snow mingles with the sound of classic Christmas music as white and brown horses pull intricate wooden sleighs around the area.

It all makes him fucking sick. God, Dabi hates Christmas.

“Oh my gosh!” you’re gushing as you cling to Tomura. “Daddy, it’s so pretty,”

The two of you are attracting the gazes of everyone in the immediate vicinity, Dabi hunching in further on himself, trying to bury his face in the neck of his jacket. Really, he should be used to this by now. The pair of you are always a sight to be seen, with you in your little dresses—crushed black velvet this time, with a high neckline and a dainty satin ribbon tied around your ribs in a tiny, neat bow—and black trench coat, hem ending just above your knees; and Tomura in his vibrant red coat, teasingly obscuring his fitted black trousers—tailored specifically for him, of course—and black cashmere turtleneck.

It makes the two of you look like you just stepped out of the Christmas edition of a fucking high fashion catalogue. It makes Dabi feel ratty and underdressed—makes everyone around you feel ratty and underdressed, honestly—in his faded black jeans and big combat boots.

You’ve wandered off a little further ahead now, eyes glittering and bright as they soak everything in, hands clasped adoringly against your chest.

“Daddy!” you gasp suddenly, turning back to look at Tomura, eyes wide and sparkling, catching in the soft yellow glow of nearby Christmas lights. “They’re giving out hot chocolate!”

“Yes, they are, princess,” Tomura smiles, eyes softening as he gazes at you, now halted a few feet ahead of him, his hands outfitted in leather gloves clasped loosely behind his back as he strolls.

“Can I go get some?” you bounce a little on the balls of your feet as he meets you.

“Of course you can, baby,”

“Thanks! I—Do you want some, too?”

“Sure,” Tomura shrugs amicably. “Go wait in line, Daddy will be there in a moment,”

Your smile falls a little—just a hint, really, the corners of your lips twitching, a miniscule action Dabi hates that he notices—as your eyes flit between your Daddy and him, blinking twice, brow wrinkling in the cutest way. Dabi grits his teeth, hands balling into fists as he fights the itch, the urge, to reach out and smooth your skin out again. Pathetic. He’s fucking pathetic.

“Um, o-okay,”

Tomura nods encouragingly, then quirks his head towards the ever-growing lineup, as if to say get going! You obey immediately, scampering off with a cute little affirmative yelp. Dabi instantly moves to follow you, is so accustomed to having you glued to his side that watching skip off on your own like that evokes a thick panic in his chest, rising way too quickly in his throat, his mouth opening to call your name, to scold you for running off as he’s done so many times before.

“Wait,” Tomura mutters, a hand curling tightly around Dabi’s bicep, his voice low, dangerous. Brow furrowing, Dabi looks from the hand wrapped around him, to the face of its owner, and back to you again.

“Look at me,” Tomura snaps, Dabi’s tongue running along the front of his teeth as he sucks on them, keeping the insults brewing in his mouth from escaping. Scarlet eyes search his face, slowly, calmly, but every second you’re away from him has Dabi’s heart pounding harder and harder, powerless to stop his eyes from worriedly glancing your way again, only brought back to his boss’ face by a harsh squeeze around his bicep.

Tomura speaks at an unhurried pace, voice even and controlled, annunciating each word with purpose in an effort to beat them into Dabi’s scattered brain.

“Do not upset her today, or I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking nose. She’s been looking forward to this for weeks—I had to pull teeth to get this day off,”

And Dabi hates that, even in the middle of a humiliating, demeaning scolding from his boss, he can’t keep his eyes from darting towards you again, scanning the line you’re currently squished in for any potential threats, instinctual and automatic at this point, a habit. Tomura pulls on his arm a little, directing Dabi’s stare back to him again.

And he knows, goddamn it, he knows how excited you’ve been for this, how important this stupid little Christmas tree hunt is to you, because it’s all you’ve been able to babble about for fucking days now.

“Take whatever the hell you need to, to be fucking nice, you hear me?”

But he nods anyway, carves false derision into his face as his eyebrows furrow and his lips tug down, ripping his arm from Tomura’s grasp. “Yeah. Got it.”

His tone is clipped, and he doesn’t miss the way Tomura’s jaw clenches once with the grinding of his molars, smirking a little as his head tilts, crimson eyes regarding Dabi in a way that makes him feel like shivering, in a way that makes him feel exposed, naked, unprotected.

“You better.”

❅ ❅ ❅

“Here, Dabi!”

A jolt runs down his spine at the sound of your voice saying his name, and he turns towards you, brow knitting slightly as he’s met with a paper cup, held out to him between your two mitten-clad hands, your own drink secured precariously between your ribs and the crook of your elbow.

“What’s this?”

And he fucking hates the way his voice trembles, the way that stupid warmth starts blooming in his chest again, the way it does any time you do something small for him, any time you physically prove that you were thinking of him, too. Clearing his throat, he stares at the beverage, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

“I got you one, too,” you explain simply, pushing the streaming drink at him a little more, rich notes of chocolate and cream wafting over him, urging him to retrieve it from your tiny hands. “Take it,”

He has half a mind to lie, to tell you that he hates chocolate even though his mouth is watering, even though he knows you know he loves it, to knock the cup from your hands and watch as the hot liquid eats through the snow like a disease, melting it into nothing.

“Thanks,” he grumbles instead, looking away as he grabs it from your outstretched hands.

Tomura returns a moment later, a large red saw in his clutch. “All ready to go Christmas tree hunting, princess?”

❅ ❅ ❅

Dabi will always be amazed by your ability to make everyone around you fall absolutely, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you in mere moments, cobalt eyes trained on the old man holding the horses’ reins—a wide, sincere smile stretched across his face, hazel eyes positively gleaming as they gaze down at you from his spot atop the sleigh—asking you if you’d like to feed the animals, your knuckles gently caressing their velvety noses.

Maybe later, Tomura promises you when you glance back at him, whispering “Can I, Daddy?”, reminding you that there’s only a few hours of sunlight left, and if you’re on a mission to find the perfect Christmas tree, you best start soon.

Sat in between Dabi and yourself in the tiny oak sleigh, Tomura pulls a tattered, folded piece of paper from his pocket, reciting your criteria for The Perfect Christmas Tree.

The Perfect Christmas Tree, the paper states, must encompass the four elements listed below:

It has to be the perfect mixture of forest green with those pretty blue undertones—nothing too blue or powdery!

It has to smell good but not too strong—if it’s too strong, it makes you nauseous

It has to be full—you know, not one of those Charlie Brown trees that are all branches and no body, or one of those thin tall trees—but not too bushy! Not so fat that the needles obscure the lights and ornaments

It has to be perfectly symmetrical and triangular, not lopsided or wonky

Dabi plays stupid, acts as if he doesn’t have that whole list memorized back to front, acts as if he couldn’t regurgitate it in his sleep, like he didn’t sit down with you at the breakfast bar and help you make it, even though it’s in his handwriting.

❅ ❅ ❅

Every tree is beginning to look the same to him. The three of you have been wandering through these fields for just over an hour and a half now, and Dabi’s positive he’s about to lose all ten of his toes to frostbite.

“We are not leaving until we find the perfect tree, damn it!” Tomura spits, ruby eyes practically glowing as they fly to Dabi’s face.

“Right, right,” Dabi grumbles to himself, nodding his head a little and tucking his gloved hands under his armpits in an attempt to at least save his fingers.

But you do eventually find it, after Dabi complains about dying from hypothermia for the third time; a massive blue spruce that isn’t too blue, that smells good but not too strong, that is full but not bushy, and that tapers off into a perfect triangle—wide at the bottom and coming to a point at the top, perfectly symmetrical.

Tomura glances over his shoulder at you after he’s finished brushing off all of the snow from the tree’s branches, so you can examine it fully. “Well? Is this the one, baby?”

And the way your eyes absolutely dazzle as you gaze at it, a large, brilliant smile splitting your face as the most precious giggles hitch in your throat, head nodding in cute little motions—well, God, that makes it all worth it. In that moment, Dabi’s sure he’d endure this cold a thousand times over, would lose all of his fingers and all of his toes, just to experience that look of pure, innocent happiness on your face once again.

“Yes, Daddy! It’s perfect,”

❅ ❅ ❅

Even baled, this tree is a giant pain in the ass to get up to the penthouse. It takes the men a solid half hour to figure out a way to fit the tree into the elevator, gleaming droplets of sweat dripping down their faces, tufts of hair clinging to their cheeks.

“Is it still—oh, for fuck’s sake—the perfect tree?” Dabi hisses out as the three of you press yourselves against the monstrous tree, just barely stuffing yourselves into the elevator, an escaped branch digging into his cheek.

“Yes,” you snicker.

“Yes,” Tomura echoes. “Stop being a brat, Dabi,”

“I—Me? Me!” Dabi sputters, at a loss for words. Him, a brat? After everything he just did for you, Tomura’s perfect little princess?

“Yes, you,” you giggle, knocking your shoulder playfully against his bicep. Any rebuttal gets lodged in his throat as he gazes down at you, sapphire eyes softening as they meet yours, shining with mirth, unable to tame the smile tugging at your lips.

He hasn’t seen you this happy in a long time. An ache takes root at the very core of his body, agony radiating throughout his limbs as he’s hit with the dim realization that Tomura’s increasing absence affects you a lot more than he originally thought—that you miss him more than you let on—and the ache in his chest pulses, though he is unable to discern whether it pulses for you, or for him.

It takes nearly another thirty minutes to get the tree safely secured in its stand before slowly cutting through the netted baling and removing it, allowing the tree’s branches to fan out.

Isaac is immediately curious, sitting back on his hind legs and gnawing on one of the branches for a moment before leaping into the tree, lithe body curving through the boughs as he burrows his way to the trunk in the center, digging his little claws into it as you cry out his name in alarm.

“Here, I’ll get him,” Dabi offers, still kneeling on the floor from fastening the screws on the stand.

A little chuckle falls from his lips as he reaches between the branches, gathering the kitten in one hand.

“What do you think you’re doin’ in there, little guy,” he asks as he pulls Isaac from the tree, little paws swiping at the needles, trying to catch them as Dabi drags him out.

“Silly kitty,” you scold as Dabi places him gently on the hardwood. “You aren’t an ornament!”

And Dabi can’t help the genuine laugh that gets caught in his chest, gazing up at you with a fond shake of his head. “He’s gonna be real trouble around this thing, that’s for sure,”

Tomura returns then with three large boxes full of expensive, glittering ornaments in his arms, grumbling about how he had to dig through one of the spare closets to find them and dropping them unceremoniously by the tree, the items delicately clinking together.

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his chest, beginning to restrict his breathing, and Dabi takes this as his cue to depart, because truthfully, the last thing he wants right now is to have to witness you being all mushy and domestic with Tomura. Wordlessly, he heads towards the front door, already craving the soft embrace of his lush bed, eager for the bliss unconsciousness undoubtedly brings with it.

“Dabi?”

Your voice is so small, so fragile, sounds almost hurt, his hand freezing on the handle, shoulders tensing.

“You’re not staying?”

He stares directly ahead, gaze searing into the door as his body goes rigid. Please, he wants to beg, don’t start, not now, not when he knows he won’t be able to resist you.

But his name falls from your lips again, the sound so beautiful, so heartbreaking, and it pulls a deep sigh from his chest. He has no control, not an ounce of authority as his body instinctually turns towards you, the voracious need to comfort you outweighing the full, throbbing pang it inspires.

And, Christ, you look so fucking cute in your little opaque tights with fluffy, woolen socks pulled over them, clinging to your calves with cute little reindeer sown into them, toes pointed inward and overlapping just a little as you stare at him with the sweetest pout.

“Wait,” Tomura smirks, chucking a little. “You were going to leave me alone with this one, when she’s all hopped up on Christmas joy like this?”

Dabi stares at his boss, blinking rapidly, lips parting in anticipation of the words that never come.

“There’s no way I could handle her by myself today,” Tomura continues after a beat, crimson eyes shining in the warm light. “She’s got enough Christmas spirit for all three of us, and then some,”

“Daddy!” the word escapes your lips in a playful little squeal, giggles bubbling up in your throat as Tomura wraps an arm around you, pulling you against his side and nuzzling his nose against your neck. “We could really use your help,” you tell him softly, almost gently, still leaving that option for him to escape, should he choose to do so.

His heart’s thudding against his ribs as he clears his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips, words leaving his mouth sluggishly, yet at an uneven pace, voice quivering ever so slightly.

“I-I guess I could…Stay, to help you guys decorate the tree—for a little. I mean, it is a fucking monster,”

“Ah, yay!” you beam at him, clapping your hands excitedly. “Daddy, now that Dabi’s staying, can we make cookies?”

“Sweets before dinner, princess?”

“Pretty please?” you whimper, gazing up at him with the very definition of puppy-dog eyes. “I promise I’ll eat all my veggies, even the funky looking ones—” Tomura snorts, interrupting you, but you barrel on. “—I will, I swear!”

And, really, Tomura’s powerless to resist you, to deny you, left absolutely defenceless when you’re batting your eyelashes up at him like that, voice syrupy and sweet as little fingers cling to his shirtsleeve. Dabi doesn’t blame him—your pout should be registered as a lethal weapon.

Tomura goes to call for his personal chef, but you cut him off, wrinkling your nose and shaking your head.

“No, not the fancy ones,” you say as if it’s obvious. “I wanna make the store-bought ones! Y’know, the ones in the tube—”

“The ones that you begged our personal grocery shopper to smuggle in for you?” Tomura raises an eyebrow, and you finally have the decency to look sheepish, nodding your head. “Those ones?”

“Yes! Yes, please, those ones,” you respond eagerly, waiting for that final nod from Tomura before scampering off towards the kitchen, Tomura’s voice calling after you as he warns you to be careful with the scissors!

Yeah, alright, Dabi thinks as the smell of cheap sugar cookies washes over him, nimble fingers hanging another crystal bulb on the tree while you scold Tomura for placing too many ornaments of the same colour in one spot, an involuntary grin spreading across his cheeks as that inexplicable warmth blossoms in his chest again. So maybe Christmas isn’t that bad after all.

#dabi x reader #dabi fluff #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki fluff #dabi #shigaraki tomura #WAAAAAH SURPRISE ehehe #this is just something small n quick u know but i wanted to write some cute christmassy stuff for the bmb universe too!!#figured it would be nice to give u guys some old fashioned fluff amidst all that touya angst <33

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

I've read fics where Hermann disapproves of PDAs but what about the reverse? As in he's so stunned at winning the most amazing man in the Shatterdome (6 phds, literal rockstar, gorgeous Newt) that he deliberately provokes contact and shows of affection. Just to show off to people and send a clear back off signal. And Newt just dotes on him obliviously.

ok this one is another super old prompt and when I was writing it this week it KINDA got away from me. but I hope everyone enjoyyyys. partially inspired from conversations with @k-sci-janitor 👀 totally sfw, except for one brief reference

anyway, a fic about hermann being all affectionate with newt and also discovering what relaxation is

——————————————-------------------------------------------

The day after the world doesn’t end, Hermann brings Newt breakfast in bed.

Honestly, it surprises Newt more than the whole world not ending thing. Up until the previous evening, after all, Newt was pretty damn sure the guy absolutely hated him, and that if Hermann was gonna do something as out of character as bringing him breakfast, it surely meant he’d spat in it first. Or maybe poisoned it. If hated isn’t the right word, Newt would say Hermann at the very least barely tolerated. And then the whole sharing the neural load thing happened. And, after that, hugging, not once, but twice, and then falling asleep in bed together. And now Hermann’s perched on the edge of his bed (which they shared while they slept) and handing him a plate.

