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ikeromantic · 3 years

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Tears of Joy

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic - this scene takes place at the end of Ch. 13 in the romantic route. Spoilers! Approx. 2300 words

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Trust

Mitsuhide worked from the hallway, sending orders and letters through Kyubei to see to the settling of the shogun and his new staff. It was tiring work - but satisfying. Against the odds, he’d succeeded yet again. With help, of course, but it was still remarkable what victory could be pulled from a little wit and a lot of will.

Kyubei arrived with the latest information, his expression one of grim resolve. His hand kept touching the short, dark fuzz at the top of his head. A new nervous gesture, Mitsuhide surmised. The vassal and spy had been uneasy since the shogun’s death. Despite that, he was doing an excellent job teaching Riku how to imitate Yoshiaki and filling him in on things the scribe hadn’t known about his lord.

“What news?” Mitsuhide set down his report from Chugaki and gave his vassal full attention.

Kyubei swallowed. “Ah, it looks like the pirates will be on their way by this evening. Mouri hasn’t announced an official withdrawal, but his warriors are packing up all the weapons and sake they can carry . . .” He paused and glanced toward the closed door behind Mitsuhide. Though he had obvious questions, he continued with his report. “The Ikko Ikki are all but gone. Kennyo and a few of his close confidants remain.”

“As expected. I was unable to embed another pair of eyes with the monks, but we should receive regular reports on the doings of Motonari when he sets sail. Anything else?” Mitsuhide knew there was more. Otherwise Kyubei would have sent information like this in a written report.

Kyubei’s eyes went to the door again. “There were, that is, I overheard some of the pirates discussing the chatelaine. Apparently, some are under the impression she will be leaving with Mouri.”

Mitsuhide’s eyes flashed and his smile turned sharp. “I assure you that is not the case.”

“I didn’t think so, my lord.” He paused again, then bowed. “I - I also wanted to offer my apology. Words are not enough, of course. I will - I will do whatever you think is fitting. But . . . I allowed the chatelaine to come to harm. I tore her clothes and frightened her. I failed to protect her and made her captivity worse. If you hadn’t arrived when you did . . .” His voice cracked and he went silent.

“You believe your choices led her to be captured?” Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow.

“No - not directly. But if I’d warned you of the ninja sooner-”

“I would still have been no more likely to catch him on his way in or out of our blockade.” Mitsuhide frowned. “I knew there was risk in leaving her alone. She did as well. Neither of us has regret.”

Kyubei’s head bobbed, but he still didn’t straighten. “I didn’t help her escape. I was afraid it would expose my mission. She was hurt as a result.”

“Yes,” Mitsuhide said dryly. “And you tore her kimono to make it look as if you’d taken her, yes?”

Kyubei nodded again.

“Also to preserve your cover. And if you had been exposed, she would have been taken to the barracks for their pleasure. I fail to see how that would have improved her situation.”

“But my lord . . . she might have died.” Kyubei’s voice was hoarse and low.

Mitsuhide agreed. “She risked her life for our mission. Do not diminish that by taking her pain as your failure. We all did what we must to see this through.”

“Then I have your forgiveness?”

“There is nothing to be forgiven. Now go - I am sure the shogun has need of you.” Mitsuhide waved him away.

Kyubei bowed even lower before standing and hurrying away.

He sat still as a stone until the sound of his vassal’s footsteps faded to nothing. Then he stood and quietly entered the room. There was a little light from the setting sun outside. The air here smelled of ginger, reeds, and honey - the fragrant parts of the ointment he used on his little one. Mitsuhide sank silently to the floor beside her.

She was still asleep. Deeply so. Her body was recovering from her ordeal. A brutal abduction, a restless day trapped in a store room, and then a near-death experience. She was so fragile, and yet strong.

His hands shook as he tenderly ran his fingers through her hair. She meant so much to him, this sweet little mouse. Mitsuhide was finally forced to acknowledge just how close he’d come to losing her. Or worse. He ran his hand over her shoulders just to reassure himself she was there and whole. The bruises were already fading. Her throat had a thin, dark scab where Yoshiaki’s knife had pressed too close. In a few weeks, this would be only a memory. One he hoped would disappear beneath the joy of their life together.

“M-mitsuhide?” Her lashes fluttered as she tried to open her eyes.

“I am here little one.”

Her hand reached for him, cool fingertips tracing his cheekbones. “Are you crying?”

He was, he realized.

“I’m ok. You - you shouldn’t cry.” She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were wide in the dim light.

“They are tears of joy. See?” He smiled.

She scooted forward and snuggled into his lap. When she was comfortable again, she looked up at him. “You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

“Then you know I’m not. Or . . . not completely.” Which was true. He was relieved she was alright.

“Mmm. I suppose I will take that. But you know, the crying part is my job. So next time . . .” She brushed a tear from his cheek. “Next time leave it to me. I c-can’t bear to see you look so sad.”

“Nor I, you.”

She quieted down at that, and closed her eyes. Her head rested on his chest, and he could feel the tickle of her steady breath. Mitsuhide might have laid down with her on the futon, but a knock at the door spoiled the moment.

“Enter,” he said, thinking it would be a servant, perhaps with dinner. Instead, it was Kennyo.

The abbot gave him a wary look. “Our alliance is at an end, kitsune. We have what we wanted from this venture.”

“It is. Which begs the question . . . why are you still here?”

Kennyo’s dark gaze fell to the chatelaine. She’d fallen asleep again, and showed no signs of rousing. “How is she? She looks better.”

“She is.”

The abbot seemed to struggle within himself for a moment. Then he took a packet from his robes and held it out to Mitsuhide. “Give this to her when she wakes. It is best to prepare it as a tea, steeped until dark. Then she must drink it while it is still warm.”

Mitsuhide looked at the small, paper packet with some distrust.

“Take it. I would not poison her.”

“Not even for your revenge?” Mitsuhide’s eyebrow rose.

Kennyo’s frown deepened and he met the kitsune warlord’s gaze. After several tense heartbeats, his response rumbled between clenched teeth. “I would not harm her, even for that.”

Mitsuhide took the packet and tucked it into his kimono. “I believe you.”

The abbot gave a brief nod and his eyes fell to the sleeping girl. His expression softened by the barest shadow. “I hope you will take better care of her. Know that I will be watching.”

Then he turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind him, fast and silent.

The lovers were alone again.

“It seems you brought a little light to that demon’s heart, mouse.” Mitsuhide kissed her temple. “I would not have thought it possible. But you work miracles. I am proof of that.”

She smiled in her sleep, lulled to sweet dreams by the sound of her soulmate’s heartbeat.

***

Morning came with pale yellow light and the sound of talk, even laughter, from the fortress. People returning to normal after the brief but deadly fighting. Mitsuhide was glad they were able to go back to their lives - or to make a new place for themselves. Something he intended to do as soon as they returned to Azuchi.

His little mouse stirred and yawned. Then she looked around the room with a dazed expression. “Did I sleep the whole night?”

“You did.”

“Just like this?” She ran her fingertip along his collarbone.

Mitsuhide shivered at the touch, feeling it awaken something inside him. A fire he’d kept banked for months now. “Not quite like that,” he grinned. “But in my arms? Yes.”

“What? But . . . did you get any rest?”

“I did. I found watching you sleep to be very restful.” This was truth. He’d spent the night listening to her breath, letting her warmth soak into him.

She frowned. “That’s not what I meant! I mean real sleep. You need to get some too. You are human.”

“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow and chuckled as she smacked his arm. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“I am. I’d feel even better with a bath.”

Mitsuhide remembered their last bath, shared at an inn. He’d teased her until they were both desperate, and he’d left them like that. Unwilling to take that final step with her until he was sure he would be there after. “Are you very dirty?” He lifted her enough for his lips to find her neck and nibble the skin just under her ear.

She squealed and pretended to try to escape.

“Mmm, you taste pretty clean to me. But perhaps I need to sample a wider selection.”

“Mitsuhide!” She wriggled, trying to get out of his lap. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am always serious when it comes to you.” He let her out of his grasp and watched as she got up. She didn’t look unsteady, but he still stood and offered her his hand. “I suppose I will have to take your word about the need for a bath. But I think we should return to Kyoto before we indulge.”

His little mouse considered, then nodded. “Yeah. If I take a bath before we ride back, I’ll just be filthy again by the time we get there.” She looked around the room. “Are we leaving here already?”

“We are. Kyubei has things in hand and a longer stay will only raise questions.” He pointed to some clothes folded in the corner. “Get dressed and I’ll send word we are leaving.”

She smiled. “Alright. I’ll try to hurry.”

Mitsuhide left her in the room and went to find a servant. It wasn’t hard to do, and soon enough he was on his way back. He was stopped by the silver gleam of a pistol. At the other end of the barrel, a wobbly Motonari stood, braced against the wall.

“Yer not goin’ back.” His eyes were glazed with heavy drink and he stunk of sweat, gunpowder, and alcohol.

“And I suppose you plan to . . . what? Shoot me? Kidnap my little mouse? Flee to your ship?”

Motonari shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanna kill ya. One more enemy crossed off my list.”

Mitsuhide grinned. “I doubt that. This isn’t much of a struggle.” His eyes were hard despite the smile. “And if this is for her . . . you know she would never forgive you.”

“She’d get over it. Women . . .” he belched. “Women always do.”

“My little one isn’t ‘women’,” Mitsuhide replied. “Even you must know that by now. ”

Motonari began to laugh. He waved his gun toward the door. “Ya get in there before ya say anythin’ more stupid than that.” He pushed past Mitsuhide, stumbling down the hall.

Mitsuhide rushed to the room and slid open the door. His little one squeaked and pulled her kimono closed.

“I’m not dressed yet!”

He looked around, reassuring himself that everything was as he’d left it. “Perhaps that is why I hurried back.” Mitsuhide gave her a wicked smile. He didn’t tell her about Motonari in the hall. She didn’t need to know.

“Pffft,” she stuck her tongue out at him, but he could tell the flattery made her happy.

They rode out from the fortress before noon, sharing a saddle. The day felt brighter the further from the fortress they got. Mitsuhide knew he wasn’t the only one that felt that way. He could see it in the set of his lover’s shoulders and in the way she smiled.

Once the bloodstained fortress was only a memory hidden behind the dust of the road, she spoke. “I feel like I am riding toward a whole new life. Like . . . like everything is different. Just because one man died. Isn’t that silly?”

