In the morning, Keigo stretches his body; and it’s ethereal.
The way the Sun peers in through the sheer curtains keeps you in a slight between sleep and cognitive function, eyes hazy and bleary as he slowly gets up from his side of the bed, grunting softly.
It’s warm, it’s so quiet. You blink a few times to watch him go about his morning, and it starts with his wings quickly splaying out, the full spanse of them taking up an underestimated amount of space in the room. They glimmer in the peering sunlight, and you smile softly as they slowly curl back towards him.
His fingers cross over each other before they pull his arms taught above his head, shifting them to the right, then the left, which pops louder than the other side due to more than a few injuries to his left side. His muscles shadow and dance in the light soaking in through the window. He whines softly as he then bends at the waist, wings fluffing back out as he stretches his knees, as if moving out of the way.
Clearly, he must notice you, as one of his pristine feathers immediately darts from the pack and over to you, and before you can reel your foot back in, the plumes swipe over it, making you giggle sleepily and yank it under the covers.
“You liking the show, creep?” he teases, chucking, the feather now shifting to gently nuzzle your cheek, as he does so often.
You nod, “you’re just so pretty, Keigo.”
“Im aware.”
“No, like, really pretty,” you assure, and he sighs before turning around to face you. His hair is stuck up in random places, his eyes sleepy and still heavy from the act of waking up. There’s lines from blankets that imprint his skin, and his feathers fluff out slightly to buff out the flattened areas.
He bends at the waist to be face to face with you, leaning slightly to plant a small kiss to your nose, and you mewl happily at the feeling.
He takes an inhale through his nose, “I’m not half as pretty as you are, babe.” He gently cups your cheek with a warm hand, “trust me. I watch you almost as much as you watch me.”
“Bull,” you tease. “I’m always watching you. You never even look at me.”
He frowns at you dramatically, and before you can assure him you’re teasing, more feathers dart from behind him to yank the blankets off of you, the chill of morning dew making you whine in agony. “Keigo!”
“You’re pretty when you’re mad, too, doll.”
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so while pondering and marinating on possible urls, how'd you land on rays of raven? because ravens don't have rays, do they? they have wings. 'cos they're birds. why not 'wings of raven?' was that taken by someone with faster thumbs than you? oh, apologies, ravens don't have thumbs. i'll have to make a note to the producers. and why raven, specifically? was it spur of the moment, or the product of deeper pondering? why not pigeon? rays of pigeon. now that's got a nice ring.
Well you see Phil, at the time of choosing the url I was part of an organisation that campaigned for the rights of animal actors, ravens in particular, and the tagline for the campaign had always been ‘raise for ravens’, y’know cause the poor bastards need a pay rise with all the work they do. Unfortunately I’d only ever heard the tagline and never seen it written down and things clearly got lost in translation, hence rays of Raven, it got to a point where I was too ashamed of my mistake to ever come clean about it and now there’s sentimentality attached to the incorrect url.
Also I don’t care for pigeons I got attacked by one as a child and it still affects me to this day.
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RAIN please have mercy my hoshi rot can handle this rn
-smoothie
how do you think i feel huh? i’m hanging on by a THREAD
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vash post trimax being hunted still by humans who just don’t understand and the only one who ever did is gone and yeah he still has milly and meryl but it’s not the same and he’s cornered like a rabid animal, bleeding from a wound that doesn’t heal like it used to and sometimes -
sometimes he thinks it would be easier to just close his eyes and let it end and sometimes he hates nai for healing him at all, hates him for making vash lose him, for making him hate him, and he hates nai for loving him so much it stripped him of everything he ever held sacred
and sometimes he thinks it would’ve been easier to stay on that fucking couch with the corpse of the only one who ever truly saw the core of him and sometimes he thinks he should’ve buried himself in the sand beside wolfwood because he’d be safe, he’d be kept and safe and it would be so quiet, and maybe he’d get a moment’s rest there in the dark where the only one who ever saw the truth of him lies
and he’s bleeding from a wound that won’t close and he’s so fucking tired and the golden chain he wears around his neck is heavy but the laughter that blooms around him, called in on a breeze he can’t feel, is all light
“so, what? you just gonna give up?”
he grits his teeth. the bounty hunters are shouting amongst themselves, coordinating their movements to surround him, cutting off any chance of survival he might have
‘promise me somethin’, spikey.’
the church bells are ringing. they’re always ringing in vash’s head. they won’t stop. liquor burns at the back of his tongue and he can’t wash it down, not with anything.
‘keep smilin’. even when… i’m gone. okay? for me.’
he bares his blunt fangs. black hair falls over his eyes.
it’s always so dark.
‘don’t let them win, vash.
vash.
never said your name enough, did i?
vash.’
tears burn along the seams of his eyelids. the scent of cigarettes and cologne wafts under his nose and vash’s eyes fly open to find the sun blocked by a familiar silhouette.
“c’mon, vash. don’t you give up now.”
he can see his reflection in the preacher’s sunglasses. with a hitching breath, vash lifts a pale hand covered in blood. a small smile curls over that golden face, white teeth flashing around the filter of a crumpled cigarette.
their hands meet. wolfwood tugs vash up from the bloodstained ground where he was content to die.
when he teeters forward, unbalanced and inelegant from the blood loss, wolfwood isn’t there to catch him. the shouts are getting louder. death is coming.
“time’s up,” burrs a deep voice in his ear, “let’s get the fuck outta here, human typhoon.”
and he has to. doesn’t he? because wolfwood was the only one who understood him and now the only life wolfwood has exists inside him - in the memories that make up the ghost vash carries in his ribcage like a second set of lungs.
“run.”
and he’ll keep running. he’ll keep running until there’s no more planet left, and then he’ll run some more. if it keeps this piece of wolfwood alive…
he’ll run forever.
so he does, leaving cigarette smoke and whiskey in his wake, the shape of his spilled blood like a cross in the sand.
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