“You had quite the busy day yesterday,” Hermann says kindly. Hermann has never spoken to Newt kindly before. Atop the plate are two pieces of toast, a soft-boiled egg, and a mug of coffee. The coffee and toast (Newt notices) are exactly the shade he prefers. He wonders if Hermann picked up on it before or after the whole mind-melding thing. Before wouldn’t surprise him—Hermann has always been weird about noticing details like that. The egg, however, is something purely Hermann in taste. “I imagine you could use a nice spot of breakfast,” he adds.

Newt shoves his glasses on and blinks at Hermann groggily. He struggles to sit up, partially tangled in his sheets, and then takes the plate. A little bit of coffee sloshes down onto one of the slices of toast. “Are you wearing my sweatshirt?” he says.

Hermann smiles and looks down at the ragged old MIT sweatshirt he’s tossed on. He may have a few inches on Newt, but he’s still one skinny motherfucker, and it hangs almost comically off his frame. “I am,” he says. “I poked around in your closet, I hope you don’t mind. My clothing was in a rather sorry state.”

Sorry state is an understatement for both of them. Newt’s surprised they haven’t been formally ordered to burn the shit they wore to the bone slums yet. Blood, dirt, and kaiju guts aside, Newt’s, at least, reeks to high heaven with sweat. “No worries,” Newt says. He picks up the coffee and blows on it. He wonders where Hermann got coffee that smells this good. It’s been hard to find anything decent and non-instant on the base these days, and (thanks to limited rations) chain shops like Starbucks cost an arm and a leg for even a small. He also wonders what people thought when they saw Hermann strutting around the base with bedhead in a sweatshirt that obviously wasn’t his. Newt almost wants to blush on his behalf. Scandalous.

Before Newt can so much as take a sip of the coffee, Hermann is suddenly unbuckling and shucking off his grey slacks. “Dude!” Newt yelps, flushing bright red to the tips of his ears. Hermann blinks at him innocently. “What are you doing?”

It’s not so much that Newt is upset as it is that it’s so wildly out of character for Hermann that he feels he owes it to Hermann to act at least moderately scandalized. In all his years of knowing and working alongside Hermann, he’s never so much as seen Hermann’s bare wrist before. Now he’s in Newt’s goddamn bed flashing calves, and thighs, and neatly-pressed little white briefs… Hermann rolls his eyes and tosses the slacks (unfolded!) onto Newt’s desk chair. “Making myself comfortable,” he says. “Would you like me to stop?”

Does Hermann iron his underwear? It would be at odds with the rest of his clothing if he did, which is usually in various stages of frumpy to outright wrinkled, but Newt can’t think of how else it would look like that. He wonders if Hermann’s stitched his name on the inner waistband. It seems like the kind of thing Hermann would do. Newt suddenly realizes he’s been staring at Hermann’s briefs (and, worse still, considering how cute Hermann looks in just them and Newt’s sweatshirt) for an uncomfortably long time, so he quickly shakes his head and drags his eyes to Hermann’s face. One of Hermann’s eyebrows is quirked up. Newt hasn’t been subtle. “No,” he says. He clears his throat. “No, dude, you’re—all good.”

He chokes down a too-hot sip of coffee to have something to do with his mouth.

Hermann smirks.

The bedcovers are drawn back. Hermann slips under them and drapes an arm across Newt’s chest, his hand curling protectively over Newt’s hip. With his other hand he snags Newt’s coffee from his grasp and takes a sip. Newt watches his jaw and throat work as he swallows it, a funny feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach. The mug is handed back over, Hermann’s fingers brushing against Newt’s, which make Newt feel even funnier. “Newton,” Hermann declares. “I think we ought to have sex.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Can I finish my breakfast first?”

“Certainly,” Hermann says.

Newt’s heart pounds as he spreads a little packet of margarine across one of the pieces of toast; he can feel Hermann’s eyes on him, never straying once. Hermann’s hand draws little circles on his hip. Newt drops his toast twice to the plate before he can successfully take a bite, and even when he does, he doesn’t taste it. Hermann’s fingers dip under the hem of his t-shirt. Newt swallows his toast. “Why?” he says.

Apparently it’s the right question. Hermann nods, like he’s pleased Newt has asked. Like they’re talking theories or something. “I came to the conclusion while I fetching your coffee,” Hermann says. “It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have gotten up at seven in the morning to get coffee for just anyone. Then, of course, there is the whole drifting business—”

“You realized you wouldn’t have done that for just anyone too, huh?” Newt says with a smile. Hermann’s hand on his hip stills, and his cheeks go pink. Newt’s relieved to have gotten some ground back here. “Hermann, that’s sooo romantic.”

“The world was at stake,” Hermann sniffs.

“It’s okay,” Newt says. “I won’t tell anyone the great Dr. Gottlieb has feelings. So, what, you realized you have a big ole crush on me?”

Hermann takes the unfinished piece of toast from him and sets it down on his plate. He pulls Newt’s glasses off, kisses him soundly, and then puts Newt’s glasses back on. His mouth tastes like toothpaste. “On the contrary, I’ve always suspected it,” he says. “It’s just that now I have the time to confirm it.” He reaches up and strokes at Newt’s hair. “We have the time for lots of things, now, Newton. Whatever we’d like.”

Newt finishes off his coffee quickly, not even caring when he burns his tongue, and then tosses the remainder of his breakfast to the floor. His egg spills onto the massacred skinny corduroys he wore yesterday. Whatever, Newt’s burning them anyway. “God, get overhere already, man,” he says, tugging at Hermann’s borrowed sweatshirt. He needs to help Hermann confirm his crush or whatever, pronto.

It’s a few days before Newt and Hermann finally drag themselves out of bed and to the lab to tackle what little work remains for them to do—cataloguing what are apparently the last kaiju samples known to man (Newt), recording and backing up their drift data (Newt’s solo drift, and then their joint data), drawing some random scribbles on the board and pretending they’re important calculations about the possibility of the Breach reopening (Hermann. Okay, whatever, maybe they are important). Unfortunately, the delay isn’t for any sexy reasons, as much as Newt would’ve liked it to have been. The events of the last day of the war caught up with them pretty quickly after that morning in Newt’s bed, and they mostly just slept, ordered out dinner, popped ibuprofen for their various aches, and avoided medical at all costs. (Rumor had it the medical staff on base were looking for him and Hermann so they could do some brain scans. Apparently drifting with a kaiju brain is potentially dangerous, who knew.)

A rancid smell washes over them the second they push the heavy lab doors open, and Newt spots several hunks of kaiju organs rotting away on his workbench. Hermann clamps a hand to his mouth. “Oops,” Newt says, turning to Hermann sheepishly. He can’t help but cower as he does. He and Hermann got along swimmingly the past couple days—it’ll be sad to see all that hard work go down the drain over this. “Guess I forgot to clean up the other day. In my defense—we were kind of busy.”

But Hermann doesn’t snap at Newt, or thump his cane on the ground, or call Newt an idiot, or even look annoyed; he lowers his hand from his mouth and laughs. Albeit a terse laugh, but still. Newt gapes at him. “We were rather busy,” Hermann concedes. “So long as you clean it up in the next ten minutes, I—what, Newton?”

“Nothing,” Newt says, quickly. “I’m gonna—um—deal with it now.”

Hermann disappears from the lab while Newt is digging around in the storage closet for extra heavy-duty trash bags. When he comes back an hour later, he’s holding a cardboard tray of small plastic cups, and Newt has just hefted his last spoiled sample into the lab’s airtight biohazard bin (a bit mournfully, if he’s being honest, since he’s sure there’s still more to learn about the kaiju from them). Newt squints at the cups in the tray while he rips his messy disposable work gloves off. “What’s that?” he says.

“Iced coffee,” Hermann declares.

The gloves slap, wetly, into the biohazard bin, and Newt lets out a low whistle. “Dude. No way. From where?” He’s not sure when he gave off the impression that the way to his heart was good coffee, but maybe it’s true. Then again, Hermann could probably win him over with a cup of lukewarm tap water. Not because Newt is desperate or anything. He just really likes Hermann.

“A little shop a bit away from the base,” Hermann says. “I took the bus.” He draws back his chair and sits down with a soft sigh, setting his cane against his desk. Then he draws out a small brown paper bag from his parka pocket. He tosses it to Newt; Newt catches it with one hand. “They had these funny little cakes on sticks. I thought you might like one.”

“Cake pops?” Newt says.

“I presume,” Hermann says. While Newt inhales the little chocolate-dipped cake pop (which is so good, oh my God, Newt hasn’t had dessert that didn’t come from a vending machine in plastic shrink wrap in years), Hermann adds, “I wasn’t sure what sort of iced coffee you liked, so I made sure to get a variety.”

“Sick,” Newt says, spewing crumbs on his shirt. “Um. But, like, why though?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermann says. “I suppose I wanted to do something kind for you.” He carefully slides a straw out of its paper wrappings and pokes it into the lid of one of the coffees. Once he crumples up the wrapper and tosses It into his train bin, he grips his cane, and uses the handle to nudge Newt’s desk chair towards him. “You worked awfully hard cleaning the laboratory.”

Newt preens a little, even as he privately wonders why Hermann’s acting so weird. Well, nice. But nice is weird for Hermann, so they’re basically the same thing. Is this part of his whole deciding whether or not he digs Newt thing? Newt just assumed the awesome morning they spent together would be proof enough of that. Then again, Hermann’s pretty thorough. “I guess,” Newt says. “It was kind of my mess, though.”

Hermann pats at the empty chair with a smile. Hermann’s smiles are so rare—crooked, and stupid cute—that Newt’s heart gives a painful little twist at the sight of it, and he realizes he doesn’t actually give a shit about why Hermann’s being all weird, actually. “You’ve earned a break,” Hermann says. “Besides, I’d like to spend time with you.”

Newt’s too stunned to argue with that one. When he sits down, Hermann inches their chairs together until their knees are touching.

They don’t necessarily fall back into their usual habits by the next week, but the better ones they’ve picked up (being a little kinder to each other, a little more patient, a little more respectful, and also the fact that Hermann can’t seem to stop touching Newt) all but fall into the background as Newt throws himself into his work with renewed determination. Unfortunately, his desire to get it all done as soon as fucking possible speaks less to his awesome work ethic, and more to the fact that he’s just not sure what else to do with himself now, and he likes that work gives him the excuse to not think about it. Hermann said they have all the time to do whatever they like now. Well, Newt likes working. He knows working. Relaxation is a foreign concept to him, and it was a foreign concept to Hermann up until recently. While Newt is toiling away over his decaying kaiju samples in the lab, Hermann is out—

“Where?” Newt says.

Hermann gives Newt the most serene smile Newt’s ever seen cross his face. “I took a bath,” he says. “It was very nice. I bought some nice soaps, and lit some candles, and looked online to see how to do one of those mud masks. It was very relaxing. You ought to try it.”

“Try bathing?” Newt says.

“Yes. Well, no. I mean taking a bath. Is there something you’re not understanding?”

Newt tries to imagine Hermann with a mud mask on his face and cucumbers over his eyes and fails miserably. Hermann hates messes. He would never stand for mud, let alone on his skin. Where’d he even find a bathtub? Did he break into the rangers’ locker room again? Aren't candles banned on base for being a fire hazard, anyway? “Yeah,” Newt says. “Pretty much all of it.”

Hermann shakes his head with a snort, and Newt catches a whiff of something floral and fragrant—his fancy new soap or oil, he guesses. “I’m not surprised. You know, Newton, you are awfully tense.”

Hearing that from Hermann of all people, the king of having-a-massive-stick-up-your-ass, is probably the funniest thing that’s ever happened to Newt. He laughs out loud and plunges a bare hand into his kaiju sample with a gross squelching noise. “Sure, dude.”

He’s almost too engrossed in his sample to feel Hermann sidling up behind him and setting a hand at his waist. He definitely feels Hermann nose a kiss behind his ear, though, and the hot flush that spreads down across his neck from it. Newt’s hand goes sweaty around his scalpel. One thing he definitely wasn’t expecting from a post-no-apocalypse Hermann is how free he is with affection in any and all forms. “Give it a rest, love,” Hermann murmurs. He nudges at the heel of Newt’s boot with the end of his cane. Love? “Why don’t we head back to my quarters and watch a film? You can pick.”

“But.” Newt fidgets. “I have—my sample—”

Another little kiss. The soapy-oil smell is stronger now. Newt thinks it might be lavender. He wonders if the mud mask left Hermann’s skin all soft. “It won’t be going anywhere, Newton.”

Newt sets down his scalpel.

When they they pass by a group of LOCCENT staff in the hallway, Newt makes to drop Hermann’s hand (which Hermann had laced together with his own before they left the lab), but Hermann holds fast, maybe even faster than before, and looks at him with his stupidly sweet set of big eyes. Newt waits until they round the corner to say anything. “Sorry,” he says, lamely. “Um. I thought—you wouldn’t want—” Hermann continues to stare at him. His iris is still ringed red like Newt’s. “I just mean I know you’re weird about stuff like that. Public stuff.” Hermann has been a closed and tightly-bound book for as long as Newt’s known him; he can’t imagine that would suddenly change and he would start broadcasting his emotions far and wide in the course of a week just because he’s a little less stressed.

Or, you know. Maybe Newt’s totally wrong on this. “Ah,” Hermann says. He nods, very seriously. “Yes. I have been considering that as well. I see no reason to hide recent developments in our relationship.” He squeezes Newt’s hand. "In fact, I see no reason to not be quite, er, proud of them. You’re quite the catch.”

Newt remembers the stolen sweatshirt. Maybe Hermann wearing it out to get them breakfast was more calculated than he realized. “So if I made out with you against the wall right now you wouldn’t be mad?” Newt says.

“Well,” Hermann says, inclining his head to his door, "seeing as my quarters are right there, it seems a rather unnecessary inconvenience.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Newt smiles as Hermann leads him in. “Can I really pick the movie?”

“Within reason.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #esperata

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theblackbirdsgemimagines · 4 years

Note

Ramble away, cause I feel the twisted head rot, I kinda wanna see what you think about our bois. ~ a pocket sized dragon hops in excitement.

A POCKET SIZED DWAGOOOOOONNNN 😭💞💞💞 That’s so BLESSED, and tysm omg, I’m very glad to just spill out my barking on every boy, bc yEAH THE BRAIN ROT SKDHAKDB

THE BRAIN ROT IS SO REAL LOL

Everything I breathe ends up relating to TWST in some way, like at this point just let me take my friends, cousins, and pets, and of course Lulu and Seb, and I will have 1. A Gottdamned Harem, 2. So Many Children, and 3. NEVER WANT TO LEAVE. Kwfhskdhjwek

Ok this is gonna be long bc I gotta cover all my boys, so rip lol.

Dorm Leads:

Riddle

GOD, my Fucking Baby, my CHILD, my SWEET BABY BOY, I’M 👁💧👄💧👁

I would die for him, beetch, he is PRECIOUS ♥️

He reminds me of how I feel Ciel would behave if S/O took the place as Sebastian’s contracee, too, so like 🥺 Lots of feels 😭

Is Son, I have adopted him now. If you mistreat him, don’t ever speak to me or my son ever again. I’ll FIGHT his MOM, don’t TEST me. I’m his new mom now. His BIRD mom. So proud of him, he’s like...one of the few that’s actually shown growth in canon after his overblot kshdkadjs

Leona

👁💧👄💧👁

.....I am a Mere Simp....