“I don’t think it is.” Mitsuhide rested his chin on her head. “Yoshiaki caused so much death and misery with his ambition. That is why we did what we had to.”

“But there are other people just as bad-”

“And none of them are shogun.” He held the reins with one hand and used the other to hug her closer.

After a long silence, she nodded. “I guess I just feel guilty for being glad he’s dead.”

“Don’t.” He paused, then added, “Besides, shogun Ashikaga is just fine. He’s simply in exile. Staying far away from the capital and politics for the rest of his life.”

“Mmhmm. Poor Riku.” She tapped her chin. “Do you think he’ll do ok?”

“With the help we’ve given him, that scribe will be a much better shogun than Yoshiaki. You’ll see.” Then he moved their conversation to lighter things. “After we arrive at the inn, I will send out for food. What treats would tempt my little mouse?” That was all it took to send her into a monologue of her favorite foods.

She took such delight in the little things. It made Mitsuhide want to have joy in them too. He promised himself he would try. For her - he would do anything. So ran his thoughts as they passed the gate into Kyoto and caught sight of the inn.

Then all he could think of was their bath, and how very much he was looking forward to enjoying it with her.

Next: Delicious SFW/NSFW

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff

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romeulusroy · 3 years

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Uncomplicated (Steve Rogers Oneshot)

Character/s: Steve

Word Count: 1,179

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @brithedemonspawn @lotsoffandomrecs @locke-writes @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @randomfandomimagine @amirahiddleston @diana-westmoon

A/N: Someone very close to me told me something like this a while back, that I'm a hard person to love, and it's been stuck in my head, so I guess I wanted to make it into something more positive :) Who else to do it better with than my #1 Mans? It's not my best in the whole world, but oh well :P Anyways, this is a lil reminder that no matter what anyone says, you are loved and it is so easy to love you. Nothing you could ever do could change my mind. Hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Summary: Love can be simple, even when it's never felt like it 💕

Gif Credit: @anakinskywalk :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

"You are an incredibly hard person to love."

A fact, maybe one they'd read in passing, reciting verbatim. A poem, their words dipped in heartache and honey. A song, their pitch light and effortless. Something of meaning, of substance, instead of the cold truth. A truth, in their eyes, instead of something that's used to kill. Hard. To love. Questioning the root of the anger, the distaste, the disgust. An indifference so pure, so untouched, it's almost perfect. Almost. Tiles cracked, split right down the middle. Hard, and angry, the kindest place to rest your weary, aching head. The lines in your skull aligning perfectly, as if it had been the source of destruction, the source of smashing,the source of rage. As if you had been the weapon all along. Sometimes, that's what love felt like, their love. You were sure, somewhere out there, someone else's love could be gentle, affectionate, painted in pastels and kissed, cheek to cheek, each night. Love could be patient, understanding, it had the potential to be pure of heart. Theirs was not, and you were never quite sure why. Cracked open. Red seeping between your teeth, your gums, spitting, drooling iron. A heaviness deeper than bone marrow, than the center of the universe. Old wounds open, gaping, hemorrhaging, curious fingers picking, plucking, tearing away scar tissue, scab after scab. They did this because they loved you, because that's what others had done to them, but you couldn't help but question, why in the world would they want to willingly hurt someone because they themselves had been hurt?

You can picture it. The ease of it all. An effortless kind of feeling, light, airy. Nothing that sits on your shoulders, nothing that stifles your sobs, nothing that leaves you shaking, cowering, begging for something, anything, to change.

This is bare soles against the cold wooden floorboards. A refreshing stir midst the summer heat. Avoiding the creaks and crevasses of each board, floating down the staircase of such a place. No worries of slipping. That kind of pain doesnt live in a place like this. Along the wall there are framed pictures of every shape and size. Old and new, him, you, the both of you, black and white, fraying at the ends, all of them smiling through the glass, knowing they're exactly where they should be. You could still feel the ache in your sides, the tears down your cheeks, the laughter that refused to stop, unable to catch your breath. He clung, sure you'd find your way to the bottom, a hammer in his other hand. Another nail poked through too far, just like the others. Assuring him you could do it, but always too stubborn, wanting to try again. All this time, and still so forgetful, his own strength slipping his mind. Now, the walls themselves are bloated and sweating, cursed by the heat, the warmth, the humidity, waiting for the sun to settle. You can hear him, on the porch, the door open, screen letting in what little breeze there is. Calling his name because it's the sweetest word you know, wanting nothing more than to be with him, the distance between you already too great, too much.

This is shooing away the bugs when the stars come to play. Temmperature dropping, his arm around you, doing his best to protect you from the onset of shivering. Together, at last. Nothing but the crickets, the buzzing of a new world come to life, come to play, and the sway of the tall grass can be heard. Constellations sprinkled across the abyss, watching you like you watch them. He tells you all he knows, the stories of men long dead, war torn bones, the comfort they found in the same night sky as you did. You rest your head against him, close enough to hear his steady breathing, a sound you find yourself lulled to sleep by each night. There's a calm in the air, bright like the fireflies, one you can't find anywhere else, nor would you want to. Your own slice of heaven. Stripped of nothing but the smallest wonders of life. The breeze against your skin, nuzzled against your face, reminding you that you're alive, that there is so much more out there than what you see and feel right now.

This is a home alone, in need of space. Escaping the clutter, the noise, wanting more room to breathe. Escaping the noise, and the terror that comes with it. Space to grow, to thrive, to be allowed to change. Stifled for too many years, suffocated under the weight of others. Now it was only two, and that was okay. He is always nearby, reaching out, pulling you close, talking even when he's far away. His hand outstretched waiting for your own. Long walks through the grass, picking flowers, watching the birds and bunnies, naming them one by one. There are no expectations. Nothing waiting home to do, or wanting to be done. Things are as they are, and that's all. He stares, though not the way they used to. His jaw is not tight, his eyes are not narrowed, there is no flinch at the anticipation of words he dould never take back. He stares in awe, wearing a hint of a smirk, a light in his eyes settled sweetly. Sometimes you're able to catch him, your skin burning, looking away before he sees. Sometimes you don't, and those are his favorite moments, when you let him get lost in all your littlest details, reminding him again and again, why he fell for you.

This is the kind of love, of life you used to dream of, hope for, wasting every shooting star and eyelash on what you have now. The ones who weaponize their love, who use it as a means of getting what they want, who only love you for what you do, and not solely for your existence, are gone. They can't touch you anymore. The wounds they left are healing slowly. Sometimes, something will tug at them, snagging on a sharp corner or a distant memory, and it will reopen. Those are the days you fear the only thing you're good for is bleeding out. He's there now, doing what he can, cleaning up the mess. He doesn't always understand, he can't, but that doesn't stop him from trying, and it doesn't stop you from trusting him.

Suddenly, though you guess not so suddenly, the saying is no longer jaded or jagged. It's sharp, pointed ends slicing you through and through are dulled, softer now, tracing your skin instead of slicing. The ways in which they prettied up their words grow old, lipstick smeared, mascara run. This love is not that. It's not dolled up, or pretending to be soft. His words, like himself, are thoughtful, chosen with care, with patience, spoken so softly you can barely hear, as if any louder, something inside might suddenly crack. . . .

"You are an incredible person, so much so, it's impossible not fall in love."

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pythagoreanwhump · 3 years

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WIJ Day 3

Sleep

CW: Masochism mention, vague allusions to torture being widely accepted, uhhhh death mention? Ut’s more implied but there’s also an entirely unrelated cemetery dusndkdnf. Sadism that gets a bit fuckily mixed up with the masochism

In the winter, Kai always drew their curtains open after they turned off the lights to go to bed. Their bed was a thin mattress and a couple of blankets, placed on the ground a couple of steps away from the window. The old curtains that had been here before even the previous owner were meant to be pea green, if the tag that dangled halfway down on a single thread attached to the top corner was to be believed, but it had faded to somewhere between brown and beige. They framed the sides of the window as Kai looked out from where they lay, and the stars were surprisingly bright for a big city such a Paris.

It made sense, though. Their flat was just across an alley from a cemetery, overlooking nearly 30 acres of unlit land that remained abandoned most of the time, save for rainy days when the overcast sky and soft puddles on dark stone drew in the art tourists with their heavy umbrellas. Even on nights where the moon shone, there was nothing to see beyond the lime tree that rose above their window.

It should've been perfect for falling asleep, dark and quiet, the night settling peacefully around them, but their fingers thrummed with an ache to hurt, to forcefully push their thoughts out of their head and fill the silence with muffled noises of pain each time their wrist twisted a blade deeper into flesh. They found an almost scabbed-over cut on their side, lying jagged over their ribcage, and pressed their nails in, choking on a gasp that they tried to suppress. They dug in harder, closing their eyes and wrapping their other arm around themself as if to shield themself against the pain so they could ignore it while they pretended it wasn't their own skin they were tearing open.

When they had to do it, it had wracked them with guilt every night, and too often only the throbbing warmth that lingered from a whipping that they had to beg for could lull them to sleep. Now, the pressure was gone, and so was the opportunity, but their mind couldn't leave those thoughts well enough alone. Like so many nights before, they allowed themself not too many minutes to make sense of it, before turning onto their back and loosening the tight wrap they had formed around themself with their blanket.

They took a deep breath, feeling the fresh cuts as well as old scars on their chest and sides stretch and then settle. That was the first sensation they took stock of and filed away, and then on the next breath, perhaps the most familiar thing they know, the pain that lingered long after the knife or whip was put away. It was a routine they had done thousands of times, lying flat and simply feeling each part of their body until that certainty gave them enough peace of mind to surrender themself to sleep for enough hours of unawareness before another long day.

#whumpmasinjuly #Whumpmas in July #wij #Whumpmas in July No. 3 #Sleep #whumper kai whumper kai!#they don't actually do any whumping they just think about it #I'm sorry this is literally not even about sleep 😭#there's like absolutely no plot or progression here #I changed my mind on what this is about like at least three times halfway through #but it's kai funky thoughts! slight identity crisis!#and then they just went haha not thinking about it time to sleep #there’s surprisingly little masochism in this lmao

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kakashi--mole · 3 years

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40 Day Dream

This was the first chapter of a fic I was unable to finish. I’m posting it here, in case anyone wants to read it.