Ya’ll.... I swearh to ghOD I simped hard for Scar back when I was a wee thing, I did NOT expect to simp for him AGAIN LATER IN LIFE, what the FUCK aidhskdhskdj

Like shit bitch, damn, you may not be king of Afterglow honey, but you can be king of my heart if you wAnt to bb....

Leona: *smiles once, even if it’s smugly*

Me: *WEEPING* Look at hiiiiiiim!! My sunshine booooooy! 😭

Does this make me a furry

Probably

I am too Simp to Care Anymore

I HESITATED TO GET ATTACHED BC THIS BOY LOOKS LIKE A FUCKIN WOMANIZER IF I EVER SAW ONE, BUT HE DRINKS HIS RESPECT WOMEN JUICE EVERY SINGLE MORNING AND I WAS A GONNER SNDJAJDHSJ

FUCK

Call me a Herbivore again, bully me //SLAPPED

Azul

He secretly a lil shit sometimes, but tha’s ok, it’s mostly in a silly way, especially post overblot~ UvU

The sweetest bby everytime I read fanposts on him, like god, ah 💜💜💜 WHOMST COULD BULLY SUCH A CUTE CHUBBY OCTOBABY I’LL FIGHT ALL OF EM!! A sweetheart 10/10 would be his friend 💗 Not making contracts with him tho, lol

...ok maybe SOME after his overblot, but they’re able to be easily reversed now, so it’s way more chill andhsjdj

Kalim

FUCK!!!! F U C K!!!! BABYYYYYYY!!!! BABY!!!! I HAVE ADOPTED HIM IF YOU TOUCH HIM YOU D I E

He is literally so sweet, anytime anyone was like “you’re so nice it’s annoying” I WAS READY TO COME FLYING IN TO BITCH SLAP THEM LIKE AJDHSKDHSJ (even if I also loved them lol)

Like NO you are WRONG whfksjd

He has also grown so much, and I am proud ♥️🧡

Vil

Jesus Christ, canon Vil is Hurting Meeeeee ajdhskdhsj

My fave fanon Vil is the one that recognizes all different types of beauty, though~ uvu and is v encouraging to anyone that may be struggling with self hatred 💜

Canon: Vil is pretty~.

Me: Wow, wtf???? He IS so pretty... How rude I didn’t think you were serious! Wow him??? Pretty??? Wow??? Wow...

Idia

I’m not sure yet, as I haven’t seen him very often, but of the few times that I have: BIG same, huge mood, and Me FUCKING Too, goddamn akdhakdj

Idia is my Anxiety and Anime Nerd personified tbh lol

What Ortho is to him are what all my comfort characters are to me, honestly.

Like what would you like bby, you want that singing voice?? Ok here comes a synthesizer just special for you~. Ily, mwah~ u3u 💕

Malleus

HEAVY BREATHING

Ok maybe it’s just the lack of story/info out on him yet, but I don’t currently simp as hard for him compared to Leona, I’ll admit jajdkajd

BUT BOY HOWDEY DO I EVER STILL S I M P...

He Is Baby... And I Lob Him....

I am going to smooch those horns and forehead crown of beautiful scales 🖤🖤🖤 I am going to do it!!!! Here I go!!!

HE CAN HAVE ALL THE ICE CREAM AND TAMAGATCHI DATES HE WANTS I’M- 😭

This man is too precious for words, and I have so much childhood nostelgia to ‘enchanted’ woods, and being in the mountains, so he has Old Fae Friend vibes to me~🖤

DRAGON FORM DRAGON FORM DRAGON FORM DRAGON FORM DRAGON F-

Ngl I ship him and Leona a lil bit lol

No, not just bc that makes a poly with my two faves easier, but that is a bonus factor jadhajdj

Vice Dorm Heads:

Trey

Oh my god, the Daddy to my Mommy with all these newly adopted lil kids of ours, ya know??? What a wholesome sweetie and funny lil shit jahdksdh~

I love him, I would gladly make tarts with, AND for him 💚💚💚

The kind of boi who I’d ship HARD with anyone he started dating bc My God it would warm my heart So Much 💞💞

Ruggie (unofficial but may as well be at this point lol)

He took a while to grow on me kadhskdhsj

But I think he’d be a sweet, if a trouble-maker of a friend to have~.

Dank you for taking care of my sweet lion bby, honey, I’m sure Farrena is a sweetheart, but boi I hope he gets his shit together to fix up where Ruggie lives 😭

I think if I met his granny, I’d CRY jadhajsh 💗💗

Leech Twins (?)

Idk if they’re vice leaders, but who cares lol

THESE are the older Big Brothers in every sense of the word. (My canon ages most everyone up just a bit, save for Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Kalim, Jamil, Cheka, and anyone already 20+)

The ANNOYING older big brothers, lol.

The ones that hug you to death (Floyd), or use you for an arm rest (Jade), and specifically Do the thing you asked/told them NOT to Do.

This is fine with me tho, I’m an only child, please give me the experience of annoying older brothers lol 💙💚

Jamil

I used to hate you bby, I’m so sorry akdhskdhs

I’ve adopted him now, and I’m v proud he’s trying, but making clear what his boundaries are, and trying to come out of a shell he was made to be in for so long 😭

AND HIS DANCING IS SICK LIKE HONESTLY I’M SUCH A PROUD MOM 💗💗💗

Rook

God. FUCKING Rook, lol.

IDK IF I SHOULD TRUST YOU, but I also kinda wanna be your friend akdhakdjs

HE CONCERNS ME but he also seems nice and v sweet sometimes, lmao

Blz don’t stalk me tho 😬

STOP SHOOTING YOUR ARROWS AROUND SCHOOL YOU BLOODY HEATHEN FRENCH PRISS, YOU ARE GOING TO KILL SOMEONE

Also, if he DARES hunt cute animals around me, especially BIRDS, I am going to GRIP him jahdkahdsk

He’s like if Lord Druitt was a Little More Nice and a Little Bit Less Creepy ajdhak

Lilia:

GOD.

I LOVE THIS FUCKING GRANDPA.

I. FUCKING. LOVE. THIS FUCKING. GRANDPA.

I absolutely hc him as nonbinary w/masc pronouns, I absoLUTELY do.

I adore him, I love him, I haven’t gotten a squish (hardcore desire to be someone’s friend, lol) this hard for a character since AngelDust, I-

Pwease be nonbinary friends with me, Lilia 🥺

THE ONLY PERSON HERE SHORTER THAN ME, BUT I’LL TAKE IT AJDHAKDHJS

Anyone know Corpse and how he plays Among Us? That’s how I see Lilia playing his video games with friends and I JUST I JUST I J U S T

The Spencer to your Carly.

He and Crowley are free to compete as Dad with me too like honestly kshdkadjjs

He’ll always be granpa tho uvu 💚💖🖤

Extras:

Ace

God, the Fucking Annoying Middle Brother that pranks you ALL THE DAMN TIME, but I love him andhakdhsk

Deuce

THE BROTHER THAT WILL BEAT UP YOUR BULLIES 💙💙💙 SWEET BABY BOY

The Josh to Ace’s Drake. The Cody to Ace’s Zack. The Freddie to your Carly and Ace’s Sam.

If he and Ace started dating, tho, I would CRY.

But regardless who they end up dating, it’ll be slow burn friends to lovers, and literally the most adorable shit to watch EVER 💞💞💞😭

Cater

Seems Like A Womanizer But Actually Drinks His Reapect Women Juice And We Stan That 🧡

Can always count on him to help tou get the best Magicram shots, bless you Cater 🧡🧡

Also rly wanna be his friend, ngl 😭 Even IF he pranks me a lot kadhakdhsj

Jack:

H E AV Y BR EA T H IN G

Ngl my feelings for him are in the air IDK IF I WANNA SMOOCH OR NOT YET I JUST KNOW I LOB HIM HE GOODEST BESTEST BOY 💛💛💛😭

If all three Savannaclaw bois got in a cuddle pile with me, I would Not Be Mad

How can I give this boy love, tell me and I will Do It

Gift him all the cacti’s he WANTS💛

God he drinks that respecc women juice bright and early on his run every morning, you KNOW he does 💛💛💛

I wawnt to pet his ears an tail an fwuffy wolf form 😭

I WAWNT TO SEE THE BOY SMILE AND BE HAPPY 💞💞💞

Sebek

CHILL CHILL CHILL CHILL CH-

He is a v devoted guard tho, we love to see it UvU

I don’t have more info on him hekdhskdj but his fanmade content seems v v sweet~ 💚

Silver

HE ATTRACTS BIRDS AND I CRY ABOUT IT PLEASE BE MY FRIEND AND TEACH ME HOW 🥺🥺🥺

Him being raised by Lilia and Malleus literally gives me so much Fucking Seratonin....... God 💞💕💗💗💞💞💗💗💕💞

Ortho

IS BABY????? IS BABY!!!!!! I’M LOVE HIM I’M ADOPTING HIM IS BABYYYYYYY 💙💙💙💙💙

Cheka:

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

He is so FUCKING CUTE what the FUCK!

Leonaaaaaaa... 🥺 Your NEPHEWWWWW 😭

I might steal him from Farrena tbh, lIKE MY CHILD NOW~ 🧡🧡

I just sob and hug him every time I see him honestly 😭

Teachers:

Dire Crowley

Ohhhhhh god oh god oh god

Be my dad. Please. Be my dad. PLEASE be my dad. Ya’ll think I’m joking, I’m not. Please adopt me. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

This man as a father gives me so much dopamine and oxytocin and seratonin??? I have been weeping for WEEKS, please adopt me, Sir

Fathers with zero braincells being wrapped around a daughter’s little finger makes me so weak, and I am just here with Daddy Issues like ajdhakdhsj BLEASE ADOPT ME MISTER BIRD MAN

Crewel

Ew.

Forgive me, I haven’t seen much content with him in it/that could be considered wholesome, bUT JADHWKDJSJ

UncoMFORTABLE

Please keep the kink talk out of the classroom, S I R

Call me puppy one more time, see what happens, I’m not scared to fight a teacher akdhakdhsj

Trein

The Dad Figure that tries to be the stern part to Crowley’s blumbering kahdkqrhsjdj

Don’t feel as much attachment to him emotionally, but I like him~

Just let me pet your cat sometimes and give you holiday presents, and we’re cool~ ♥️

Vargas

Found the womanizer //SMACKED

And of course, I can’t forget Grim~!

He’s grown on me, and if anything happens to him I will kill everyone in the room, and then myself 😭

I will pet and snuggle and hold him all he wants and feed him all the tuna his heart desires uvu 💙

#THIS TOOK A LONG TIME FORGIVE ME JADHSKDHSKDH #MY PHONE WAS LAGGING IN TYPING AFTER A WHILE I WAS LIKE KEEP GOIN BESSY ANDHSJJD #twisted wonderland #twst dorm leaders #twst vice dorm leaders #dire crowley #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #azul ashengrotto #idia shroud #vil schoenheit #malleus draconia #asks #answered #THANK YOU FOR GIVIN ME MORE OF AN EXCUSE JSADBJASDN #<3 <3

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destiel-love-forever · 4 years

Text

What a Jerk

It’s Valentine’s Day. For Castiel & Dean, that means war.

Read below or on AO3: HERE

"What a jerk," Castiel grumbles, closing the door as the delivery man leaves.

"Who?" Benny asks from his spot on the couch a few feet away. He turns to look at Castiel, more words about to come out. Then he sees the giant bouquet of flowers in Castiel's hands and grins. "Oh. Dean."

"Stop smiling. He's an asshole." Castiel storms off to the kitchen. Since his penthouse apartment is an open-floor plan, though, he doesn't escape Benny. He just gets his bitch face from a new angle.

"Yes," Benny says sarcastically. "What an asshole for buying you flowers."

Castiel huffs as he searches for a stupid vase for the stupid flowers. "I told him not to do this."

"Yeah, bad idea. Telling Dean not to do something is pretty much the equivalent of challenging him to a duel."

There's a dusty vase beneath the sink. Castiel takes it out and fills it with water, not bothering to clean it first. When it's filled enough for the flowers to survive - because Castiel isn't a monster, he's not going to purposely kill beautiful flowers - he stuffs the bouquet into the vase.

"There." He sets the vase on his kitchen island and breathes a sigh of relief. "At least it's over now. Right?"

Benny snorts. "Dude, it's 8 AM. There's no way that's all he has planned for the day."

"You work for me, ya know," Castiel says in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but isn't. "You have to take my side."

"I'm your bodyguard. I keep you safe from bullets and kidnappers. Not overbearing lovers."

Castiel sighs in frustration. He pulls out his phone and very aggressively types in Dean Winchester's number.

Dean answers almost instantly. Clearly, he had been waiting for this call.

"Hey, C-"

"This stupid romantic nonsense is a waste of money and I swear Dean Winchester if you get me any more presents today I'm going to break up with your stupid ass!"

"So you got the flowers," Dean says with a smile in his voice. "Good. You should get ready for work, my love. Don't want to be late."

"Don't ignore me, Dean! You promised. You promised not to do this!"

"No. You ordered me not to do this. I never agreed."

"Dean-"

"Have a nice day, babe. I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon."

"Dean!"

"Oh, and Cas?"

Castiel grits his teeth, fuming. "What?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Castiel growls - yes, growls - and hangs up. He throws his hands in the air and turns to Benny. "What a jerk!"

----

When Castiel stops at his favorite coffee shop for his usual morning Americano with cinnamon, the barista already has his order ready. It has a message written on it in Dean's hand writing, black sharpie scrawling its way across the disposable cup.

You are so brew tiful. I love you like I love my coffee - inside me (;

Castiel rolls his eyes. "What a jerk."

"Sorry?" the barista says in confusion.

"He's a jerk." Castiel grabs a disposable cup from the stack beside the register. He pops the top off the one Dean wrote on and pours his coffee into the fresh, non-Valentine cup. Then he tosses the graffitied cup and nods at the barista. "Have a good one."

"Uh… yeah." The barista watches him go, looking crestfallen. Clearly she had found it romantic. Disgusting. "You too."

----

Another bouquet of flowers is waiting for Castiel when he enters his private office. He glares at it from the doorway for a long moment before huffing in annoyance, going over and grabbing the damn thing. Still dressed in his trench coat, still with his briefcase in his left hand, Castiel walks down to the bull-pen and lifts the vase in the air.

"Who fucked up today and needs a Valentine's Day present for their significant other?" he yells, his anger making most of his employees shiver or tense up.

It takes a second but then a woman in the back tentatively raises her hand. Charlie. She's dating Dorothy from accounting. They're a cute couple.

"They're yours," he announces, thrusting them out in the air to silently tell her to come get them.

Blushing, she makes her way to Castiel. She mumbles something about not forgetting but running out of time this morning. Castiel couldn't care less whether Charlie forgot or not. He just doesn't want to stare at the damn flowers all day.

Once they're out of his hands, Castiel waves a hand in the air and says, "As you were."

Benny is smirking when Castiel gets back to his office.

"What's so funny?" Castiel asks in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but just makes Benny's lips lift higher. "What?"

"I'm assuming you didn't see the box of chocolates."

Castiel parts his lips, about to ask what Benny means, when he sees a heart-shaped box beside where the flowers had been. He deflates. Goes over to his chair. Slumps down. Sighs dramatically. Then he takes the box and reads the attached note.

Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. - damn glad I got you, babe ♡

"What a jerk," Castiel growls at the box. He rips the lid off and snatches a piece of chocolate before pushing it toward Benny. "Stop fucking smiling and eat. And don't tell him I ate any of it. That asshole knows I can't resist chocolate so you have to lie."

"Sure thing boss," Benny says with a wink. "Sure thing."

----

"Are you Castiel?" a man dressed in a cupid costume asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "Nope."

Unfortunately, he's in the breakroom at work and his employees think this whole battle between Dean and him is hilarious. Balthazar says, "He's lying" at the same time Chuck says, "He's Castiel."

Castiel decides he's going to fire them both.

The cupid smirks and turns to Castiel. Castiel puts a hand up in protest. "Whatever it is, I don't want-"

"Lord Almighty,

I feel my temperature rising

Higher higher

It's burning through to my soul

Boy, boy, boy,

You gonna set me on fire

My brain is flaming

I don't know which way to go

Your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir

You light my morning sky

With burning love"

"Nope," Castiel mumbles under his breath, grabbing his lunch and heading out the door. "Nope, nope, nope."

The damn telegram follows him. Everyone in the office stares, their jaws dropped open as the goddamn CEO is followed around by a glittery man dressed as cupid singing an Elvis song. Castiel isn't even embarrassed. He's just pissed.

Castiel enters his office and shoots a glare at Benny who had conveniently been gone to the bathroom when this all went down but is now back at his rightful place by Castiel's side. "Make him leave."

"It's coming closer

The flames are now lickin' my body

Please won't you help me-"

"Why? He isn't a threat."

"He has a weapon!"

"It's a plastic bow, boss."

"And my chest is a-heaving

Lord Almighty

I'm burning a hole where I lay."

"I own this goddamn building and I'm telling you, head of my security, to kick him out!"

Benny gives him a wry smile. "I'll get right on it, boss. Highest priority."

"Cause your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir-"

"You're fired."

"Oh, well, in that case I suppose he'll get to stay."

"Ah, ah, burning love

I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Castiel grabs his office phone and presses 7, gritting his teeth. With every ring that passes, his rage boils. He's a breath away from exploding.

"Singer's Auto, this is Dean."

Castiel slams a finger down on speaker phone and turns to glare at cupid as he finishes the damn song.

"Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Finally, it's over. Cupid winks at him before leaving. Benny smirks. Dean - the jerk that he is - is laughing hysterically on the other line.

"I hate you," Castiel states very matter-of-factly.

"Oh come on!" Dean snorts a laugh. "It's Elvis! You love Elvis!"

"Not anymore! Congratulations, Winchester. You have officially ruined Elvis for me."

Dean laughs harder. "God, I love you babe."

"Gaaaah, no!" Castiel hangs up the call before Dean can use his mystical powers to sweet talk Castiel into forgiving him. It ain't happening.

Castiel bangs his forehead against his desk a few times before deflating against it. "What a jerk."

----

Castiel walks into the first jewelry store he comes across. He storms past all of the stupid Valentine's decorations and up to a young man in a sharp suit who is smiling far too wide if you ask Castiel's opinion. Castiel smacks the palm of his hand on the glass display in front of the man and growls, "I need a goddamn engagement ring."

----

A ring box heavy in his pocket, Castiel stands outside Dean's small two-bedroom house. The yellow paint is peeling back in places, revealing the blue beneath. They come from two completely different worlds. Dean, the eldest son who sacrificed everything he had to raise his baby brother, dropping out of high school, working two jobs, scraping his father off whatever bar floor or sidewalk he ended up on most nights. Castiel, the eldest son who had the world handed to him, private prep school, undergrad at an Ivy league, two master degrees, no student loan debt, a $100,000 no-strings gift from his father to start up his own company.

Dean lives in a house that was foreclosed and rotting on the inside. He’s owned it for three years now. The floors and roof have been replaced. The staircase rebuilt. The walls repainted. The kitchen remodeled. The bathroom gutted. All Dean’s doing since he couldn’t afford to hire contractors.

Castiel lives in a penthouse apartment in a building that’s only seven years old. He got to pick in a catalogue what model of every room he preferred. Professionals molded his home into exactly what he wanted it to be in two weeks, handing it to him furnished and beautiful.

Dean works 60 hour weeks at his uncle’s auto shop, always smelling of oil and sweat. He drinks Jack Daniels. Listens to classic rock. Wears stained jeans and cotton shirts so worn they have holes in the collars and become see-through in certain lighting.

Castiel works 80 hour weeks, but only 30 of them are spent in the office, the rest spent on his phone or at his home so he can lounge on his couch and peruse documents without worrying about employees bothering him. He’s currently working through a bottle of 1926 Macallan. He listens to classical music, as well as plays it himself on his own grand piano that overlooks the city. Wears tailored Brioni suits and silk ties to work, settling for Gucci denim pants and cashmere sweaters when he's casual.

They should have never even met. Castiel would never take his car to a low-grade dealership like Singers. Never. You just don’t do that. Castiel was sure they wouldn’t even know what to do with a custom built Tesla like his. Yet, there Castiel was, broken down outside of the city with a migraine the size of Texas and stubborn impatience that made waiting for the professionals from the dealership that would take 3 hours a choice he wasn’t willing to make. So, he typed in auto shops on google and picked the one nearest to him.

Singers Auto.

Dean had showed up all southern drawl and warm smiles. Flirted right past Castiel’s foul mood. Stroked the hood of his Tesla like it was a cherished pet. Spoke to Castiel confidently about his knowledge on the vehicle. He offered to tow it into the city for Castiel if Castiel wanted but assured Castiel that if he chose to let Dean bring it to Singer's Auto, Dean would be able to take care of it.

“Easy fix,” Dean had said. “In and out. Twenty minutes.”

Castiel had agreed. It was completely out of character but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted more time with the mechanic.

He left that day with a fixed car and Dean Winchester’s number.

They never once brought up the salary gap between them. Some nights they’d crash at Castiel’s. Some nights at Dean’s. They’d go to five-star restaurants and gorge on filet mignon and lobster. They’d go to McDonalds and demolish burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Neither of them so much as blink.

Castiel smiles to himself as he looks at the house again. Where will they live? Castiel could care less, if he’s being honest. He’ll move here if Dean wants. He can deal with the furnace that needs to be kicked every few days as a reminder to work again. He can deal with the pipes that always freeze in the winter. He can deal with the way the fifth step creaks because Dean messed up when building the staircase. As long as he has Dean Winchester, he has everything.

“The hell you doin’ out here?” Dean yells from the front porch, snapping Castiel from his thoughts.

The ring box in his pocket grows hot in anticipation.

“It’s Valentine’s Day!” Castiel yells back, casually walking across the street from where he parked. “I figured if you’re going to insist on celebrating the idiotic holiday, I might as well win by outdoing you.”

“Oh, really?” Dean huffs a laugh, taking the porch steps two at a time until he’s on the grass of his front lawn. “How do you expect to do that?”

Castiel stops when he’s on the sidewalk, about five or so feet between them. He gives Dean a cocky grin that makes Dean’s smirk fall just an inch. Dean Winchester doesn’t like to lose at things - especially all of these silly competitions they get themselves into.

How long can they go without having sex or masturbating, and who will break first and beg the other to fuck him?

Who can eat the most pie in one sitting?

Which one can buy the best Christmas gift?

Who can win the most tickets at the arcade?

How long can they keep their prank war going, and who will be the one to finally throw in the towel when it goes too far?

Who can scare the other badly enough to make them scream?

Which one of them will win the cheesy romantic award of Valentine’s Day 2020.

Castiel won the 1st, 3rd, and 6th.

Dean won the 2nd and 4th.

Neither have won the prank war bet - it’s still on-going.

But Castiel Novak is going to win this damn Valentine’s Day award. If Dean wants to play this game today, it’s on.

“Cas-”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says softly, in a voice sickly sweet and loving. He lowers himself to one knee and reaches into his pocket.

Dean’s eyes flare with rage. “No! Don’t you dare!”

“You’re the love of my life-”

“Stop!”

“I can’t imagine any possible future that doesn’t have you in it-”

“I hate you so much right now,” Dean chokes out, eyes welling up.

Castiel smirks and opens the ring box. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” Dean grumbles with a pouty look on his face. Then he growls low in his throat and shakes his arms like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “Fuck - fine! Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Grinning, partly because the love of his life just agreed to marry him but mostly because instead of Dean evening the score Castiel is now 2 points ahead, Castiel pushes to his feet and slips the ring on Dean’s finger. He tugs Dean into his arms and kisses him breathless.

“Proposed to me on Valentine’s Day,” Dean says with an incredulous huff, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder and hugging him. “What a jerk.”

If you enjoyed this, please consider supporting my starving artist bum by donating at my Ko-Fi or becoming a Patron <3 Everything helps!

#fluff #destiel #dean winchester #castiel novak #valentines day #hopeless romantic dean #cas hates valentines day #arguing #this is war #valentines day war #benny #ceo cas #mechanic dean #cute #romantic gestures

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yanara126-writing · 3 years

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The Adventures of Hildraed Dawnsbane - Watching and Fucking Morals (4/?)

Farmer, Pirate, Menace, Captain, Dawnsbane. Hildraed has many titles, she really could have lived well without Watcher.

Read here or on Ao3. (1827 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

I recommend listening to this song, as it was the inspiration for the fever trip that made me wright this. It’s really good, I promise.^^

Hildraed was mad. And she hated this town. Why was she even still here? Because fucking damnit she felt bad for these people. It had started with the damn cook, continued with the poor abused woman (had the fucker not been dead she’d have killed him herself) And then there was the blacksmith who’d promised her a discount, Aufra with her probably soulless baby (not that she’d told her that), and then the goddamn farmers. Because it always came down to farmers, didn’t it? And now she was slouching back in the inn, nursing some bad ale. And the stupid hunk was smiling at her. Fuck him. Eh, maybe later.

Aloth was far better to focus on, with his companionable grouchiness.

With a more desperate than enthusiastic swing she drained her cup and it slammed it down again, trying to pretend the ale wasn’t more water than alcohol.

“I hate this place.” Edér’s stupid grin only got wider. Hildraed glared some more at the cup. She wasn’t drunk enough for this.

“Does that mean we can finally leave?” Hildraed didn’t miss the desperation in Aloth’s tone and almost felt bad for him. Only almost though, she felt way worse for herself.

“Yeah. Yeah we can. In fact, we will right now.” Originally she’d intended to stay one more night and leave in the morning, but if she had to continue seeing Edér’s stupid, satisfied smirk she was going to punch him after all. She slammed a few coins on the table, not bothering with counting out the exact amount, grabbed her bag and stomped out the door. Behind her she could hear her new companions scrambling to finish their own drinks and hurry after her.

Outside she had mercy on them and waited a bit for them to catch up, grinning again at Aloth’s relieved sigh. It was too easy to play him. She’d have to teach him a bit to avoid having him be all to easy to manipulate.

Edér apparently wasn’t in quite as much of a hurry, and while waiting for his heavy footsteps to join them, Hildraed found her attention wandering through the miserable town. And of course, her gaze once again landed on the tree. Ever since her first meeting with the dwarf woman she drifted back to the fucking tree. There were no more souls left there, she’d checked far more than she would ever admit, and still her steps kept pulling her back there. And so now again.

The stench was in her nose before she was even aware what she was doing. Dangling, rotting limbs filled her vision as she stared up, wood and flesh melting together. All around her there were purple shimmers, whisperings that drover her mad all around the clock, but looking up there there was nothing, and somehow that was worse. She’d seen hangings before of course. She’d seen people she’d known and even liked hang much the same way. But something about this made her angrier.

This was messy. This wasn’t justice, it was a blood rage. The pirates she’d seen hung had known the risks. Perhaps they hadn’t deserved it either, some had been good people, some had absolutely asked for it, but all of them known. These people up in the tree had just lived, had perhaps never broken a law in their lives, had been punished for suffering a tragedy.

A hand landed on her shoulder and Hildraed flinched, cursing herself for losing focus. That was dangerous at the best of times, which this was not. Just this time the universe seemed to forgive her mistake though, and Edér stood next to her, chewing on his pipe. He didn’t say anything, only stood there, looking up as well, his rough hand, marred much like her own, on her shoulder.

Hildraed didn’t know what triggered it, maybe it was the sleep deprivation, maybe the weight of the last few days were finally drowning her, maybe it was that thrice-damned look of defeat in his eyes, but something in her mind clicked into place and she knew what she still had to do here. It was a terrible idea, would bare way too much to these people she barely knew, but she had to nonetheless.

“You know what my favourite song is? T’s about a boat.” Edér glanced at her, surprised and confused, but still amused.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now? I thought you don’t do empathy?”

“Shut up, I’m drunk.” No she wasn’t, she hadn’t drunk enough of the water ale for that, but he didn’t need to know that.

“No, you’re not.” Well so much for her reputation then. She narrowed her eyes at him, glaring with all the intensity she could muster through all the aches of her body and constant buzz of soul fizzles pressing against her new senses.

“You. I don’t like you.” That didn’t seem to intimidate him at all, if anything he just got softer. Hildraed sighed and looked away again. What crew had she gotten herself here? One who was easier to play than a fiddle but had a wrong string and one who already laughed at her. And still…

“My mom always sang it when we were down on our luck. It’s about a crew saving their boat after it already sank. It was the first chant I learnt. I’ve sung it every time the universe hated me especially.” It had carried her through her 35 years of life even when nothing else had. She’d shared it every time she’d sung it, just as she’d been taught. This one thing wasn’t something to keep to herself. She had no intention of sharing anything else, the secret of her past would die with her as far she was concerned, but this one thing she’d keep throwing into the world as often as necessary. And right now it was very necessary.

With another look at Edér, and not the fucking tree, she turned around and stalked out of the pit. Aloth was standing a bit away in the shadow of a wall, trying to keep himself out of the public eye. Hildraed sat down not far from him at the edge of the pit and pulled her old lute from her back. She gave it a loving pat, before starting to pluck the strings in a familiar tune. Behind she could hear Aloth shift a little closer, in front of her could see Edér settling down next to her, but she ignored both of them.

“She went down last mid-winter in a pouring driving rain…” It had been a while since she’d last played it, and the familiar notes rang something deep in her, tugging at places within herself that she didn’t have a name for before.

“There were just us five aboard her when she finally was awash

We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost…” It had taken her own boat to really understand it. In her youth it had been a nice story, and good tune with an inspirational message. Now as an adult it meant so much more. Her fingers danced over the strings with more elegance than she’d been able to work up in weeks, her foot tapped the rhythm, her body swayed with waves that weren’t there, her mouth formed the words that had accompanied her for so long.

“But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock,

For she's worth a quarter million, just floatin’ at the dock

And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain…” Another foot joined in the rhythm, but Hildraed didn’t look up. Chanting was always exhilarating, but this was special in another way. She felt the words reverberate around her, felt souls stirring as the story continued to follow the melody. There was a clarity that had never been there before, an awareness that had nothing and everything to do with this song so dear to her. More souls were drawn closer, and it felt like drowning in life.

“All spring, now, we've been with her on a barge lent by a friend

Three dives a day in hard hat suit and twice I've had the bends

Thank God it's only sixty feet and the currents here are slow

Or I'd never have the strength to go below

But we've patched her rents, stopped her vents, dogged hatch and porthole down

Put cables to her, 'fore and aft and girded her around

Tomorrow, noon, we hit the air and then take up the strain…” There were people all around now, and somewhere the logical part of Hildraed knew she needed to be careful, to be aware of everyone around her, to not let herself be caught off-guard again. Unfortunately, that part was buried deep under the emotions and sensations flooding everything else. At this point she wasn’t sure what was hers anymore, she just kept playing and singing, surrounded by more whispers than ever. Whispers of pasts, of uncertain futures.