Hawks meets with Dabi after the events at Jaku City.

———————————

He was fifteen minutes late.

Hawks knew he was either going to be late, or he was going to change his mind and not show at all. Riding on a hunch and his first half-drained beer, Hawks kept seated to the barstool, his heart ticking in rhythm to the wall clock above. The hunch was that he was going to show. Dabi made it a point to do things his way. For all Hawks knew, the villain was purposefully late because he wanted to remind the winged hero: you can lead me to water, but you cannot make me drink.

Hawks slid his finger down the beer glass, gathering a drop of condensation onto the tip of his finger. Rain pelted behind the bar windows, causing the neon sign outside to reflect colorful ripples on the wet pavement. In the steady rhythm of rain, Hawks lulled into the memory of Dabi standing over him, enveloped in blue fire, smoke curling from his smiling mouth. Without his consent, the memory made his body jerk, his heart to seize in electric panic. He sat straight, checking all around him for an unseen danger, a walking nightmare in the waking world.

He peered over his shoulder at the desolate bar room, near empty save for two elderly patrons swapping cards at a corner table, the smoke from their cigarettes rising in slow, unperturbed clouds. The lightbulbs above were dim with age, and their yellow glow barely illuminated a pool table pushed sideways in the middle of the room. Behind it, hanging on the wall, was a worn poster of the flame hero Endeavor. Its edges were creased, and a line of graffiti had been crossed out with black permanent marker. Hawks narrowed his one good eye, but could not make out the word behind the black scratch-marks.

The bartender behind the counter had his arms crossed, watching the television screen hung above. The news came as a continuous stream. Images of the country’s destruction, including the havoc wreaked upon Musutafu, cycled on repeat.

The bartender tisked under his breath, muttering, “If this doesn’t let up, I’m leaving the city for good.” He pulled the dishrag strewn over his shoulder, grumbling, “Fucking ridiculous” as he swatted at the bar’s counter. In one gliding motion, he stepped from the bar into a backroom, muttering to himself all the while.

From where he sat, Hawks could hear the bartender sigh, “Why not give up this country to the villains.”

Alone at the bar, Hawks lowered his gaze to his drink. He brought the drink to his lips, and swallowed the beer, as well as the hunch burning at the back of his throat.

Dabi would show. He knew this, because Hawks had something for him.

Even if he prowled along the periphery, judging, assessing… Dabi’s curiosity would bring him closer eventually.

Three days prior, Hawks had called the burner phone Dabi had used during their time together in the Liberation. It was a long shot, because he was sure after revealing his identity, Dabi would have abandoned the phone in a trash can, or better yet, drop it into the ocean, or burn it into a melted puddle of plastic. Surely, he would take measures to cut all ties with the winged hero, and by association, the Todoroki family.

When Dabi answered, however, the breath in Hawks’ lungs was immediately sucked out, and everything he thought he would say came to a screeching, silent halt.

‘What do you want?’ Dabi asked. The connection was choppy, and Hawks could hear in the background the blare of a barge ship’s horn. In their shared silence, Hawks listened closer, and heard the sound of choppy waters splash against what he assumed was a harbor.

‘You gonna say anything?’

‘Where are you?’ Hawks asked.

There was a long pause. Dabi laughed.

‘I bet you’d like to know.’

Hawks, alone in his dimly lit apartment, the blinds pulled closed over the windows, turned in a circle. He stared at the carpet, and then, slowly, pulled a blind down with the edge of his finger. His one gold eye scanned the street, honing the dark alleys in search of a shadowy figure. The scars on his back hummed in the same deep growl of Dabi’s voice. Hawks screwed his eyes shut. He pulled away from the window, running a hand through his hair, and forced his voice to sound cheerful.

‘I have something for you. Meet me in Fukuoka.’

The blare of a ship’s horn sounded.

‘Huh,’ Dabi said. ‘Funny.’

He was quiet, and Hawks imagined him looking into the water, his rippling reflection, the way his piercings glinted in the sunlight.

‘I’m already there.’

Hawks wanted to ask why he was in Fukuoka of all places, but instead gave him the address of the bar to meet him at, followed by a time and date. He couldn’t maintain cordiality for much longer. The phantom burning in his back, the scars clawing between his shoulder blades, wouldn’t allow for a conversation with their creator.

Without another word, Dabi hung up, and Hawks lowered the phone from his ear. It was whispering, the pain in his back, in the muscle between his shoulder blades which cried out for wings. He wasn’t sure what was worse— the pain, or the emptiness where his wings once were.

He wondered if he was the right person for this plan— if maybe one of the other heroes should have intervened, but then again, this was his cat’s cradle to unravel, a twisted net of twine that had been tangling together since the moment he and Touya had met.

Hawks hunched over the bar, placing one hand on the back of his head, the other slipping into his coat pocket. The paper package was still secure, entrusted to him by the Todoroki family.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. A movement at the door caught his attention. Two shadowy figures spoke to each other outside in the rain. Hawks recognized Dabi’s white hair reflecting the neon colors of the bar sign. The other man, who looked to be younger than Hawks, was someone he did not recognize. Behind the watery pane of glass, Hawks could see Dabi wave his hand, then back away. The stranger raised his voice, but then shrugged and turned, walking down the opposite side of the street.

The door opened. Through his one good eye, Hawks watched as Dabi stepped into the bar, grabbing the lapels of his coat to shake the rainwater from him. Rain dripped from his lowered head, and he glanced up, flashing his blue eyes at Hawks in what he could only assume was a smile.

Hawks swallowed, turning to face his drink as Dabi approached the empty seat beside him. He slid onto the stool, and the smell of smothered cigarette smoke and wet ash wafted thickly in the air.

Dabi situated himself on the stool, rolling his shoulders. He placed his interlaced hands on top the bar. They were silent, and Hawks could feel Dabi’s gaze, unwavering, stick to him like a pin to a cushion.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” Dabi said.

Hawks blinked. He found himself unable to look at Dabi, despite mentally preparing himself for this meeting.

Staring into his drink he replied, “I’m the one who made the call. Why wouldn’t I show?”

Stirring his drink with a turn of his wrist, he quickly added, “Who were you talking to?”

His gold eye flickered at the door. Dabi looked at the door, then Hawks, rubbing at the back of his head.

“I don’t know. It was some stranger. He said he agreed with what I was doing. That someone’s got to tear these heroes down.”

Dabi snickered.

“He asked for my autograph—”

Hawks raised his brow, staring straight ahead as he sipped his drink.

“—By burning him.”

Hawks jerked, choking on his drink. He cleared his throat, asking, “He asked you to burn him? What did you say?”

Dabi scratched at his brow. A black scab of burnt skin came off, and fell onto the counter. He flicked it, answering, “I told him to get the fuck away from me.”

The villain turned to look over his shoulder. The two old men were still hunkered in their card game, speaking mostly in nods and gestures. Dabi watched them for a moment before his eyes trailed over the room, searching for any sign of an ambush or attack. Hanging on the wall above the pool table was a worn poster of Endeavor. Dabi’s nose wrinkled in a scowl, and then he chuckled, bringing his knuckle to his lips.

Turning around, he stood, craning his head to search over the counter.

He said to Hawks, “I really thought you’d get cold feet. It’s strange seeing you again. You seem so—”

Dabi’s eyes flickered to Hawks’ back, the emptiness of where his wings once were, and he pressed his finger to his lips, stifling a laugh.

He leaned over the bar, his stomach pressed to the counter, and grabbed an empty glass. He pressed it under a beer tap, and filled the glass until the gold liquid splashed over the edge. Dabi brought it to his lips, and gulped it down without stopping.

Hawks forced himself to glance at Dabi. The true color of his white hair shone brightly under the bar lights, catching every color— gold, yellow, neon blue and red— like a blanket of untouched snow. The passing recognition of its beauty tethered Hawks to the moment, to the motion of his hands, the leathery violet of his scars, and his skeptical, flickering blue eyes, like candle flames bending in an untamed breeze.

He saw it now. Beyond the half-moon scars under his eyelids, and the ruined skin stretching across his face and body— beyond this, the familiarity of his eyes was obvious, and a kindling of hatred sparks in Hawks’ heart: a flame for his own ignorance, another at the betrayal, the lie that Touya was alive, biding his time before revealing his identity.

Hawks thought he could see the familiarity of Touya’s eyes, the gentleness that was once there, but then Dabi flicked his hand in a particular way that made Hawks tense. Smoke dissipated from between the ridges of Dabi’s scars as he brought his hand to his mouth and coughed, a cloud of black smoke pluming from his throat.

The villain wasted no time pulling out a cigarette. His hands moved quickly as he tapped the pack against the counter, dislodging a cigarette to bring to his mouth. He flicked a lighter and hovered the flame over the cigarette’s end.

As he blew out the first puff of smoke, he asked, “So what did you want to give me?”

Hawks sipped his drink, then answered, “You’re going to have to answer some questions first.”

Dabi scratched his bottom lip with his thumbnail.

“And if you don’t like my answers?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hawks said.

The television screen flashed to an image of two news anchors delivering a segment on the recent villain attacks. The conversation ebbed into the rising public mistrust against heroes. Hawks’ mismatched eyes, one gold, the other blind and blue, flickered at the screen.

Dabi turned his head, watched for a few seconds, then turned back to Hawks, a smile tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“What are you going to do, now that you’ve revealed your true identity?” Hawks asked.

Dabi raised his brow.

“That's what you want to know?” He chuckled, tapping his cigarette over an ashtray. “Lose the hero act Keigo. I thought you were going to ask me something interesting.”

He drank down the rest of the beer in one long gulp. Hawks watched as he helped himself to another full glass.

Dabi sighed.

“I don’t think I’ve gone far enough in teaching Endeavor a lesson.” He chuckled, and then, his tone became serious. “I’m going to use my quirk however I want… but… there’s something I need to take care of. Sooner, rather than later.”

He reached into his coat pocket as if to pull something out, but stopped. Dabi scratched at the back of his neck.

“Like what?” Hawks asked.

Dabi huffed, “Nothing. Just a stupid mistake.” He side-eyed Hawks with a small grin. “You’re going to answer my questions too.”

“Okay,” Hawks said. “Shoot.”

Dabi sipped the foam from the top of the beer glass to keep it from sloshing over.