“And you, to whom adversity has dealt a mortal blow

With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go

Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain

And like the Mary Ellyn Carter, rise again!

Rise again, rise again; though your heart it be broken

And life about to end

No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend

Like the Mary Ellyn Carter, rise again!”

She played the final cord, sung the final tune, and her fingers and tongue stilled. The whispers were still there, ringing loudly in her ears and rising to a crescendo, making her head hurt even more- Wait, no, that was clapping. A few hands clapping around her, and Hildraed finally looked up, eyes a little bit clearer now. It wasn’t as many people as she’d thought, a few guests from the inn, a few people from the surrounding houses. And Hildraed stared.

It wasn’t so much that she minded the audience, quite the opposite really, she’d always enjoyed hogging people’s attention. But that had been before this stupid shit. Before she’d started noticing way too fucking much, while losing focus of everything else.

But then, as it always was, it didn’t take too long for the people to notice that the show was over, and they dispersed again, throwing strange looks in her direction that she didn’t bother to notice. She’d be gone now anyway, let them think what they want.

In the end only two were left, one on each side, though when Aloth moved next to her she couldn’t say. Her head still hurt, she was confused more than ever, and she still hated this place, and yet she felt a little lighter now. The tree was still there, and it was still abominable, but maybe now she could finally stop looking at it.

And maybe now they could finally fuck off.

#Pillars of Eternity #writing #Watcher Hildraed #Edér Teylecg #Aloth Corfiser #fanfiction #singing #the mary ellen carter #derina harvey band #'t's a good song

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 4 years

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Lost Hope (Favored Ones, Part 27.)

Series description: Many things were surely fucked up in the year 2038, but no-one ever told anyone how all of it went down. What happened before a group of people left for Seattle to handle personal matters? Why did one girl refuse to leave all of it be? And why there were so many dead in the end?

Quote for the chapter: "Don’t go chasing waterfalls...” - TLC

For those who might not catch my drift: chasing waterfalls = chasing the reader.

Part summary: Coming terms with yourself is something that is important. It’s something that you need to do in order to become the better version of yourself. Abby almost finished the process of coming to terms with all the things that were happening around her, something else made her thirst for revenge wake up again.

A/N: This chapter is from A B B Y ‘ S P O V. Be aware of that. I won’t be sorry for it, I learned to understand and to love Abby, even if I was against her when I played the game. Lev is an amazing character too. And now Mel is alive, there’s a possibility to change how Abby’s story will continue from this point.

Warnings: Depiction of torture, bone breaking, depiciton of blood and manslaughter, anxiety, rage, anger, a bit of fluff at the end.

Word count: 4.8 K

Tagging: @nemodoren @xxgoldenhour @missdictatorme @davnwillcome @pickleriiick @jodiereedus22 @gladiosamicitias @tamkashi @eternallyvenus @avengerssstuff @fangirl-inthe-us @avery-miller @mikah-writes @mad-hatter-98 @sadiaafrin99 @flavorishy @gabymiller

Series master list: H E R E

Joel Miller’s playlist for the bonfire occasions: H E R E

Youtube playlists: JACKSON DAYS | SEATTLE DAYS

Seattle, day three - evening:

The sea seemed to be serene and calm at the time their boat had taken off, it was quiet and the breeze was cold. This peaceful feeling could be simply also affected by everything they've been through so far. Even from the proximity they currently were from the island, they could still see Haven slowly burning down to the ground. Sometimes, the woman operating the boat would swear that she could hear the people screaming and guns firing. It was just the ghost of the sacred place haunting her brain, yet it was still there.

Lev, for the first half of an hour on the sea, was clinging onto the jacket Abby landed him. Then, the serene and gentle moves of the ocean made him fall asleep. The boy was now pressed into the small area between Abby's ankles, napping before they'd be back to the aquarium. The kid must've been exhausted - both emotionally and physically. That kid, who was now safely laying there squeezed into the tightest space he shouldn't be even able to fit, had killed his mother in self-defense. That kid watched his sister being shot to pieces. And he made it even though the despair, pain, and exhaustion.

It was weird to know that now, they were safe. No-one was after them. And as soon as they'd hit the aquarium, Lev, Owen, and Mel were about to leave Seattle for good in the search for the fireflies of Santa Barbara. Owen was asking Abby to join them while Melanie, with all the, despise she carried inside, had told her that once she, her boyfriend, and that Scars kids will leave Seattle, she will never want to see her goddamned face again. But now, things could change and maybe, for Lev, Abby could leave too.

That night, she had seen her family and friends being killed in the passion of the fight. For those who kids, she stood up to the only everlasting authority she blindly followed for the last couple of years - and Isaac was now killed, his corpse was rotting somewhere on the Seraphites island and Abby hoped that his body would be eaten by some wild animals to end his life in the shame he deserved. The time of WLF was coming to a sure end.

Abby's problem with the situation was as follows: soldiers were seemingly remorse-less characters lead by their general, Isaac for this instance, who just did what they were told. And for the most part, it was true. Yet, honestly, nothing hit Abby as personally as walking through the Seraphite settlement, following Lev's sister around. She, and the other WLFs, were used to seeing the best out of the best, the best warriors the Scars were able to train. And this hit different. These weren't the soldiers anywhere in sight - these were women and children, even men and other farmers who were not trained in combat - innocent people who were barely able to protect themselves were massacred ever since the WLF attack was started. That wasn't right at all. The things WLF has done on the island were wrong in every way possible.

It was all based around the battle of Seattle, which was going on for years now with occasional pauses, of course. Neither of the sides were good or bad in the situation. It was just a matter of habit - one side attacked, the other attacked back. One side overstepped the boundaries, the other reacted to this. It was this way for more than five years. Seattle was in this war ever before the time Abby and her friends arrived. And for that, she had never seen the true meaning of peaceful time in the city.

Abby wasn't looking around - the only things she saw were the ones directly in front of her eyes. She wasn't able to look behind her orders, she never needed to think about what she was doing, she just did what she was told. Until the moment she entered Jackson - and until the moment she met Lev and Yara. Jackson was a wild experience on its own.

Their small family was broken way before Jackson - Owen and Mel were now dating. And given the history of Abby and Owen, he was seeing her less and less. The final nail in the coffin being Mel's pregnancy. Nora and Whitney were taking every mission they could just to avoid her, the hospital being the last place Abby would ever see them. This left Manny being the last friend who remained by her side after Jackson was done. In the last few days, they were brought together after a long time in one way or another, but all Abby could thank was a weird coincidence of chances.

And there, there were the two siblings Abby met on her journey - Yara and Lev. At the moment, Abby had anyone except Lev - Yara was shot and killed by Abby's people during their escape from the island. It didn't matter that Abby tried to tell everyone about the kids not being any kind of threat to their cause. But it didn't matter - Yara was shot. In answer, Abby shot back at Isaac. Now, he was dead for real. She heard one of the radio communications over the WLF channel. She had done everything for the boy. Abby quite literally had sacrificed her whole known world for a boy she barely knew.

Even though all of what happened, Abby felt that every turn she made during their way revealing over the last three days, that every word and every choice set her on the right path. Now, maybe, she could get on the boat with Lev, Mel, and Owen, setting on her way to find the Fireflies again.

There was still the whole 'hunt Joel Miller down' matter. Abby was aware of the loose threads and unfinished business there was. It felt very unsatisfying, knowing she will most likely never get her revenge on the man. Her brain accepted the information some time ago. There was no climax to the whole hunt started by a piece of information given to her by an old Firefly named Eugene. The last four years were coming in vain. Was it even worth it at that point? Her family was broken to pieces, she had a kid to protect and once Lev leaves with Mel and Owen, she won't probably have any use no more. Well, if that would happen, she would travel back to Jackson. She would try to find Joel again. And Abby knew that once the guards on the gates will see her in the distance, she will be dead in the next minute.

It was more or less about coming to terms with how things were now. Before the mission to Jackson, she was sure that her life is already over. And she was sure that the only thing having the power to start it again was the murder of Joel Miller. The revenge murder if you will. That opinion was changed the moment she accepted Lev and Yara as her people. These two were just kids. Fucking kids in this fucked up world. And when Abby could keep them safe, why wouldn't she keep them safe? Joel Miller killed her dad and this was something she couldn't come around - but even if the old man wasn't dead, Abby tried to reconsider the things happening in the last few weeks, more importantly over the last two days.

Now, she wasn't out solely to revenge her father. She now had someone to protect. There was someone she needed to stay put for. It was a small family, it was sure as hell a broken one, but it was her family. No matter what Joel fucking Miller was doing, he was her last priority now. To be honest, Abby was just glad she's alive. And she'd be even more glad once she'll finally get out of Seattle - one way, on Owen's boat, or another, getting killed by the Jackson citizens. Abby was ready.

With the last remnants of her energy, she made sure the boat stays put before she started to wake Lev up. - “Hey, sleepyhead. Wake up.” - She whispered with a soft smile, nudging Lev’s shoulder as the boy started to massage his eyes. - “We’re at the aquarium. Come on. Let’s get dry.” - Abby arched her eyebrows, showing Lev another assuring smile. All she was trying to do was to keep Lev calm for now.

For sure, the boy will be freaking out for one way or another, but they didn’t have time for panic attacks at the moment. Slowly, they both walked back to the aquarium's back entrance, beaten up like two dogs. And Abby was fine with that. They were finally safe inside the building.

With a yawn, she was about to unlock the door leading to the improvised surgeon room, only to be met by the resistance of the wooden door, which never had happened before. Naturally, it piqued her interest. She tried to press harder, but it didn't lead anywhere. Mentioning for Lev to hide behind the corner, Abby started to smash her way inside. It took a few big blows with her shoulder before the door moved at least an inch. After a while, the barricade finally eased and fell on the ground. It was the damn ventilation shaft. Why in the hell had this fallen on the ground? Just as she furrowed upon thinking about the shaft, Lev noticed something else. His palm tugged Abby's top as his head motioned in the direction of a dead dog laying on the ground.

"Is that..." - Lev whispered with fear in his voice, walking closer to the animal. He was afraid of the WLF dogs ever since he had seen the first one. Why? These dogs were trained as weapons. WLF trained the animals to sniff unknown human scents, reacting to it in a matter of seconds - they tracked the enemies down, attacking immediately. And honestly, dogs were one of the most useful combat advances aside from grenades they had come up with. But when Lev became Mel and Owen's friend, as much as he became Abby's friend, they tried to show him that the dogs weren't just murderous animals. Alice, the German shepherd Mel was treasuring a lot, was laying there, stabbed to death.

"Yea." - Abby said simply, walking to the dog. Someone else was in the aquarium. Lev saw the act of Abby kneeling down to the dog as a goodbye ceremony. But this wasn't the situation in which Abby was showing her grief for the animal. Gently, she pulled her palm down under the dog's fur to feel the warmth of the body. To feel it a bit better, she closed her eyes, realizing that the body is almost cold. Whoever had infiltrated the aquarium was there a long time ago.

And given the dog was most likely stabbed to avoid attracting the attention of Mel and Owen, these two were in danger too. Abby gulped with her mouth dry, realizing that maybe, they arrived into the aquarium too late. Quietly, Abby tiptoed to the surgeon room, watching if the room is safe to enter before walking in to find herself some weapon. - "You stay behind me, okay?" - Abby looked the boy into his eyes, having a serious expression on her face.

"I want to help." - Lev rebelled against Abby's demand, but the woman just rolled her eyes. - "You will keep the watch over the perimeter with your bow. You see something we don't know, you hold them at gunpoint, you shoot, okay?" - Abby put her palm on the boy's shoulder, smoothing it. Yeah, he was good with a bow, and plus, she felt that he'll be safer behind her back. Nothing would get to Lev without it going through her first. With that, Lev felt some sort of usefulness, calming down.

Both of them took a second to adjust to the surroundings, peaking both their senses, preparing for whoever is awaiting them deeper inside the aquarium. When they felt ready, they moved to other rooms - they slowly searched every room. They walked through the improvised bedroom, the bathroom, some supply cabinets before they were about to enter the big room with a whale hanging from the ceiling. An iron, watery stench hit Abby's nose. It was a smell she knew perfectly - the cold smell of blood.

For a moment, she couldn't find the source. And she barely had the time to find it - because another human sped up against her, trying to take her down. Abby almost tried to stab the woman but stopped herself when she realized the woman's pregnant. The woman was Melanie. Mel who was pretty obviously freaked out. Abby stepped aside from the crying woman and pointed her palm towards Lev, letting him know that it's okay and that he should put his bow down.

One quick glance over was all to give Abby a bad gut feeling. Melanie was there, freaked out, tired out because of the hysteric crying. The gut feeling was telling Abby that she knows exactly from whom the blood stench is coming from. Yet at the moment, she had to deal with hysteric Melanie.

"It's me, hey, I'm here." - Abby tried to fidgeting, significantly smaller woman. But Melanie pushed her off while pointing her finger at Abby.

"Who the fuck you think you are?" - Melanie asked with her voice raspy from the crying, her widened eyes going from Lev to Abby and the other way around. - "This is on you, on both of you." - Mel straightened up. Abby didn't have any idea about what Melanie was talking about, but she straightened up, reminding the woman of her height.

"Every fucking time I hear 'Abby has a problem', I know it is going to bite me in my ass. And guess what, Abigail. This time, it bit everyone in the ass. Manny's dead, Nora's dead, Leah's dead, Whitney was murdered... And I can continue." - Melanie walked in a small circle, entwining her fingers in her short hair. - "Or did you get my point? Huh?" - Again, Mel pushed Abby. This time, she pushed her so hard, that Abby slipped and fell down.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." - "The whole fucking Jackson trip. That's what I'm talking about." - Melanie took in a deep breath. Lev had sat down a bit far away from them, just listening to their fight. On Abby's body language, there could be seen that her throat had clinched a bit. Jackson? How would all of this tie to Jackson? And... How could she fucking know that all of these people were killed? Sure, these people were in Jackson, but also could be just a coincidence. These people could be in a bad place at a bad time. That was all. The whole mystery.

"You were so focused on yourself that you ignored everything that was going on, weren't you? Am I even surprised?" - "Can you just fucking tell me what you're on about?" - Abby fired back, prooving Mel's point perfectly. She didn't even know that all of their friends were getting killed, she didn't know what was happening with her own fucking people. Funny. - "The girl from Jackson is here, taking out every last one of us. It's like waiting for her to check your name on the list while she stands above your corpse. And... And guess what, Abby, she's after you. And she isn't alone." - Melanie giggled. It wasn't an amused giggle. It was a sound full of despair and fear, it was a borderline cry for help.

"Why are you alive then? She's here for me, not for all the others. Maybe... Maybe she wasn't the one who killed the rest. Because you're alive, so..." - Just when Mel looked into her eyes, Abby connected the two dots. You spared Melanie's life because you took another one. At that, Abby's lungs stopped to work. She was gasping for air, turning on her side, when she saw the view hidden behind the table. She couldn't see Owen, she could see gallons of blood on the ground.

"And how do I know? She told me. She looked me dead in the eyes and told me she's here for you. And this, my dear, I think is your last stop. Because there are at least three people somewhere out there in Seattle, looking for you. And one of them is your man, Joel fucking Miller." - Melanie grinned and threw the map to Abby's legs. - "I took you a little souvenir so you can finish your suicidal mission once and for all. I'll take Lev with me and we're leaving. And you're... You're not welcomed." - Melanie hissed, looking at the boy. Abby was falling deeper and deeper into the initial shock, realizing that indeed, every word Melanie had said was true.

This was her fault. Everything was her fault. Which was pretty ironic, given the circumstances leading to this moment. Just an hour ago, Abby allowed herself to let the thing go. After four years of the rage eating her alive, she, for the first time, saw the hope around her. There was Lev for whom she wanted to do better than she was doing up to that point. Abby needed to be better for the new family she found. Just for this to happen, bringing the whole family dynamic to the ground. Joel Miller, once again, was the source of her problems.

"Mel, no, please." - Lev picked himself up, trying to plead for her taking Abby with them. But the more Abby watched the blood, the more she realized this wasn't a thing she could let go. It would find her anywhere. It would haunt her down any time. Melanie shook her head, telling Lev what she wanted to without words. - "Then I'm going with her." - Lev said and backed to Abby, who was still panicking and laying on the floor.

"You'll get yourself killed, kid. You're not going anywhere. End of the story." - Melanie told the boy and left to the upper quarters, slowly smoothing her belly. Lev was still standing there, watching as Abigail picker herself up, walking to the dead body. Shivers were running up her spine and cold sweat slowly leaked down her back. First, she saw the dried footprints in the blood and the pipe which was covered in not only blood but in the rest of what seemed to be Owen's brain. Trying to brace yourself for what she was about to see was dumb. At the moment she saw what that Jackson girl had done to him, Abby just threw up on the ground next to him. It was more or less only water, but there were things coming out of her. Melanie was right. This was all Abby's doing.

"That fucking bitch." - She muttered out, sitting on the other side, looking at the dead body. When they've captured you, you were sure one of the toughest nuts to crack. But if she'd suspect someone coming after her, it would be the Tommy man who they captured alongside you. Which happened. The Tommy man shot Manny in his face. But you? Such a fragile, scared girl? No. Abby would never suspect you'd be able to do such bullshit. She wouldn't ever think that there was a scenario in which you'd track her down, killing her friends one by one until you'd bump into her.

"Do you... Do you want to follow her?" - Lev asked silently, sitting next to her on the ground. It wasn't close enough to disrupt her personal space, but close enough to reassure her that he's there. Next to her, ready to go after the people he didn't know, fighting for a cause that didn't include him at all. Now, she was his people. In fact, she was everything that Lev was left with. And if Mel thought he'd leave Abby behind just like that, she was naïve, to say the least.

"This has nothing to do with you, kid." - "She, whoever she is, killed one of my friends. Now, it has something to do with me. I'm a part of this now." - Lev told Abby back with his head clear. This one kid was courageous. And ready for another battle. Of which Abby was hella sure. But even if she chuckled, looking down on her palms, she didn't want the kid to come. - "Listen. This... This is very personal to me. This is something that drags for the last couple of years. And it involves me, my family and something terrible. The only one who can put end to all of this is me. And I won't let you drag yourself into shit that doesn't involve you. I want you safe." - "Abby..." - "It makes me strong. You're my people now. Even Mel is... And I need to keep you both safe." - Abby whispered with tears of anger in her eyes, catching Lev's hand to hold it for a moment. She didn't know that Mel was standing above them, listening to every word that was said.

No matter what happened in the aquarium, no matter what the relationship she had with Abby and what she thought about her... This was everyone's cause now. Most importantly, you didn't seem to be the type to leave the things behind. Sure, now, you felt something resembling a closure after killing Owen. But how much time would pass before you'd feel the need to find Abby again? To find Mel and her baby? The time would come.

For that, it would be better to track you down when they had the chance, ending all of this for good. And even if Melanie hated Abby with everything she got now... Abby was right. Melanie was now her people - just like Abby was hers. No matter how she'd try to fight it, Mel didn't want to see the woman get killed because of the heat regarding Abby's stupidity. It didn't feel right to send Abby on a suicidal mission. This needed closure. Plus, honestly, Melanie needed Abby around once the baby would be born. She, the baby, and Lev needed a guardian. A literal watchdog.

"She's out of her mind." - Mel said silently, making both the people sitting on the ground looking up to her, standing in front of the quarters. - "I don't know what the girl was through, but she was off. It was like a blackout or something. She's dangerous. I'm terrified of her." - Mel said honestly, walking the stairs down. - "Can you go up and pack some things for me?" - Melanie smiled at Lev. Abby looked at the boy, sending him off upstairs. - "And you, come here. I don't wanna look at the..." - Melanie breathed out, still being shaken by what happened.

Mel wasn't over it at all, not a fucking chance. Her partner was brutally murdered. And she witnessed every second of it. Every. Fucking. Second. Yet... This world didn't offer them enough time to seek closure within themself, it didn't give them the time to grieve properly. Not until everything was said and done. Abby nodded at the pregnant woman's request, picking herself up from the ground.

"Listen." - Mel said quietly while leading Abby through the aquarium's interior. - "You're a fucking selfish asshole and dear Lord, I just want to punch you sometimes. And what happened between you and Owen at the boat last night peaked all of those feelings. But... How do you say it? Even if I didn't choose it voluntarily, you're now my people. That's something I have to deal with and it will take months, maybe years. But the fact is that I need you because I cant take care of myself out there once the baby will be born. This concludes in a fact - I can't let you get yourself killed while going after these people." - She stopped, looking Abby in the eyes. And with an expression showing gratefulness, Abby smiled back at her. - "We're not friends, at least not for now. Not a fucking a chance. But we're coming after them together because I'm scared of them coming back for us." - Melanie whispered. And without anything foreshadowing it, Abby hugged her, finally starting to cry into Mel's clothes.

There was too much pressure for Abby to handle - you and your people, Owen's death, Yara's murder, the whole conflict at the island proving to her as a bunch fo brainwashing lies which Isaac spoonfeed each of them, resolving in everyone's death. Melanie's cold honestly was something Abby needed bad. Melanie didn't like her, not at that point, and she was straightforward about it. At least someone was honest with Abby the whole fucking time.

"They will pay. Every last one of them. I swear." - Abby let Melanie go, carefully maneuvering her palms around Melanie's belly. - "That's the spirit." - Melanie grinned back. This was noticeably out of Mel's character. Abby honestly never seen her wishing death upon anyone except the Scars - which was excusable because the foundation in that behavior was based on Isaac's brainwashing program. Now, she was willingly after someone else, who was just a part of Abby's fuckery. Yet as Lev told Abby, this was now Melanie's cause too. The woman had the right to feel outraged towards the Jacksoners at that point. They killed her baby daddy.

No-one was left behind. Abby, after observing the map, knew the theatre which was marked as the 'hideout'. She knew precisely where the location was. Each of them set on the way during a stormy night, clothed up to stay warm against the stormy weather. Their way through the city was quick because no-one was really there. Everyone was on the island, fighting the dispute they've been told that is the main center of their existence. When Abby or Mel didn't know where to go, Lev showed them the safest way and otherwise. They kept an eye for each other and Mel was helped a lot, so they'd be sure that nothing happens to her or the baby.

It was two hours from the moment they've left the aquarium when Abby saw the theatre in the distance. It was lit up, so someone was definitely out there. The feeling she carried in her chest was fucking heavy. So fucking heavy. She wanted to shoot each of you dead, but on the other hand, she knew this could go extremely bad. Melanie was pregnant and Lev was just a fucking kid. And for a reason, now she found out there are reasons to be happy for even if she didn't murder Joel, it felt foolish to come there to kill you. It was too much of a risk. On the other hand, she promised Mel that she'd see you suffer for what you've done. There was no point in stopping.

"Now, we have to find our way inside." - Mel noted quietly upon arriving to the building. They've just tried the main door, gently, to find out if it was blocked. Of course, it was. You weren't that dumb. - "I think I have something." - Lev looked at both of them, waving at them. It was an escape staircase. That kid had eyes of the falcon because to spot it in the darkness was kind of amazing.

It was the final moment before the big climax Abby had dreamed of for so long. And she almost had to laugh at the pathetic thoughts she had. She was afraid to enter the building. Who knew what waited for them inside? Will any of them walk out of the building alive? Will any of these three people survive? Or will all of the Jacksoners be killed in bloodshed? Well, there was only one way to find out. And with that, Abby opened the window which was pre-opened by a bright yellow cable leading onto the rooftop. And so, she stepped on her final journey towards the presumed saving of her damned soul.

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

just an original story snippet because that anon i got yesterday flattered me (and because i love my girls and my idea)

“The moon will fall February 17th, 4350--”

“Oh dear. THAT’S an embarrassing situation to be in. Better take the long way to class to avoid that--”

“The sun will explode way before then, but I can’t see when it’s too blurry too blurry can’t see further--”

“MY PARENTS ARE GETTING ME A PUPPY?! Oh shoot. I just ruined the surprise--”

“A plague will come. A plague will come. A plague will come--”

“I know the answers to the exam and my peers don’t, hehe--”

“I know when my mother will die, but I don’t know how to save her. I can’t save her. When I try to save her, she dies--”

There are hundreds of voices in this room. Hundreds of people talking over each other, rambling silly teenage thoughts and dark prophets of the future, babbling and gibbering and chattering like noisy jungle birds. Listen to what I have to say, they whisper. Listen to what I Saw. But they aren’t listened to, no one listens, so they keep shouting over each other until it’s a din of conflicting comments and arguments.

The weird thing is, though...the voices didn’t come from any person. The only people in the room were Lee and Keaton, behind one of the doors, and Michael, wearing an old, ripped trench coat and pacing between two tables covered in wicked-looking knives, scissors in various sizes of huge, and wrinkled papers filled to the brim with information. None of them were speaking.

“I should warn Olivia to not try out for the school musical, she’s just going to embarrass herself--”

Keaton began to tremble against Lee’s side. Her eyes are wide and glazed with terror. Lee followed her gaze, tilting ever so slightly around the door so she could see more inside, and froze.

Nearly-depleted bulbs cast dim, horror movie-like lighting across polished wooden shelves and carved out cubbyholes, and the jars full of disembodied tongues that hold them. The muscular remains of finished lives howl and thrash, repeating themselves ad infinitum, slapping the glass walls of their confines until they clank and jiggle. The stench of it is thick and ripe. A choir of dead voices vying for attention.

Lee nearly vomited. Keaton trembled harder, and she can see tears glinting in her multicolored eyes. How many times has she seen this scene in her visions? Could she still hear their thoughts without a brain to read from?

“Oh, that’s it!!!” Michael suddenly roared. Lee flinched, but tightened her muscles to keep from hitting anything in her surprise. “Shut it!!”

He reared around to glower at a particularly rowdy group of tongues that were writhing so violently that their jars were about to topple right over. They don’t obey his command, they can’t, and continue to speak: “I make the team in soccer?! Oh my god--” “Mom and dad are getting a divorce--” “The fire alarm on Thursday won’t be a drill--” “John F. Kennedy will be shot on November 22, 1963--”

That last comment from a spongy, paler tongue on the top row of jars. It does damage to itself as it threw itself against aged glass.

“Just take a breath, Michael,” Michael began to mutter to himself. He rubbed his temples with his middle and index finger. “It’ll all be worth it. This will all pay off soon. Just focus.”

“DAVID IS CHEATING ON JESSIE?! OH THAT GODDAMN BITC--”

“I can’t take this!!” Michael stormed out the door, his long trench coat fluttering darkly behind him like the wings of a black moth. Lee and Keaton wait for a minute, with Keaton confirming that he wasn’t coming back by listening to his receding thoughts, and then crept out into the room.

The smell was so much worse inside, like a mix of fresh rot and week-old decay. There was a certain humidity in the room, too, most likely to preserve the tongues, and it made the odor that much worse. Lee tried to breathe through her mouth, but the air was so thick with stench that she could taste decomposition on her tongue. She careened sharply to the left and vomited into a small black trash can- the most normal thing in the entire place.

“Well,” She breathed out shakily. “He’s probably going to notice this.” She set the trash can down tentatively and turned to Keaton with a wry smile. “Is there any way that you could rewind to before we enter and warn me to NOT breathe through my mouth?”

Keaton didn’t answer.

She’s staring intently at the wall of jars. Her cropped, coppery hair has gone all tufty and frizzy, as though the relentless noise around her has made it stand on end. She kept clenching and unclenching her fists like she thought this just was a bad dream or vision she could claw herself out of. But it was very, very real. And the next ear-piercing prophecy proved that.

“I’M ADOPTED?! AND MOM AND DAD ARE GOING TO TELL ME AT THE CHRISTMAS PARTY?! ARE YOU SERIOUS--”

“I didn’t know.”

The whisper was mute beneath the din of cries. Lee moved closer to hear her young companion better, but didn’t ask her to repeat herself. Keaton looked up at her with terror in her eyes.

“I didn’t know about this.” She said. “I didn’t see it.”

“Ever?” Lee asked. “Not once?”

“Not once,” Keaton confirmed. Her voice is painfully tight and she looked like she was about to spiral into a panic attack. “I didn’t know...”

She stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like she thought the tongues may suddenly grow bodies and attack her. She gently picked up a jar that held a soft pink tongue with a blue blemish over the bumpy expanse of taste buds, remnants of a blueberry slushy. It did wild flips in its confinements, fresh and sinewy as eels, squawking out things about boys her bad-at-love best friend was crushing on, but then went still when raised. It now sat silently at the bottom of the jar with its tip flicking patiently like the tail of a slithering snake.

“I didn’t know her,” Keaton whispered. She really is shaking- the jar is being rattled so badly that Lee was afraid that she might drop it or it may completely shatter. Her sun-moon eyes are hazy with tears on the reflection against the glass.

Lee crept closer and peered over her shoulder. The tongue flicked its tip again, like it was addressing that she was there, that it knew who she was and it could spit out prophecies about her at any moment. At the top of its jar winked a small gold plaque that read: Hayley Grace Ross | Age: 17 | Best known for: Visions of an alternate universe where time runs backwards | Death: January 13, 2019 |

“I didn’t know any of them.” Keaton choked out. She’s crying, now. She gently cradled the jar close to her chest with a haunted expression and the tongue inside squirmed its way against the glass like it was returning the embrace in a strange, but sad postmortem, disembodied way.

Lee gave her a saddened expression. She’s gotten quite good at comforting Keaton, but she knew not to pry right now. Not when she was so obviously shaken by this.

She turned, wanting to give the girl some space, and saw a jar on one of the several tables. It’s decorated, unlike the others, swathed with sparkling threads of silver and gold around the lid and studded with small sun and moon pendants. She picked it up and read the plaque, which looked like it had been recently shined: Keaton Morgan Fox | Age: 15 | Best known for: Very specific and clear visions into the future, perfected mind reading, time loops | Death: N/A |

It was empty.

There was no death date.

“Beware the one born of the sun and the moon,” Whispered a wrinkly old tongue with cracks over its surface. “Seething with darkness and sparkling with anger.”

“Awakened from the blood of an unwanted womb,” Chimed in another tongue that was missing taste buds.

“And drenched in the carnage of the futures she hides.” Murmured a third.

“Beware the one born of the sun and the moon,” Said all the tongues together. “With too many secrets and too many eyes.”

Lee shuddered and turned to Keaton, finally realizing why she was so distraught.

They were standing in a room full of the severed tongues of murdered Seers.