He smacked his lips, nodding his head as he said, “I want to know what you did after that summer at the Commission. You said you were going to fly across the entire country and see everything you could.”

He tilted his head, rotating the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke rose in a steady cloud around him.

“Well,” he asked. “Did you?”

Hawks shook his head.

“I was a kid when I said that. It was a stupid pipe dream.”

“No,” Dabi returned, pointing his finger at Hawks. “You got caught up in the bullshit of hero work.”

Hawks narrowed his eyes, the scar on his face wrinkling. The longer he stared at Dabi, the tighter his lip curled, revealing the sharp of his canine tooth. It flashed in the light as he spoke.

“Even if I wanted to fly cross-country, I can’t anymore.”

He placed his elbows on the counter, reaching behind him to rub at his shoulder. The doctors at the hospital insisted he was healed, so why could he still feel something sinking its claws into his back?

He brought the beer glass to his lips, seething under his breath, “Thanks for that.”

Dabi turned his head, facing away from the bar with his elbows resting against the counter. He peered over his shoulder at the poster of Endeavor hanging on the wall. He sighed, the cigarette dangling between his lips as he spoke.

“You’re still not angry enough.”

Hawks spluttered between a laugh and a choke.

“What?”

Dabi sucked in a heavy plume of smoke. He held it in for a few moments, then exhaled, “Yeah. I was hoping you’d be more pissed off than this. But Christ—”

He lowered his head. Flakes of ash floated in the air as he hunkered over the bar.

“—You’re more emotionally detached than I thought. I was hoping my fire could bring out what’s lurking under the surface.”

Hawks stared at him. He blinked once, then twice.

“Are you trying to tell me that you burned me alive, for some… some kind of sick test? You want to make me angry?”

Dabi laughed through his nose, and ashed his cigarette.

“Ah, no. I was trying to kill you.”

He laughed again as Hawks stared, speechless.

“But I would like to see you lose your shit once in awhile.”

Dabi was quick to down another full gulp of beer. He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, and for the first time, allowed himself to lock eyes with Hawks.

They watched each other. Hawks could see how Dabi’s scars had spread— they splotched past the pattern he had been accustomed to, extending past his cheekbones to connect with the heavy bags under his eyes. Dried blood crusted the piercings under his eyes. The longer their eyes stayed locked on each other, the quicker Hawks’ heartbeat began to take on a different rhythm. Blood rushed from his head, and Hawks had the sudden urge to blurt out— ‘Are you happy now? Was it worth it?’

‘Your mom cried because of you.’

The scars in Hawks’ back twinged in pain, and his breath caught. He looked away, breaking their stare.

“You got a haircut?”

Before Hawks could answer, Dabi reached out, and trailed his fingertips over the back of Hawks’ head.

A jolt shivered down Hawks’ spine, and he flinched, swatting Dabi’s hand away.

Hawks rolled his shoulders, trying to convince the goosebumps to settle from his arms.

“It looks good on you,” Dabi said.

Hawks glared at him from the corner of his eye. He drank his beer, the liquid settling hot in his stomach.

“It wasn’t a deliberate choice,” he muttered.

Hawks shifted uncomfortably. Up above on the TV, barely audible, the news report showed an image of himself before the battle at Jaku— red wings still intact, his left eye gold and unblinded, and the side of his face unscarred.

The voice of the news anchor spoke: ‘How can we trust the people sworn to protect us when they so callously…’

Dabi followed Hawks’ gaze to the TV. He whistled.

“Too bad,” he said. “By next week, they’ll have some other ‘breaking’ story. Just wait until All For One makes his move. But I guess, by then, news won’t really matter. Never does when you’re on a sinking ship.”

Hawks nudged his beer glass. The quiet of the room fell over the pair. The whir of the ceiling fan, rotating in slow, idle motion, and the card game of the two men in the back, the paper folding and sliding against the tabletop. The ticking of the clock drummed, keeping pace with the patter of rain outside. Dabi’s cigarette crackled as he took a drag.

After a few minutes, he said, “You’re awfully quiet.”

Hawks turned his beer glass in a circle.

“I’ve been quiet ever since you burned me.”

Dabi wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah. My fire has that effect on people.”

Hawks slowly turned his head to Dabi, narrowing his eyes as he repeated, “That effect on people?”

He watched as Dabi sucked at his cigarette, then swallowed the last swig of beer in his glass.

As he refilled his glass, Hawks asked, “Are you actually crazy? Or is this all an act?”

Dabi quirked his brow, laughing with the cigarette pinched between his lips. He steadied his third glass of beer onto the counter.

“I’m just pissed off. That doesn’t make me crazy.”

“You’ve killed people,” Hawks said.

“So have you,” Dabi replied.

They stared at each other once more. Dabi studied him. There was a way about Hawks that soaked up the light— his gold hair, his gold eye, the faint copper spots freckling the soft underside of his eyes, extending over the bridge of his nose. The sun-kissed golden complexion that now seemed diminished, smothered by Dabi’s own wrath.

When he was a child, the first thing he wondered when he could produce a flame was how much heat it took to melt gold.

1,946 degrees Fahrenheit. 1,947 degrees. Its resistance to heat, greater than any other metal. The temperature rising, 1,948 degrees. Even more so, boiling gold was nearly impossible, at least with his own quirk. It’d take half the strength of a sun to accomplish that feat.

Dabi wrinkled his nose, half-way between a sneer and a smile, his hand curling with smoke, crackling with ember flecks.

Gold, as it were, was truly the greatest test of fire.

Dabi’s eyes flickered to Hawks’ mouth, and he breathed a laugh, shaking his head as he looked away.

“I bet you miss those red wings,” Dabi mused. “They were good at hiding the blood.”

He snubbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

Hawks downed the rest of his beer. Between clenched teeth he breathed, “Excuse me.”

He stood from the barstool and treaded into the restroom. As soon as he was inside, he shoved the door closed, locked it, then grabbed at his head.

‘You motherfucker, you goddamn, piece of—’

He mouthed the words silently, clawing his nails into his scalp, his face burning red hot. The scarred skin beneath his shirt flowered in fresh pain. It doubled when Hawks imagined going back out there and throttling Dabi by his neck, tearing the piercings from his face, and taking hold of something sharp— perhaps a knife conveniently hidden behind the counter— and carving a scar onto his body. He would call it a ‘mistake’, to match the one he had been given on his back. Like a rush of blood Dabi’s words swam through his memory: I don’t make mistakes, my ass, Hero. Without his wings, devoid of his feathers, Hawks’ hands itched for command over something sharp and deadly.

Anything to put fear into Dabi’s eyes.

He kept his scream silent until it rolled out of his throat as a muffled groan.

Bet you miss those red wings. They were good at hiding the blood.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” he hissed.

Hawks straightened himself, clearing his throat. He went to the sink and turned on the faucet. As he splashed cold water onto his face, he repeated to himself: I’m doing this for the Todoroki’s. I’m doing this for Endeavor. For the entire country.

He recalled the conversation he had with Endeavor earlier that evening. Over the phone, Hawks explained where he would be meeting Touya, to which Endeavor said that he had received a phone call from an anonymous source claiming to have information on him.

‘What kind of information?’ Hawks had asked.

‘She wouldn’t say,’ Endeavor answered. ‘Unfortunately she put a price on what she knew.’

‘Did you take up the offer?’

‘Certainly not.’

Endeavor paused for a moment, then continued, ‘If someone will only provide intel for money and not for the sake of morality, then I don’t trust their words. Lies always beset greed— it’s a two-headed snake to watch out for.’

Hawks shifted uneasily, remembering those late night talks he used to have with Touya, back at the Commission. Whispering back and forth, the two boys would scoot to the very edges of their bed, and reach out, swinging their arms to brush their hands against each other. It surprised Keigo, how Touya spoke. He had never met a kid who spoke with such sternness and finality, as though he could see the world for what it truly was. In his whisper, Touya would explain that his father wouldn’t so much as look at him, let alone speak to him, despite being proud of him when he was younger.

Before his quirk hurt him, he was convinced by his father that he would carry on a great legacy.

Perhaps, the boy had reached the conclusion that growing older had tarnished him somehow, plaguing him with a body unable to handle his quirk.

A two-headed snake. Hawks turned his hand over, stretching his fingers taut. The scar flashed milk white, undulating like it were its own entity, its own creature, alive and wrapped around his wrist.

‘It’s always an option,’ Hawks had said. ‘The more we know about what he’s been up to, the better.’ They discussed the plan once more before saying goodbye. The line went dead, and in the approaching rainstorm, Hawks prepared for the night ahead, and ultimately, what he deemed to be for Touya’s own good.

He shook the water from his hands, sucking in a sharp breath. Tears burned at his eyes, but he ignored it, hissing between clenched teeth, ‘Good at hiding the blood.’ He repeated the words, mocking Dabi’s raspy growl. His face crinkled in a scowl, and he couldn’t stand to look at his reflection, because otherwise, he was sure he would break down into tears, or worse, he would punch the mirror, and send flying shards of glass scattered across the floor and into his fist. It would hurt less than being burned alive— at this point, anything would hurt less. What smarted him most were Dabi’s hands. Not his eyes, or his low, cigarette choked laughter. Not the way he could slip in and out of a room like smoke, leaving behind a bad feeling that something was burning, rousing uneasiness in a crowd, as though danger was present but no one could see it.

It was his hands. The same hands that beckoned bodies for kindling.

Hawks saw blue specks in his vision, and slammed the faucet water off, the acid in his gut churning.

He pushed these feelings down, and forced himself to remain focused on the mission. Hawks left the bathroom, knowing his face was still flushed from rage and alcohol.

At the bar, Dabi had taken it upon himself to filch an entire bottle of whiskey from a cabinet, as well as two shot glasses. Hawks quirked his brow as he approached him, watching Dabi pour the whiskey into the glasses.

Sliding onto the stool he asked, “Not slowing down anytime soon?”

Dabi downed his shot, wincing at the burn going down his throat. He answered with a smile, “I’m celebrating.”

He poured another shot, then muttered, “And I’m thirsty all the time now.”

Before Hawks could ask him what he meant, Dabi lifted his shot glass. Hawks lifted his own, and their glasses clinked together.

Hawks only drank half of his shot. The television perched on the wall ran a recycled news report on the villain rampages. Alongside the video were names and mug shots of the villains who had been freed from the prison Tartarus.