She was surrounded by her own kind, dead and trapped forever.

#me frantically googling what rhymes with moon #can you tell i cant write poems #or prophecies #anyway this scene comes later in the novel i just thought it was neat and wrote a draft of it now #still dont have a name for it..#lizzie speaks #my writing #lizzie’s dumb book

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zmediaoutlet · 5 years

Text

fic: survivors

Title: survivors Rating: E Wordcount: 4466 Relationship: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester Warnings: Season/Series 13, Post-Episode: s13e22 Exodus, Established Relationship, Happy Sex Summary: After getting all the refugees out of the apocalypse world and leaving Lucifer in it, Sam and Dean take some we-time. (from @sketchydean ‘s prompt: all survivor, no guilt.)

This was my first time posting in Salt, Burn, Porn -- thank you so much for the timing, because I wouldn’t have been able to knock out this fic on like any other night this week, haha.

(read on AO3)

There's like a hundred people in their house. Dean's not—he doesn't hate it, at least not for the night, but he sure as hell could do with a little privacy. And, okay, it's not a hundred people—it's not even a house—but it's theirs, and he never really thought of it as a boarding house, a halfway station on the way to—what? He doesn't know, and he doesn't think any of them do either. Bobby, or at least this guy who's passing for Bobby—he's in charge, more or less, and so Dean just does what he always does. He checks out the situation, he makes a list, he does what needs to get done.

Ketch disappears fast; so does Charlie (other-Charlie), for some reason. Mom's looking after a lady who it turns out might be pregnant, and Dean's not touching that situation with a fifty-foot pole. Castiel talks to Rowena, and Jack—Jack ain't talking to anybody, and Dean looks at Sam and Sam's already looking right at Jack, his eyebrows tugged into a flat straight line over distant eyes, and maybe Dean's not touching that with a pole of any length at all, at least not right now. Everyone's drinking up his stash and they're gonna need more food, more blankets, more cots, more space, but for right now, he needs to smell less like apocalypse-ash and grave-dirt. He's smelled enough of both for a lifetime; not fair to bring it home with him.

Shower's empty, somehow. Refugees swarming his halls and they haven't found the whole bunker's best friggin' feature. Well, Dean was due a lucky day. He boils his skin off for about ten minutes, just glorying in hot water, in water pressure. He swabbed his ass with a literal rag in a literal bucket over in Shitville. If all the refugees actually make it back with a plan to save the day, he hopes for their sake it involves some kind of legit plumbing. When he feels sufficiently disinfected he brings the temp down, grabs the soap, lathers up. Scrubs his scalp all minty-fresh and rinses off and feels like an entirely new person, and when he's free of bubbles he drags pruny hands over his face under the water and opens his eyes and there's Sammy, leaning with his ass against one of the sinks and two glasses of whiskey on the shelf next to him and a little smile on his face, watching.

"Perv," Dean sputters, like his heart's not turning over in his chest. Sammy.

"Takes one," Sam says, smile tucked up into the soft piled-up fold of his cheek, a dimple carved in deep. Ridiculous, Dean thinks, and watches Sam's eyes drop. He turns around, making sure the water's carving off all the soap bubbles, carrying away all that otherworld nastiness, and knows Sam's watching that, too, and how is it possible that after years of this—after, christ alive, almost twenty years of this—he can still get riled up just from how Sam looks at him.

Water off and he pushes his hair back, and when he turns around he catches the towel Sam throws into his chest. "Everybody settled?" he says, and Sam shrugs. "We're gonna have to clean out a Super Walmart of camping supplies, man. I don't think the Letters planned for a whole village to move in."

"We'll figure it out," Sam says. Relaxed, like he hasn't been in—shit. Dean can't even remember. He dries off, pricklingly aware of being watched. Bright in here. Maybe he can blame the heat in his face on the hot water. "Man. Seriously, did you burn yourself? You're like a lobster."

"Benefit of having an angel friend," Dean says, wrapping the towel around his waist. He steps out of the shower pan and the concrete's cool on his feet, the glass Sam holds out for him cooler, the whiskey inside just the right amount of burn. He licks his lips, scrapes his teeth over his lip, and up this close he can smell Sam: blood and mud, an edge like rotting forest floor. Gross, except that it's Sam. He remembers what he was saying only belatedly. "Got any burns, you can get 'em healed up, lickety-split."

"Lickety-split," Sam echoes, eyebrows pulled up like he's making fun of Dean, and he is, but Dean's found it in himself this last handful of years to be okay with that. To look forward to that. Sam doesn't make fun unless he's okay, and that little dig, that eyeroll before he takes a sip. That's Sammy, a-okay. What a miracle.

"You reek," Dean informs him, soft as a tub of mallow-fluff on the inside, and Sam wrinkles his nose, shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and hands his glass to Dean, and that means Dean gets to watch as he strips out of the unfamiliar stained sweatshirt, his undershirt below smeared with old blood, with vamp juice, with handprints Dean doesn't want to recognize. He drops them to the floor, heels off his boots, and then—belt, jeans, socks, boxers, and he's tanned and naked and whole, unmarked in any way that counts. Dean drains his own glass and sips at Sam's left-behind one, watches Sam under the shower. His eyes closed under the water. The rust-brown streaking away, uncovering the tattoo they share. His hair slicking against his skin, dark almost to black, on his skull and that patch in the center of his chest and at his crotch, his dick heavy and soft, the water limning it, dripping, a pouring river Dean could stop with his mouth, if experience didn't tell him he'd choke on it. Right now he maybe wouldn't mind, but. They got guests.

Still. "What are you doin'," Dean says, real quiet. Sam doesn't hear him over the rush of the water, there's no way, but he turns off the taps and pushes his hair off his forehead and looks at Dean anyway, and they can't, they got work to do and there's too many people around, they both know it. Still.

The Walmart's three towns down the road. Dean doesn't ask Sam to come; he comes anyway. Clean clothes that are his own, that smell like their detergent. Mom and Bobby can be in charge of all the strangers for a while. It's a pretty quick trip, especially with Dean driving as fast as he's driving, and he cranks up Appetite for Destruction and Sammy doesn't even complain, and they don't talk, and with it loud like that the guitar solo's still rattling in Dean's bones when he's moving quick around the fluorescent aisles, grabbing everything he can think of that'll fit in the car. Sam's got his own cart and they see each other on the turns and Sam grins at him, every time, basket fuller and fuller with soap and toothbrushes and pillow cases, underwear in three-packs, socks in ten-packs, bread and cheese, carrot sticks because Sam's a damn rabbit. Dean tells him so, when they pass each other with Dean on his way to the electronics section, and there behind a gondola of basketballs Sam says, "Vitamins aren't the enemy, jerk," and then like it's nothing fits his hand big around the back of Dean's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. It rings through Dean's head, bright as a brass gong. Quick, and Sam's smiling, thumbs at the corner of Dean's mouth and pushes him away and strides off with one janky cart-wheel rattling, and Dean's left in the rubbery smell of the basketballs, thinking, burner phones, but his brain's not quite operating on all cylinders. Call in the pit crew, he thinks, touching his damp lip and thinking of the store cameras, but. If Sam doesn't care then he doesn't, either. So. Burner phones.

They fill the trunk and the backseat besides, piled high enough with crap and three of their good cards burned. Dean revs the engine and Sam says, "my turn," and Dean doesn't object, and with Sam's choice of tape thumping the car body and sailing out through the open windows into the cornfields they race home, clouds scudding over the moon. Dean's never actually known what Bron-y-Aur is, but the song's great anyway, especially with Sam clapping the side of his thigh along with the beat.

At the bunker someone's built a fire in the shelter of the entrance and a few of the refugees are sitting around it, beers clutched in their hands. They stand up fast at seeing the car, fear softening out of their faces when they see that it's just them—and Dean has no compunctions about pressing them to work, either, even if Sam's mouth does a complicated thing. "Food in the kitchen, and you guys got someone who knows how to cook?" A lady scoffs, accepts a bag piled high with crap for sandwiches. "There we go. Yeah, and there's a shower down in the west hall, y'all figure that out how you want, okay? Someone tell Mary we've got some clothes for the kids, and tell Bobby Singer there's a hat in here that won't be frankly embarrassing if anyone else sees him."

"Dude," Sam says, but he's still smiling, and Dean raises his eyebrows like, who, me? Sam rolls his eyes—but then all the strangers have cleared away with all their purchases and Dean fishes out the bourbon bottle he hid up in the driver-side footwell and Sam sighs, but he's still goddamn smiling, like no other day Dean can remember in the past five hundred. He jerks his head and Sam follows him up around the hill over the back of the bunker, the narrow unused path up to the abandoned plant, and through the shouldered-open door to the huge empty cathedral-vault of the thing, and through the archway to the old control room, where there's still a used-to-be-blue couch and an electric lantern from when Dean would hide up here sometimes in rougher days, and where when Dean lights it Sam tugs him around by his hand and tilts his head up and kisses him, not like before in the linoleum-squeaky aisle but for real, like he means it, soft and full, his fingertips on the back of Dean's ear, his nose cold somehow even in the summer-spring air.

Dean breathes him, holds his bicep through the washed-soft flannel. His mouth, tasting clean. "Sammy," he says, when Sam pulls back to breathe, and Sam laughs somehow, happy-sounding. Happy, Sammy. Doesn't go together that often in Dean's experience and he doesn't even know how to countenance it. But who cares, he thinks, lifting up and biting Sam's lip. Finds himself smiling, for his own part, and hell. Who cares, if it's true.

He didn't think about glasses, but it's not the first time they've necked a bottle. They collapse onto the couch in huge poofing plumes of dust, their knees knocked together, Dean's ankle hooked over Sam's by happenstance and then by choice. "Good day?" Dean says, and Sam toasts him with the whiskey, eyes crinkling and familiar even in the blue-white blast of the lantern light.

"Had worse," he says, and sips, and hands Dean the bottle, and Dean can toast right back to that. They've had a hell of a lot worse. Any day where Sam was dead and came back to him, that's—that's a good one. Swallow goes down like fire and he takes the burn, the sting at the corner of his eyes. Sam takes it back from him, takes his hand too. Squeezes, his thumb dragging hard over the bump of Dean's palm, up to the knot of veins where his pulse feels shaky-wobbly as a kid trying out legs for the first time, and Sam’s smile goes from cocky to warm, just like that. "Name a better day."

"That time Lucinda Morris kissed you on a bet," Dean says, promptly, his heart not in it. Sam rolls his eyes. "Or, hey, how about that time with those identical twins, Callie and—uh, the other one, and they wanted—"

"Callie and Courtney," Sam says, "and I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about that."

"Could've been hot," Dean argues back, for what's probably the dozenth time, but it's not like it matters. Sam still hasn't let go of his hand, and they're not usually—it's been a while. Since it was easy, like this. He almost wants the other shoe to drop, just to get it over with, but oh man if he hasn't been owed an easy night. His heart feels full of helium, soaring up to make a lump in his throat. "Sammy, guess what." Sam's eyebrows raise, dutifully. "You took care of him."

Zero guesses, who Dean means. Sam gets it immediately and his mouth does something all kinds of complicated, his eyelids lowering. "Yeah," he says, like it's somehow sore, and Dean reaches over and grips a handful of buttons and flannel, hauls with all his strength, and Sam comes, pulled over the top of him, half-laughing in surprise, propped over Dean suddenly, his eyes right there for Dean to see. He shrugs, bites the corner of his mouth. Dissembling like it's nothing. Liar. "We don't know what happened. Jack's not talking, you notice that?"

Dean touches his throat, his neck, warm and whole, where he'd seen the lifeblood gouting out of him. "Don't care," he says, and it's true. Jack'll come around, and it doesn't—matter. Not like this does. "I hope Michael took his head off."

Sam huffs, eyes bright. His hair's haloed in blue-white. "I hope it hurt a lot more than that," he says, quiet like it's a secret, but he's smiling bright and wide again. Dean's brother, happy and a little vicious, and Dean's heart could about blow up. Sam's eyes go all over his face, his hand wide on Dean's cheek, his jaw, and Dean touches his chest, feels the swell of his breath. Watches Sam's tongue wet his lip. "That door lock?" Sam says.

Dean spreads his legs, and says, "No," grinning after, and Sam huffs again and dips and kisses him anyway, drags his mouth open, that helium spinning up and lighting through his whole head. He feels drunk, high. Sam's hot, and when he shifts over he's heavy, too, and Dean doesn't want him moving. Sam's thigh settles along his, his hand on Dean's head and his dick riding against Dean's hip, making itself known, and oh, man, it has been too long, been so many days far too long, long enough that Sam could be five feet away in their own kitchen and Dean'd be missing him, life fucking them over like it so often did and not leaving time for this. At least not time to do this right.

"Oh," Sam says, breathes. He drags his thumb over Dean's eyebrow for some reason, his other hand slipping under Dean's shirt to feel his belly. It sucks in without his say-so, tingly shock of sensation. Sam hooks an arm under his lower back, tips his weight in so Dean's dick pushes against his stomach. Dean makes a noise and Sam's mouth quirks, and Dean hits him in shoulder.

"Smug bitch," he says, and Sam says, "Oh, you haven't seen smug," like a promise, and then his brow furrows, even as he's hitching Dean up into his lap in a haul of easy muscle, a show like—like it's five years ago, longer, and Sam was in that body-building phase. Still strong, enough that Dean's seriously straining the limits of what his jeans should take. "Man. Wish we had something, I want—"

He shakes his head. His hands on Dean's ass, big, squeezing, his chin tilted up so Dean can lay kisses on his mouth, his cheekbone, holding his head still for it. Sweat's starting up at Sam's hairline, his body overheating predictable as always, and Dean smiles, presses his lips to the scratch of Sam's sideburn, smells him. "Who's your favorite brother," he says, and Sam digs fingers into his back and clutches like he always does when Dean reminds him of what they're doing—like it was ever in fucking question, like somehow he could ever forget—but then Dean plunges his hand into the super sketchy crack between couch-cushion and -back and comes up with—

"What the hell," Sam puffs out, when he looks at what Dean's pressing into his hand, and Dean shrugs, smiling down. Who's smug now. "Tell me you didn't get this from the hobo couch."

Dean smacks the back of his head. "Dumbass," he says, and Sam raises his eyebrows and smacks his ass in retaliation, light but enough to—ah, yeah. Dean shakes his head, tugs Sam's hair. "No, obviously, but uh, sometimes you need a little privacy, you know, and—look, it's not dried up, don't look a lube horse in the mouth, okay. Gratitude, Sammy."

Wrinkled nose and Sam says, "Please never say lube horse again," and yeah, that's—that's Dean's brother, and it's proved more when he's hauled around again, dumped onto his back, his head bouncing against the dusty cushion. He sneezes, spreads his legs wider, and Sam drags a hand along his thigh, hot through the denim, Dean's muscle flexing up into it without his brain being involved, his heart thudding low in the pit of his belly it feels like, his skin aching. "We don't have time," Sam says, like he's got any goddamn intention of doing a thing but what he's doing. "This is nuts."

"When are we not?" Dean says, inviting, and Sam laughs like he knew Dean was going to say that, and maybe he did, maybe after enough years they're just predictable like this, an old married couple working the same ruts and rhythms. Only—Dean doesn't think most old married couples get days like this, days of forty hours with no sleep and running on fourth winds, days of fighting and killing and saving lives, and definitely they don't get Sammy, whole and particularly, always, himself. That alone makes this something that's all theirs, and he's damn lucky, in this way if in no other, that he gets it. He bites his lip, Sam's eyes dark and watchful. "We can be quick."