Dabi snickered under his breath.

“Fucking amateurs,” he said. “Bet they’re enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame.”

He reached into the cigarette pack and pulled one out, placing it between his lips as he thumbed at his lighter. As the flame took hold, Hawks rolled his eyes, saying, “How is what they’re doing any different from you?”

The corner of Dabi’s mouth pulled in a smile. He drew in a deep breath of smoke, then let the cigarette hover over an ashtray.

“Because I’m making a point.”

Flatly he added, “I’m a product of narcissistic greed. People should know what their role models are doing behind closed doors.” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his scarred lips. He brought his hand to his mouth and chewed at his thumbnail.

He poured another shot, but hesitated as he brought it to his lips. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, as though he were reciting a silent prayer, before quickly downing the shot, slamming it back onto the counter with enough force to crack the glass.

Hawks winced at the sound.

Dabi leaned back, eyes fluttering to the wall clock hanging above. The alcohol sloshed in his stomach as he dismounted the stool, nearly tripping over his own feet as he walked backwards. Hawks turned his head and watched the villain saunter over to the pool table. He rolled the myriad of solid and striped balls across the green felt top with his fingertips, staring at Hawks all the while as he circled the pool table. Gathering the balls into the triangular rack, he whistled at Hawks.

“Don’t make me play by myself.”

Hawks watched him for a moment before downing the rest of his shot. He pushed off the stool, licking his lips as he approached Dabi. Dabi tossed Hawks a cue stick. He caught it, the pinch between his shoulders stinging at the movement.

“Stripes or solid?”

Hawks answered, “Solid.”

“Alright,” Dabi said. “You break first.” He lifted the rack and tossed it onto a table nearby. Its clatter caught the attention of the two elderly men in the corner of the room. Hawks balanced the cue stick against the table, lined up his shot, and hit the white ball. It scattered the others, the clack stirring another wave of uneasiness over the two old men.

They cast wary glances at Dabi, his scarred skin curled like a shadow across his thin frame, and turned to each other, muttering a few low words. Gathering their coats, they stood to leave.

Hawks handed Dabi the cue stick. He reached for it without taking his eyes off the old men.

Dabi’s mouth twitched in a smile. It was his turn to shoot, but he just stood there, propping the cue stick to the ground and leaning against it like a shepherd resting against a staff. He watched the two men scuffle from the bar, his half-lidded gaze brightening.

Before he stepped through the door, one of the old men gathered a deep breath, turned, and said, “It ain’t right what you’re doing.”

Dabi raised his brow.

“It ain’t right what I’m doing,” the villain repeated slowly.

The old man’s friend tried ushering him out the door, but he continued, “I know who you are. I saw your video, and I get you were dealt some bad cards in life.”

His buddy hushed, “Tatsu…”

“No,” Tatsu said. His tired voice croaked, “Young man, this path you’re on… take it from someone who’s been on this earth long enough to know… the path you’re on will only lead to sorrow. A man’s got to take responsibility for his life, or else he will be lost.”

Dabi leaned his head against the cue stick. He tapped his finger against it and smiled.

“Okay,” he replied. He took hold of a chair next to him, and swung it across the room. It scuffled in a roll over the floor before coming to a stop in front of the old man.

“Next time you start preaching from your soap box, at least stand on something first.”

The old man stared at Dabi for a few moments, then lowered his gaze with a shake of his head. He put on his hat, then stepped out of the bar, his friend following close behind.

Dabi chuckled, then lined up the cue stick to make his shot. The white ball clattered against the others, but did not pocket any of them. He tossed the cue stick to Hawks. Hawks caught it. He went to the front of the table, lowered his aim, his one eye blurring in and out of focus. He took aim, and tapped the white cue ball with precision. It knocked into a solid ball, rolling it into a pocket.

“He was only giving advice,” Hawks said. He stepped back, offering the cue stick to Dabi. Dabi narrowed his eyes, positioning his next move. The villain lined up the cue stick to the white ball, focusing on the number eleven ball. He hit the shot, and the red and white colors swirled as the ball rotated across the table. Again, his shot did not pocket, and quickly Dabi shoved the cue stick at Hawks.

Dabi clicked his tongue. He stepped back to the counter, and took a deep swig from the whiskey bottle.

“Spoutin’ self-righteousness,” Dabi answered, his voice tight with the sting of whiskey. He held the bottle up, its amber liquid sloshing, and pointed at the door. “I doubt he can practice his own advice.”

Hawks gave a slight shake of his head, bending over the pool table to line up his shot.

Dabi meandered the pool table in a circle with the whiskey bottle in hand. Looking Hawks up and down, he swayed on his feet, blinking slowly, the hum of alcohol lulling him into a half-dream. It was a mirage, filled with empty places. The only landmarks he could distinguish were Hawks, the green felt of the pool table, and the Endeavor poster on the wall.

He took a swig of whiskey into his mouth, approached the Endeavor poster, and spit on it.

Hawks watched as Dabi used the hem of his white shirt to wipe away the permanent marker hiding the graffiti.

Barely legible was the word ‘LIAR.’

Dabi turned to Hawks, pointing a finger at the poster.

“Looks like people are waking up.”

Hawks did not answer. He gave a slight nod, rubbing the tip of the cue stick with chalk.

The alcohol sloshing in Dabi’s empty stomach burned like an acid lake— placid, too still for comfort, that calm he’d find like being in the darkness of sleep before forgetting what happened in the waking world. Half-awake, fully drunk, and riding on the sappy sweet-tooth notes his words could make, Dabi pressed his hip against the pool table, leaning over the table to try to meet Hawks’ gaze. The way he felt now— it was the same feeling he had before telling a lie, but this time, he wanted to admit a truth.

Hawks thrust the cue stick forward, knocking the solid red ball into a corner pocket.

Dabi said, “I want to show you something.”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt. Under the bar’s yellow light his piercings shimmered. Hawks only glanced at Dabi’s chest before uprighting himself to look closer. Examining the exposed skin, he saw the damage from the battle at Jaku City, and with it, the assault which had branded Hawks for life. It was evident in the scar’s ridges, how they had curled into black, dead skin. His scars had spread, and in the quiet, he could hear how they crackled when Dabi bent his arms, tilting his chin higher to show his chest.

Hawks winced.

Dabi tugged his shirt collar down farther, tilting his head back so Hawks could see his chest fully. His collarbones jut out sharp. Black ashen scabs broke from his skin, fluttering onto the pool table.

“See how the scars don’t touch my heart?”

The unburnt skin spread like a cloak over his left shoulder, splayed over the part of his chest where his heart resided.

He smiled, adding with a wink, “I think I’m treading on thin ice.”

Hawks blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Dabi set the whiskey bottle on the table, replacing it with the cue stick Hawks handed him. His shirt pulled up, covering his chest once more. He leaned against the pool table, pulling the cue stick back to take aim.

“It means I’m running out of time.”

He hesitated, and Hawks wondered if there was fear in his voice, or if the liquor was catching up to him.

“After I had my little accident on Sekoto Peak—” he laughed, shaking his head, “—all I had to show for it were these scars. Afterwards, I wondered how I was still alive. It wasn’t until awhile later that I realized the fire hadn’t touched my heart.”

He looked over at Hawks, his mouth fighting against a smile.

“It keeps getting closer and closer. If it reaches my heart…”

A thin tendril of smoke rose from the crease of his dry, broken mouth. The smoke whirled into Hawks’ face, and he waved it away, retorting, “You don’t know that for certain.”

Dabi lifted his brow. He rocked the cue stick to and fro in his grip.

“No, but—”

He hit the white ball.

“It’s a gut intuition.”

The white cue ball hit a striped white and blue ball. It missed the pocket, rolling across the table until coming to a stop.

They were quiet for a few moments. Hawks peered at Dabi from the corner of his gold eye, and startled when he realized Dabi was staring at him.

“I like talking to you,” Dabi said. “You always ask the right questions. Or maybe… it’s easy to give you answers.”

He recalled how he had given up his true name to Hawks. Amidst the fighting and chaos, as the Liberation’s château was dismantled board by board in the throes of battle, Dabi hovered over Hawks, intent on killing him. That’s what he convinced himself, but, looking at Hawks now— the blue-veined bags under his eyes, the dead eye, his wingless body, the way his shoulders slouched like a sick little sparrow— Dabi knew he had been playing with him, just as a cat would play with a canary before delivering the killing bite.

The blue fire could incinerate a body before the soul had a chance to pray, before they had a chance to know what was happening and make right with their creator, but Dabi realized it was different with Keigo. There was satisfaction in taking his time, in burning him piece by piece, starting with those pretty red wings.

Dabi recalled how, during those early evening Liberation briefings, Hawks would lean against the wall, and let his wings droop to the ground like a cloak over his shoulders. He would lick his thumb and run his fingers through each individual feather, meticulously cleaning them down to their hollow shafts.

The longer Dabi watched him dote over his wings, the harder his heart began to pound.

Even if Hawks was at death’s doorstep during their fight, and Dabi was the one ushering him through, he still couldn’t help but reveal his secret. There was something about the look on his face, the pained desperation in his voice, demanding to know who Dabi really was, that made the villain speak the truth, like a punchline to a long, dragged-out joke.

Dabi chuckled, wiping his finger across his nose.

“Twice was right,” Dabi muttered. “You are a likable guy.” He placed his fingertips on the white cue ball, forcing it into a spin with a flick of his wrist. “It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He handed Hawks the cue stick.

Hawks pursed his mouth to the side, lowering the cue stick to the table to take aim. Dabi waltzed around the table, one hand in his pocket, the other rocking the whiskey bottle like a pendulum. When he was behind Hawks, he leaned over, whispering into his ear, “This interrogation going how you want?”

Hawks jerked upright, his gaze following Dabi as he continued to circle the table in slow, meandering steps.

“I’m not interrogating you,” Hawks countered. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a paper package, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The thin paper was held together by red string. “I’m here because your family wanted me to give this to you.”

Hawks placed it on the pool table, and pushed it forward with his fingers. Dabi stared at the package, then set down the whiskey bottle before picking it up. He tugged at the string, loosening it and unwrapping the paper.

Hawks gulped, damning his stammered heartbeat.

I’m doing this for his family, he told himself. If it goes wrong, then I’ll accept the consequences.

I won’t betray what’s under the surface, Touya—

“Holy shit,” Dabi said.

He balled the paper into his fist, his other hand holding the piece of jawbone. He held it up to the light, blue eyes squinting as he examined it. Letting the paper fall to the floor, he put his hand to his jaw and rubbed at the indentation.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said. He tilted his head. “But I guess I was smaller when it broke off. Huh.”

He held it out to Hawks. Hawks hesitated, then took the piece of bone into his own hand.

Idly rotating it, he saw how the break had been jagged on one end but clean at the other, the small splinter of bone like that of a snake’s rib, its point needle sharp. Hawks pressed the tip of his finger onto the sharp tip, and hissed when it broke the skin. He drew his finger back to see a bead of blood rise to the surface.

Hawks handed Dabi the bone, bringing his fingertip to his mouth to suck off the blood.

“Why’d they give me this?” Dabi asked.

Hawks shrugged.

“I think they felt like it didn’t belong to them.”

He licked his lips, the taste of blood still on his tongue.

“Maybe it’s their way of saying ‘come home’.”

Dabi laughed. He tossed the splinter of bone to Hawks.

“Here. You have it.”

Hawks studied the bone in his hand. He wouldn’t say as much, but for a reason he would not admit, he was secretly glad that such a breakable piece of Dabi was now his to keep, at least, for the time being. He wrapped the bone in a paper napkin and slipped it into his pocket.

Dropping his head into his hand, Dabi muttered, “There’s no home to return to anyways.”

He turned away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. He rubbed at the back of his head.

Hawks watched him, wondering how drunk Dabi was, and when he should—

“What the hell was I thinking?” Dabi said, his tone strained. He rubbed his thumb against the scars under his eyes. “Why was I trying so hard to win Endeavor’s approval?”

Hawks stiffened. He held onto the cue stick tighter, glancing from side to side.

“You get it right?” Dabi asked, staring at the floor. “One minute you’re a prodigy, and the next, you’re some kind of freak. A monster. An inconvenience.”

Dabi rubbed at his forehead, his lips pulling back in a smile. Black ash fluttered from his eyelashes each time he blinked.

“I don’t care if you’re interrogating me. If everything I’m saying you’re going to report back to my father, I don’t care. It won’t get through to him.”

He picked up the whiskey bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and drank.

Quietly Hawks replied, “Maybe if you tried talking to him—”

Dabi reached behind him and grabbed one of the pool balls. Spinning on his heel, he cocked back his arm, and threw it at the wall.

The ball flew past Hawks’ head, the force of it grazing over a strand of his hair. He did not move. The black pupil of his gold eye narrowed thin as a razor, staring directly at Dabi.

The ball slammed into the wall, the impact reverberating in the quiet room. Dabi was breathing faster. He ran his hand through his white hair. Rolling his shoulders, he huffed, “I missed.”

Hawks looked behind him. The ball was lodged in the drywall a few inches from Endeavor’s poster.

Dabi marched to the poster and tore it off in one swipe. He crumpled it into a ball, then shoved it into a pool table’s pocket. Wordlessly, he reached across the table, grabbed the white cue ball, and forced it into the pocket too, burying the crumpled poster deeper.

He muttered, “I’m sick of this game anyways.” He took the whiskey bottle from atop the pool table, and trudged to the bar counter, his balance teetering as he hung his head low. He pressed his back to the counter and unscrewed the whiskey cap. Throwing the cap across the room, he raised the bottle, and said, “This one’s for Endeavor.”

He brought it to his lips, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Quieter he said, “No. For my family.”

He licked his lips.

“It’s going to burn going down.”

He tilted his head and gulped the whiskey, his scarred throat bobbing as he drank.

Hawks scratched at his brow. Carefully, he laid the cue stick onto the pool table, nudging the black eight ball with his hand as he slowly approached Dabi. The villain swayed with his heartbeat, and the faraway look in his blue eyes darkened the longer he stared at the floor.

Hawks took a seat on the barstool next to Dabi. He wasn’t slowing down with the liquor, or the smoking. The muffled crackle of his burnt skin popped as he placed a cigarette between his lips, lowering himself on the seat next to Hawks. He lit it, and purposefully blew the smoke in Hawks’ direction.

Hawks blinked at the smoke in his face, but did not move, or speak. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and beyond his control, a dark part in his heart caused him to smile.

He breathed in Dabi’s exhaled smoke, and imagined how this night was going to end.

The bartender emerged from the back room. He rounded the corner, only glancing at Hawks and the newcomer sitting beside him, until it registered that the man had a scarred face and burning scowl.

The bartender halted before stepping back. Slowly he reached into his pocket for his cellphone, intent on calling for the police, when Hawks sat straight up. The hero motioned across his neck, pleading with the bartender not to call for anyone, and with his one gold-eye, desperately asking him to remain calm.

The bartender coughed into his hand, then began wiping down the counter with a dishrag.

“You want to order anything?” he mumbled.

Dabi smiled.

“Nope,” he answered. “Already helped myself.” He lifted the whiskey bottle and took a swig from it.

The bartender nodded. His eyes lingered on Dabi as he turned, intent on leaving. Before he could retreat to the backroom, Dabi said, “Hey.”

He tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, then took a drag off it. Smoke plumed from his mouth.

“This is a pretty cute bar. It’d be a shame if it burned to the ground.”

His blue eyes flickered from behind the white bangs of his hair.

“You know how to protect it, right? Keep your mouth shut.”

The bartender wavered, looking at Hawks for an answer. Hawks raised his brow, as if to say, ‘Keep calm.’

“Right,” the man replied. “You were never here. Got it.”

He swiftly turned and went into the backroom.

“Fuuuck,” Dabi groaned. “Shoulda burned that fucker’s phone. Can never be too careful these days.”

Hawks sighed.

“What’s the point? Your identity is revealed, and your quirk is good at—”

He stopped himself, scratching at the back of his head.

“Good at what?” Dabi asked.

Hawks sipped at his unfinished pint of beer, mumbling, “Scaring the living shit out of people.”

Dabi copied Hawks, lifting his own drink to his mouth. He peered at the man from the corner of his eyes, his line of sight drifting over the empty space behind Hawks’ back. He seemed so much smaller without his wings.

“You should show me the scars.”

Hawks choked. The beer sloshed over the glass, and he set it on the counter, struggling to catch his breath.

He turned to Dabi, narrowing his gaze, his dead blue eye catching the light in an unusual glow.

“You’re out of your mind if you think—”

“Whatever,” Dabi intervened. “Can’t judge a guy for being curious though.”

He laid his arm flat on the counter. His scarred arm, burnt leathery black and purple, smelled heavily of ash and still-smoldering cinders. Hovering over the skin was the scent of burnt flesh, a smell that caused any passerby to cringe. It was the smell of death, and before they could register where it came from, Dabi was already gone, taking his aching bones and stretched-thin skin with him.

“Does it look like this?” he asked, gesturing at his scarred arm.

Hawks shook his head.

“Touya, c’mon…”

Dabi raised his hands, a wide smile spreading over his face.

“Alright, alright.”

He glanced at Hawks, lifting his drink to his mouth. His foot tapped against the stool, and he bit his bottom lip. The music played over the loudspeaker was soft and dim, its song faraway, but it was one of his favorites, and it’d always touched a place on his wrecked body, reaching deep into his heart. Always played a way that made him want to kiss the next best thing in his life—

Dabi reached out, and grazed his pinky finger over Hawks’ beer glass, but stopped at the chime of breaking news on the television screen.

‘Reports have come in of former U.A. Student Izuku Midoriya…’

Dabi looked up at the television. He watched grainy footage of a kid— the kid All For One was obsessed with— dart from building to building, aiding city residents and defeating escaped convicts on the streets of Musutafu.

He downed three gulps of whiskey, slurring his words as he lifted the bottle.

“Toast to that kid.”

He handed Hawks the bottle.

“You make a toast.”

Hawks stared at Dabi with a frown. He took the whiskey bottle, raised it in the air, and took a sip. He closed his eyes at the burn, shivering at the way it settled like a stone in his stomach.

“That kid—” Dabi said, pointing at the screen, “—should give up the ghost.” The cigarette in his hand burnt out. He tossed it over his shoulder, ignoring the ashtray.

“Midoriya’s a good kid,” Hawks retorted.

“Sure,” Dabi said. “They’re all good kids until they do something you don’t like.”

He turned to Hawks.

“But it’d be interesting to see.”

“See what?” Hawks asked.

Dabi answered, “See All For One get taken down.”

“I thought you were on his side.”

“I’m on my side,” Dabi explained. “My side is all—”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt, ducking his head to peer at his chest.

“Most of my sides are fucking gone.”

Hawks leaned against the counter and took a deep breath.

“Touya, how much did you drink?”

Dabi pressed his knuckles against his lips, muttering, “I was already drunk when I got here. But now I’m…”

He paused, taking a deep breath. He stuck the glass under the tap and filled it with more beer. Hawks’ brow creased in worry as he watched Dabi drain it without stopping. He pulled the glass from his lips, breathing hard, then panted, “I’m thirsty all the time. I’ve gotten so desperate, I started drinking saltwater, straight from the ocean.”

Dabi swayed, nearly falling backwards in his seat as he placed another cigarette in his mouth. He was coughing before he even lit it, taking the first deep drag of smoke.

“But nothing’s made it go away.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Placing one hand over the other on the counter, a piece of dead, black skin, thin as a butterfly’s wing, detached from his elbow. It rocked to and fro, drifting through the air until settling on the floor.

“Sometimes I feel like I gotta confess to someone. And you’re not a priest, but—”

He wiped a bead of watery condensation from the whiskey bottle.

“We used to be best friends.”

The pink flushing Hawks’ face did not go unnoticed by Dabi. The villain nudged Hawks with his elbow.

“Do you remember,” Dabi said. “The bird nest that fell out of the tree on the Commission playground.”

Hawks stared into his glass of beer. His reflection rippled with the rise and fall of his breath. Dabi’s voice continued like a burning in the back of his mind, constant, following him not just now but in his dreams. The villain hovered closer.

“There was a baby bird in it,” Dabi continued. “You picked it up. It was barely clinging to life.”

He leaned forward, blue eyes staring daggers into Hawks.

“I remember what you did,” he whispered. “I’ll never forget it.”