Like he has to coax, with that look on Sam's face. He goes for Sam's belt first and tugs, and Sam starts unbuttoning his plaid, shucking it backwards over the edge of the couch by the time Dean's unbuttoned and -zipped, has Sam's dick full and heavy in his hand. God, he loves this thing. Feeling's mutual. Dry warm skin, the edge of pubes crinkling his fingertips when he gets a real pull in, and he tucks his fingers down, brushes Sam's balls where they're still tucked heavy into his boxer-briefs. His mouth waters. "How quick?" he says, answering his own question.

Sam snorts, touches Dean's mouth. Gets his thumb licked, sucked in, and groans for it. Yeah, Dean knows what Sam's after. "Quicker than that," Sam says, though, and dips down, replaces his thumb with his lips, opens up Dean's jeans and lets Dean take care of dragging off his boots—awkward, scraping against floor and wooden couch-edge until they strain over his heels—and then leans back and tucks his fingers in and drags boxers and jeans off all in one go, so Dean's left Donald Ducking it in the warm dusty air, his socks still on. His dick swings lazy against his thigh, his balls full and ready, wanting, and Sam cups them up, out of the way, drags his thumb into Dean's crack. "God," he says, like he didn't mean for Dean to hear, "I thought—"

—and he doesn't finish but Dean doesn't want to hear it, not right now. He knows that look on Sam's face, too, and his nuts and gut and heart all ache too hard to have to think that way. "Sam, get the lube," he says, easy demand, and Sam's eyes snap to his face, his thoughts redirected along safer lines. When Sam's thinking with his dick the easiest thing in the world is for Dean to say that he needs something and Sam—yeah, he shoves his jeans down, pulls his undershirt up out of the way, slicks his dick ready to give it to him. Shining, in the white light, the head heavy, dark with blood. Dean touches it, gets his fingers wet and watches Sam's face flinch—touches himself, between the legs, and smears slick all over, barely dipping inside. "Come on," he says, and doesn't have to playact to put the right need in it.

"Sure?" Sam says—liar, like he's gonna stop—pushing Dean's thighs open right there on the nasty couch, their mom somewhere under the dirt twenty yards below them, fuck, they haven't done this with her in the same state ever before—and it's a shove, the wet head bulling in, Dean holding the backs of his knees and tipping his head back so Sam can't see how it tears at him—but his body remembers this, it knows what it means when Sam's here, when they're together, and he breathes and feels that sticky-parting, the full open shove that means—that it's Sam—

"Oh, fuck," he says, when Sam's seated. Sam laughs again, the crazy bitch, he smears a slick hand over Dean's dick and grips the lapels of Dean's canvas shirt in both hands, tugs him down, bullies himself somehow deeper. Goddamn. "Jesus, Sam, you can't fuck my throat from that side."

His voice is all screwed up, anyway. He gives up on keeping himself open and reaches down, grips Sam's thighs through his jeans, arches his hips and feels the slick fat drag inside. When he tips his chin down Sam's hovering right over the top of him, mouth open but a smile threatening. "Can't hurt to try," he says, dark wild edge in him, and Dean laughs back, helpless, and holds on while Sam churns his hips, when he rears back and starts to fuck for real, when he knocks Dean off this axis and onto a so, so much better one.

Crazy, it's always just—crazy. Sam's body, his heat, the bigness of him that just bowled Dean over. How this made Sam into a new animal—only it didn't, really, Dean came to realize later—this Sam was just as much the normal Sam as the Sam who hunched over in libraries and got wet-eyed over widows and went prissy when Dean ordered a second burger. Dean loves them all, exactly the same. Well. Maybe sometimes he loves this one a little more. Especially like this, driving deep, curved and hitting every possible good spot, his hand on the back of Dean's neck and a grip on his thigh keeping him open, making it so all Dean has to do is hold on, arch into it, a punching up and in and through, god. He hooks one heel over the back of the couch, tries to breathe. Clutching together, Sam's sweat in his mouth, his taste at the back of Dean's tongue, his breath coming fast and quick and proof, the whole time, proof. Dean tugs him down, kisses him, his hands in Sam's hair, and his dick drags against the scratchy-soft of Sam's undershirt, Sam's jeans pressing into his ass, a sparky hot throb inside that pushes all of those considerations away—that makes it just him and Sam, and really, just him and Sam is all it ever was, and all it ever will be, and oh—fuck, does it feel good, when that's so.

He comes first. Anymore that's always how it goes. Stupid Sam. He jerks, groans, heels digging into Sam's ass, holding him inside. Sam sighs against his jaw, flexing in him. Dean strains rippling for a long held moment, drawing it out, before he relaxes, tugs, and Sam moans into his throat and hammers home. A floaty unhinged ache spreads all through Dean's body, his thighs and hips, his asshole, his throat, his fingertips for some reason, and by the time Sam unloads in him—half-shout, bitten into Dean's shirt—he realizes it's because he's holding Sam's waist so hard that Sam'll probably have ten perfect bruises, fingerprints where Dean lost his damn mind. He lets go, feels the circulation start up in his hands, while Sam jerks in him, his dick and nuts trying to do more than they can. Always makes Dean flush up, tender, stupid. He touches the back of Sam's head, traces a line down the sweat trail along his spine. Hugs his hips, between his thighs, and feels Sam's shudder, inside and out. God, he's missed this and he misses it again, already.

Sam barely rolls off of him. The couch isn't that big and Dean's not letting him go anywhere. Any other day, he'd bitch about being a pillow—and he'll bitch later, probably—but. This is Sammy. What a goddamn miracle. No matter how it came about.

"I think Mom's got a thing for Bobby," Sam says, out of nowhere.

The distant ceiling is a shadowy mystery, not giving up anything to how Dean's eyes have slammed open in horror. "Why," he says, "the fuck," he continues, while Sam starts to shake on top of him, "would you bring that up now?"

Sam's just laughing, not making any sound, his grin pressed against Dean's sweaty chest.

Dean squirms, puts an unfeigned amount of disgust in his voice. "You are the actual worst."

"I know," Sam says, eventually, breathless, and lifts up on his elbow. "Is it better if he's not really Bobby, if he's like—whatever, stranger-Bobby?"

Dean stares at him. "No!" Sam collapses down, laughing out loud this time, and Dean gives up, shoves, and Sam rolls off to land on the dirty floor with a massive thud. He says ow, but not like it hurt, and laughs some more, quieter, his arm thrown over his face. He really sounds drunk, happy drunk, when they never even made it through half the bottle. Dean rolls his eyes, slides his sticky thighs together, tips onto his side. He flicks the back of Sam's arm, and Sam drops it, shows himself all wrinkled-up eyes and dimples. "Sammy, you seriously got, like, twenty-five screws loose. Twenty-six."

From the floor, Sam bites his lip, breathes deep and lets it out long and slow, like the first breath of a clean new day. Dean thinks it's around midnight. Maybe the day really is new. "Yeah, I'm crazy," Sam says, but he says it like it's a gift. Dean smiles at him, takes it like it is.

#wincest #spn fic #sam/dean #sketchydean #it was nice to write a happy thing for once #but then who wouldn't be happy about taking care of lucifer #(if only briefly)#my writing

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worldwidebt7 · 5 years

Text

“Buttons”

》Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

》Genre(s): [Fluff] [So Much Fluff] [Tooth Rotting Fluff] [Drabble But Not Really?]

》 Words: 1,754

》Rating: E

》 Warnings: None

》 A/N: So, this was supposed to be a drabble? But it ended up being just shy of 2,000 words? Why am I like this…? I’ve been on the WORST (best?) Yoongi kick, and this is literally the shortest thing I had that I could write for him to get it out of my system… “Turned Around” is still coming. I’ve just never written someone as shy as Kookie can be, so I’m struggling a bit… Enjoy this in the meantime!

[Summary]: Where Yoongi can’t seem to get the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt to cooperate at a fan sign event, so you decide to give him a hand.

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You felt so incredibly out of place— you had always dreamed about attending a BTS fan sign event to finally meet the members face to face, and here you were. You had even learned some specific lines and phrases you wished to communicate with them along with your basic conversational Korean to better enhance your individual experience with them. Yet, being the only foreigner as far as the eye could see, you were sweating beneath the mostly curious, but also slightly judgmental looks of the other fans in the large room.

You had come to Korea on a vacation only two weeks ago; your parents begrudgingly letting you leave for the country where the only person you knew was a friend, and fellow ARMY, that you had met online. She was the one who had taught you any and all Korean that you knew, and was also the one putting you up rent-free for the duration of your four-week stay in Cheongdam-dong. When you arrived at her apartment, you had been surprised to say the least; you had been unaware that this particular ward of Gangnam was known for its wealthy inhabitants, and your friend was no exception. So, it should have come as no surprise when she had also whipped out tickets for Bangtan’s next fan meet in Seoul, but it still managed to leave you boggled.

When the day came, you were so filled with excitement that you had forgot to mentally prepare yourself not for the boys, but all of the other fan girls, who, currently, were sending small sideways glances at you. You shuffled uncomfortably under their eyes, your friend, YunHee, completely oblivious. You couldn’t particularly blame them— it was probably rare to see a foreigner at one of these events, seeing as they were almost exclusive to Korean fans. Lucky bastards. However, they were only adding to the nerves that were already presently wracking your body.

You were no more than ten feet away from the series of tables at which the seven members of BTS sat and your body knew it. It was shaking at the very sight of it and as you desperately tried to calm your thoughts, you couldn’t help but notice the first member you were to approach, which didn’t help your nerves even a little bit.

There, looking like an adorable little angel in a loose white dress shirt and wearing duel-colored puppy ears, sat Min Yoongi— Suga of Bangtan Sonyeondan, Mr. Agust D himself. You couldn’t start off with someone less intimidating; no, you were jumping right into the fire, and that man could very well burn you alive. The fan in front of you moved on from said man, leaving the space in front of him open for a moment as one of the staff members held his hand out for you to wait. You were fine with this, of course, it gave you another moment to compose yourself. But as you watched the eldest rapper, he became less intimidating by the second.

The buttons on his left sleeve had seemingly come undone, leaving the cuff to flap about aimlessly each time he moved his arm. Reaching his limit of toleration, he began struggling to re-button the offending piece of cloth, his left hand disappearing within the sleeve to assist his right hand in his quest. Now, the small existential crisis he was having with his sleeve was cute enough, however the little crinkle that had appeared when he scrunched his nose in frustration immediately quelled the fear that had begun boiling in your chest what you first sighted him.

As the staff finally waved you forward to kneel in front of the table, you saw him give a displeased huff and release the dreaded button in defeat, unaccomplished in his goal. You couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped you at the sight of Min Yoongi being conquered by a button. He must have heard you, as his gaze quickly found yours before you were even in front of him, the nerves finding their way back to your stomach. Only, this time, they were more like butterflies than wrenches tightening against your insides.

Kneeling in front of the table, you offered a nod and an English ‘hello,’ knowing he knew that at least, and he returned the gesture, giving you a quiet ‘hello’ of his own. He looked a bit panicked, which was probably due to the fact that you were a foreigner. You remembered that he had little confidence in his English, though you always suspected he knew more than he let on. You gave a shy smile as you placed your album on the table, his eyes keenly watching the item— probably praying for something to distract him long enough so he didn’t have to attempt English. When you didn’t push it towards him, he reached for it, but you quickly interrupted him.

“Um…” You started, and he looked at you, a horrified look in his eyes. You pointed at his sleeve, your face turning red, “Your sleeve— ah, I mean, 소매...” Ah, your Korean was honestly atrocious. You wracked your brain trying to come up with words that could make a complete sentence, but as you did, the dark-haired idol lifted his left arm and pointed to it himself. You gave a breathy chuckle and nodded, holding your hands out in front of you, palms upwards. “네— can I…?” You asked, hesitantly shifting your hands towards him. He looked at you, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise. The only answer you received was him placing his wrist over your hands, the material of his shirt brushing your palms.

If your cheeks weren’t pink before, they surely were now as you took his hand in yours and gently maneuvered it until it rested on the table with his palm facing upwards. Dear God he had beautiful hands— large and lean, with graceful thin fingers. His years of playing piano were obvious here, showing the lithe and nimble skill in every line, every curve, of his digits; the hands of a pianist. With all their use, his skin held a surprising smoothness as you brushed it, sending a chill through you.

You didn’t look up at his face; you didn’t have to in order to know that he wasn’t watching your fingers as they nimbly worked not one, but three buttons on the cuff of his sleeve. You could feel his piercing eyes on your face, as if he were trying to read your intentions, or like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It caused your heart to pick up and your fingers to fumble with the last button a bit. After several attempts though, you were able to slide the little plastic circle through its rightful gap.

You began to pull your hands back, smiling at him pleasantly, when his long fingers wrapped around your wrist, encompassing it entirely. Finally making eye contact from shock, your heart went into a frenzy as his eyes bore into yours. It wasn’t in an intimidating or threatening way; it was just intense and for a moment your forgot how to breathe. With him gazing at you in such a way, it was easy to ignore the fact that he still currently donned a little headband with multi-colored doggy-ears.

A soft smile graced his lips, and your eyes flicked down to them from the movement. But the shift of his grasp on your wrist to where it settled within your own hand had you staring back into his eyes, waiting for his next move. After another short moment of simply peering down at you, his soft smile broke out into one of his signature gummy smiles, his previously intense eyes becoming shy crescent moons. Before you had time to comprehend the change, his right hand reached out and slid your album towards him, his left leaving yours to lie on the table to feel the chill of the air against the warm skin where his hand once was.

“Thank you.” He said, his accent present in the small phrase of appreciation. You watched silently as he flipped open the album to where you had marked his name with a small sticky-note and pull open a marker that had been sitting to the side before realizing that you should probably respond in some way.

“Ah, yeah, n-no problem.” Okay, good start— not in Korean, but at least you hadn’t said anything ridiculous. “I’m good with… buttons…” …and there it was. Your voice trailed off as you heard each word that left your mouth unchecked and you felt a desperate need to smash your face flat against the table. But that would only further the embarrassment, so you opted not to. His marker stilled as he glanced up at you from the album with a raised eyebrow, as if trying to figure out what you mean by that, before releasing an airy laugh, presumably because he realized that you meant exactly what you said and there was no hidden meaning behind it. He had probably seen the mortification written over your face from your own statement.

“아, 귀여…” You heard him mutter beneath his breath as he returned to signing your album. It took you a moment to fully register what it was he has said, but when you were finally able to pull enough of your Korean vocabulary out of the confines of your muddled brain, your reaction was immediate.

You turned your face down to hide how red it was surely becoming, and you brought your hands up to pat at the sides of your face, completely flustered. Suddenly, the cover of your album slid into your line of vision, as well as the thin fingers of Min Yoongi, as he passed your successfully signed album. You picked your head up to look at him fully, momentarily forgetting your abashed face. His gaze once more held intensity, only, this time, a sly smirk had found its way to his face and– goddamn him— it was sexy as hell. You swallowed loudly, the noise from the other girls in the room which you had all but just forgotten drowning it out. Reaching up to take your album, you noticed that he had not yet moved his hands from the book, and as your fingers touched the cool cover, his smirk widened before he muttered words of, what seemed to be, farewell.

“See you again…”

[END]

A/N: I’m so sorry that I’m bad at life and can’t seem to finish “Turned Around”... *sobs* But still let me know what you thought of this!

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