Hawks jerked back, baring the sharp of his canine tooth.

Dabi chuckled.

“‘Course, afterwards, you cried.”

Hawks shook his head. He gripped the beer glass tighter.

“Because it was sad,” he seethed under his breath.

“You were such a crybaby.”

Dabi pulled the cigarette from his lips and studied its glowing tip.

Hawks glowered at him. He tried to steady his breath as he grit out, “You were the one who cried the most.”

Dabi scoffed, shaking his head.

Hawks continued, “If a caretaker or teacher scolded you, you’d burst into tears. And it wasn’t just when you did something wrong. Sometimes you’d start crying for no reason.”

Dabi slowly turned his head at Hawks.

“Everything would be fine, and then you’d get this look on your face and suddenly start crying.”

Dabi clenched his jaw and turned away. He scratched his nails down his scarred hand, digging roughly into the ridge separating his destroyed skin from the flesh still clinging on.

Under the dim yellow lights, Hawks thought he could see a bead of blood form at the corner of Dabi’s eye.

Dabi went quiet, and Hawks turned his attention to the TV screen. It was recycled news at this point, repeating well into the night. An image of Endeavor at the press conference was shown, followed by a journalist stating her opinion on the mounting mistrust against heroes.

“Are you sad?”

Hawks was taken aback by the question.

“About your wings?” Dabi asked, ashing his cigarette. “Are you sad?”

Hawks scoffed. Shaking his head, he snapped, “Are you serious? Am I sad?”

He spoke through clenched teeth.

“No, Touya. I’m glad you cremated my wings to ash. I’m glad you scarred me for life, and now—”

He placed his fist against his mouth. Hawks closed his eyes shut, recalling the nightmare of that fire recurring in his dreams every night, and how he couldn’t walk down the street without people crossing the road to avoid him. How he couldn’t turn on the stove anymore because of the heated coils, for fear that he would be burned again. He couldn’t ride an elevator because it was suffocating, like being entrapped, forced under the weight of an assailant: his assailant, his boot against his face, suppressing him to the floor as hellfire swarmed in a furious dance.

No, it was worse than that. It was being suffocated, burned alive, by someone who used to be his friend.

He couldn’t look at the sky anymore. He was an orphan to flight, and worst of all, now—

Hawks grimaced, and the alcohol in his stomach threatened to come up.

He was afraid of heights, now that he could fall and there would be nothing to save him.

“You can do anything now,” Dabi said. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to take orders from the Commission anymore. You don’t have to be a hero, Keigo.”

“I want to do the right thing. I want justice,” Hawks answered.

Dabi thumbed his bottom lip.

“Listen. You don’t have to be a hero. The whole system that’s come out of quirks… it’s corrupt. No one actually knows for certain what ‘justice’ is. It’s…” Dabi paused, sorting through his thoughts, the liquor causing his words to slur, “Justice is convenient for people who want an excuse to do shitty things. It’s not infallible. Listen—”

He reached out, and placed his hand flat on the counter.

“Let’s make our own justice. Fucking—” He laughed, waving his cigarette in the air, “forget about all this. Seriously, you and me—”

Dabi shifted in his seat, as though he was unsure if he should continue. He took another swig from the whiskey bottle. Clinking it onto the counter he said, “Let’s leave. We’ll go somewhere far away, live under the radar. I don’t have that much money, but I can take care—”

He stopped, and turned his head. Hawks stared at the back of his head, and then at realizing the implication of those words, his face reddened.

But I can take care of you.

And beneath that, buried under liquor and smoke and an unrelenting burn that clutched at his body, were the words: I don’t want to be alone.

Dabi cleared his throat of the smoke, muttering, “We can make our own justice.”

Hawks chewed on the inside of his cheek.

The alcohol settled thick in Dabi’s veins, slowing his body into a drowsed numbness. He glanced at the rain-washed windows, into the darkness of night, blinking at the neon lights blurring in his vision. Restlessness had followed him for days now. Unable to sleep, or eat, or satiate his thirst— it was catching up to him, like the fire working its way through the last of his skin. Without thinking about it, his hand slipped into his coat pocket, his fingers grazing over what he knew he'd have to settle before this sleepless night came to an end.

“I’ve had time to think about these things,” he began. “The heroes. They’re actors. Actors, producers, directors of their own bullshit dramas. It’s all a script, written and performed in the name of ‘justice.’ Let’s get real Keigo. This society doesn’t need heroes. They need something to believe in, so heroes wormed their way into that role.”

He tugged at the piercings on his hands.

“And some of us weren’t born to perform that role.”

“You think I’m playing a role?” Hawks asked. “You think villains are playing a role when they threaten people’s lives?”

Dabi glanced at him.

“Do you like what you do?”

“I like helping people,” Hawks answered.

“Why?”

“Because,” Hawks said, “I want people to feel safe enough to do what they want. To have their own freedom.”

“Pfft,” Dabi muttered. “You should help yourself first.” He sucked cigarette smoke into his lungs, coughing, “The Commission saw a pretty little angel and trapped you in a cage. I mean—”

He turned to Hawks, his face crinkling in disbelief.

“You never even flew across the country, to see everything you could. What about the Akaishi mountains? You said you were going to fly there, and live out in the wild—”

“Fucking hell Touya,” Hawks laughed. “I was a kid when I said that.”

“But it’s what you wanted,” Dabi countered.

Hawks rolled his eyes.

Dabi placed the side of his hand on the counter, raising his voice.

“People want to be the heroes of their own lives. I get that. I won’t deny what it’s like to suffer so badly that you want to find something to make all the bullshit worthwhile. And, the absolute narcissism you have to have, to make a kid just to fulfill that dream, or, delude yourself into thinking you’re fulfilling a dream.” He laughed, smacking his hand against his forehead. “Endeavor sure as hell couldn’t succeed. What made him think having the perfect kid with the perfect quirk would fix that?”

He rested his hand against his forehead, speaking with grave seriousness.

“I have to ask myself— what happens when you forsake that idea.”

Hawks sipped his drink.

“You’re a philosopher now that you’re drunk?”

“No,” Dabi stated. He fidgeted, and answered with a sigh, “I’ve been thinking about alot of things. Life. And existence. And maybe there’s a reason we were born, but also, maybe not.”

He tugged at a piercing on his hand. Without hesitation, he pulled back, until the piercing tore from the burnt skin. No blood spilled. Dabi brought the piercing to his mouth, and licked the ash from it. As he readjusted it back onto his hand, he spoke.

“And I’ve been thinking about… how time never recognizes us, or even cares, even though we spend so much of our lives worried about it. About… not having enough time. Time, nature, the universe… it’s insane. It doesn’t give a fuck.”

He glanced at Hawks, quipping, “You asked me if I was crazy, but c’mon. How are you not supposed to go insane in a universe that could not give a fuck about you? It’s a shitty one-sided relationship. Just… fuck off and go home. Wherever the fuck that is.”

Hawks raised his brow.

“I didn’t know you were so eloquent when you drank.”

He chuckled, adding, “Then again, you were a bookworm when we were kids.”

The corner of Dabi’s mouth turned up in a smile. Quietly he said, “Seems like that’s what kept me alive all these years. That, and—” He peered over his shoulder at where he’d ripped Endeavor’s poster from the wall. “I had good reason to bide my time.”

Hawks turned to him, confused by the statement, but Dabi slid off the stool. He leaned against the counter as he chugged a mouthful of whiskey, then pulled back, forcing himself to swallow. The whiskey was halfway gone, and Dabi’s eyelids drooped heavy, his breathing shallow. He stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray.

“You should try thinking for yourself once in awhile. I know you’re not stupid,” Dabi drawled. He tilted his head, blue eyes roaming Hawks’ back. “Unless hero work has completely fried your brain.”

The corners of Hawks’ mouth pulled into a tight smile, his one-seeing eye fixated on his beer glass. In the reflection of beer the clock’s minute hand seemingly ticked backwards.

Dabi whistled, shuddering at the taste of liquor on his tongue, then said, “I gotta take a piss.” He shook his head. “Or puke. Whichever one.”

He staggered, veering sideways into the counter before steadying himself. His walk was uncoordinated, and he bumped into the wall as he turned down the hall into the restroom.

Hawks steadied his breath. He waited a few seconds, closing his eyes.

It’s for his family, he reminded himself. It’s for his own sake.

The winged hero hesitated, rubbing his hands as he glanced in the direction of the restroom. He thought of Dabi as he was now— intimidating, unpredictable, a shadow looming down a dark alleyway, and…

Hawks tensed, rolling his shoulders.

A blue inferno, manic in its conception, wrathful in its delivery. Whatever his victims felt, Dabi felt too. The burning went both ways.

Hawks took their two shot glasses and poured them to the brim with whiskey.

It’s for his own sake, Hawks repeated as he brought the small envelope from his pocket. He took the pill inside and held it in the palm of his hand.

‘We can make our own justice.’

“Yeah,” Hawks breathed. “We sure can.”

He dropped the pill into one of the drinks. It dissolved, disappearing into the amber brown liquid. Hawks’ stomach dropped as he watched that decision hide itself, like a snake beneath the dead winter brush.

Dabi returned. The ripped ends of his coat billowed in his movements, his eyes downcast as he plopped back onto the stool next to Hawks. His words jumbled together, “I feel like shit.” He wiped at his mouth. “Puked my guts out.”

He tilted his head at the full shot glass, blinking slowly.

“I poured us a drink,” Hawks said. “To make a toast—”

“Switch,” Dabi said. “Give me yours.”

Hawks watched as Dabi switched their drinks. He stared at the drink in Dabi’s hands, and felt an inexplicable wave of sadness come over him.

That sadness soured into anger when Dabi flashed his blue eyes at him, the smoldering skepticism all too apparent, the judgement always there, constant, unavoidable. Hawks could feel himself being judged in Dabi’s eyes, and it was enough to make his fingers curl like talons into a fist.

“So,” Dabi said. “Did you make your decision? You gonna leave this bullshit behind?”

Hawks smiled.

“I would love to leave this bullshit behind.”

Dabi raised his brow, fumbling through his words, “You think you can’t, but it’s not ‘can’t.’ It’s won't. You’re still…” He picked up the shot glass. “You’re still caught up in the past.”

Hawks raised his glass.

“Then let’s make a toast.”

He waved the shot glass in the air.

“To letting go of the past.”

Dabi grinned.

They clinked their shot glasses, and together, downed the whiskey. Dabi let the glass fall heavily onto the counter.

He slurred through his words, “It sucks. Memory sucks. But it won’t go away.”

“It’s hard,” Hawks said, staring straight ahead, his one gold eye narrowing, “Letting go of the past is hard, when it leaves such an ugly scar.”

Dabi snapped his fingers, nodding his head. He reached over, and Hawks startled when Dabi traced his fingers over his hand. The motion was for a moment, and then he pulled away.

“You get it. No one in my family gets it.”

Dabi propped his elbow on the counter and leaned heavily onto his hand, flashing a full smile. His half-lidded eyes went in and out of focus.

Hawks pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and checked the time on his wristwatch.

The song over the speakers changed three times, and not once did Dabi speak, nor did Hawks. Dabi slumped over the counter, his eyes fluttering as he tried to stay awake. Hawks continuously checked his watch, counting down the minutes.

The villain was quiet, and then, without a word, he slid his hand across the counter. Taking hold of Hawks’ hand into his own, Dabi lowered his head, and pressed the side of his face to the counter.

“How you feeling?” Hawks asked.

Dabi smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He shrugged, replying, “Drank too much.”

“Too fast,” Hawks agreed.

“Guess I… overdid it this time…” Dabi sighed. “I haven’t eaten much, not since… you know… and drinking water doesn’t help… but inside… I thought my heart was going to give up when I saw Endeavor.”

Dabi blinked. His pupils were dilated, and he struggled to stay awake. He emitted a breathy laugh.

“Am I dreaming?”

He squeezed Hawks’ hand tighter.

“When I’m near you, it feels like I’m dreaming. Like I can’t believe I’m with you again. Maybe we’re still at the Commission, and this is just a dream. That summer, you—”

He laughed again, and then, his breath caught in his chest. Once again, Hawks could see just the slightest bead of blood collect at the corner of Dabi’s eye.

He bit his bottom lip, his brow furrowed.

Dabi hiccuped, “He was my home.”

Quickly he wiped at his eyes, mumbling, “Don’t fucking tell Keigo I said that. Piece of chicken shit.”

Hawks sighed.

“Yeah. I won’t tell him.”

Dabi stroked his thumb over Hawks’ hand.

Hawks asked again, “How you feeling?”

Dabi closed his eyes, mumbling, “Wanna go home.”

He shivered.

“So cold.”

Dabi coughed, a thin wisp of smoke escaping his throat.

“Go to bed.”

He was barely awake as he added, “But not under a bridge, or an empty house. I want a real bed. And someone warm to hold.”

He squeezed Hawks’ hand. Hawks checked his wristwatch, then said, “I’ll get you home.”

Dabi rolled his head, pressing his forehead to the counter. His white hair covered his face as he huffed, “Not ‘home.’ I don’t want to see my dad. Or my mom. Take me… shit, take me to those goddamn mountains Keigo wanted to see so badly.”

Hawks watched as Dabi’s breath slowed. After a few seconds, Hawks carefully helped Dabi to sit upright. His eyes were half-open, and he stared blankly ahead.

And then, without another word, Dabi closed his eyes, and relented into the drug’s sway, pulling him into a dark sleep.

Hawks grasped at his shoulders, careful as he slid from the barstool to catch Dabi’s leaning body into his arms. With one heave, Hawks lifted Dabi, cradling his neck in the crook of his elbow. He lifted him into his arms, his head resting against his chest, his limp legs swaying as Hawks situated his hold on him. This close he could smell Dabi— the cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes and burnt flesh— and pressed against him, Hawks could feel his bones jut sharply from his frame. He carried Dabi to the front door, his own scarred back frantic at being so close to its judge and creator, but Hawks continued forward, pushing open the door with his shoulder. Outside, the rain had softened into a faint drizzle. The empty streets smelled of damp asphalt, and the humidity in the air curled around Hawks like a blanket as he walked down the street.

Dabi breathed a heavy sigh. In his sleep, he reached out, wrapping his arm around Hawks’ neck. He grabbed at the back of his jacket, holding it in his fist. He slept-talked, and the way he sounded like he was on the verge of tears caused Hawks to halt. He looked down at him. His white hair reflected the streets’ neon signs glow, and this close, Hawks could see the piercing at the corner of his mouth was barely hanging on.

Quietly, Touya whispered, “Where are your wings?”

He held onto Hawks tighter, burying his face into his chest.

Hawks carried Dabi to the street corner. He reached into his pocket, taking out his phone, keeping Dabi cradled in his arms as he dialed a number. He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder. Dabi’s bony elbow nudged into Hawks’ stomach, and he mumbled incoherently, asking to be put to bed.

The phone rang once, twice, before a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

“It’s done,” Hawks said. “I have him.”

He looked down at Dabi. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing had slowed into sleep.

“Is he okay?”

Hawks laughed, unable to help the bitterness in his voice.

“He’s unconscious. That’s good enough for me.”

He pursed his mouth, closing his eyes. The hero steadied his breath, then added, “He’s fine. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

There was silence on the other line. After a few moments, Endeavor asked again, “But… how is he?”

Hawks hefted Dabi closer in his arms, tightening his grip on him. He looked down at Dabi, his one-seeing eye lingering on his chest, remembering the patch of unburnt skin over his heart, and how the scars seemed to purposefully crowd close to his heart, a frozen tide beckoning an ocean of blue fire to unfreeze it and deliver the final wave that would surely drown him. Dabi's bony elbow dug sharper into Hawks’ stomach, and he winced, answering, “He seemed worn out. Maybe we intervened at the right time.”

He took Endeavor’s silence as worry, so Hawks continued, assuring him that he would follow through with the plan, no matter what.

They said their goodbyes, and Hawks stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He jostled Dabi’s limp body tighter in his arms. The rain drizzled as mere specks in the nighttime, faint scatterings reflecting in the streetlight. They fell on Dabi’s hair, and in the light, shimmered as dewdrop pearls.

Something in Dabi’s coat pocket fell onto the sidewalk. Hawks’ gathered his strength, keeping Dabi nestled in his arms as he stooped to a squat to pick it up.

It was a miniature snow globe, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Under the pale streetlight he could see a tiny cherry tree inside, its pink blossoms hanging onto the delicate branches. Hawks shook the snow globe, and white specks flurried, swirling in a rush around the tree.

Dabi’s head lolled to the side. Raindrops caught on his white eyelashes, his gold piercings, beading on his scarred bottom lip before sliding down his jaw and onto the pavement.

He had always liked that dark place before a dream. It was like staring into an abyss, and there, every lie he told would be swallowed whole, nothing but fodder for an empty stomach, an emptier, mutilated body— blood for a never satisfied, ill-formed heart.

#bnha #dabihawks #keigo takami #touya todoroki #bnha fic #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

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queenangst · 4 years

Note

(if prompts are still open?? thanks!!) a fic with aizawa in the aftermath of the usj, going back to ua before he should. we didn't see too many detailed interactions of people being worried about him, or thanking him for what he did, or being relieved to see him still alive, etc

for my 30 min fic challenge / read more: ‘30 min fics’ tag

the bare minimum [read on AO3]

Shouta spends the first few days in the soft haze of painkillers. He drifts in and out. There’s always something floating in the back of his mind, those few times that he flickers into awareness. A scab he keeps picking at, but it never comes up clean. It hurts, though.

The first time he blinks awake and finds clarity ricocheting back at him, he remembers.

He shoots up in the white hospital bed, pain in every moment, blinking against the bandages around his eyes.

“—Shouta?”

Shouta registers the voice. But his heart is pounding, terribly alive, because suddenly he’s remembered tearing himself away from his kids, fighting alone in the center of a pavilion surrounded by villains. A grotesque, strange creature, and another two villains still. The crack of bone. His Quirk, flickering. His kids.

“Where—” he says.

And he can’t see right.

Someone grabs his hand. It’s Shouta’s own weakness—and awareness—that stops him from throwing Hizashi right across the room.

“Shouta,” Hizashi says, and presses a hand lightly to Shouta’s shoulder.

“The kids,” he gasps. His head’s spinning. He’s probably not supposed to be awake. He’s probably not supposed to be thinking like this, the fear sliding into his veins.

An image comes back to him: an outstretched hand, centimeters away from Asui Tsuyu.

In the few days of class, he’d learned enough about his students. Asui had a younger sister, who she clearly cared for and talked about a lot. She was blunt, clear in a way that Shouta appreciated, and she was unafraid to speak her mind. And reasonable. He liked her.

And she’d been moments away from death. Shouta couldn’t move.

He remembered bleeding on the ground, the fear gripping him tighter than the villains had, and how desperate he’d been. Not her. Not her. Not any of them.

“Shouta,” Hizashi murmurs, “they’re alright. Some injuries. But— they all made it out, thanks to you.”

“Thirteen,” is Shouta’s next question.

“Recovering.”

He shudders, and feels his whole body shake. He can’t stop it. Hizashi’s careful as he slips his hand around Shouta’s shoulders.

“You didn’t ask about yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Shouta says plainly. Because it’s not a choice. Because he has to be fine; there is no other option except fine. He’s a pro hero, and a teacher. He can’t stop, not for a second.

One second is all a villain needs.

“Your eyes… the doctors are worried about the damage. That’s why they’re covered, Shouta. That villain’s Quirk…”

“I’ll be fine,” Shouta says again, more forcefully.

The last thing he needs is Hizashi worrying about him. The gravity of Hizashi’s words start settling in though, even more so when Hizashi leaves to get a doctor, and the doctor says, there may be lasting damage.

Healing Quirks saved him, he’s told. The bandages will be removed tomorrow. Shouta’s lucky, he’s told. The damage could have been irreversible.

Now that he’s awake, Hizashi doesn’t stop pestering him. The most Shouta can see is spots of light and dark, but he wishes he could see Hizashi’s face at least for one moment. There’s a very real fear in the undercurrent of Hizashi’s voice, the only reason Shouta lets him keep talking.

The quiet lulls.

“I’m— sorry I wasn’t there,” Hizashi says, “Shouta…”

“What about this was your fault?” Shouta snaps. It isn’t.

“By the time I got there… Shouta, you were— it was bad. Okay? It was really, really bad. I thought I was going to lose you, too.”

The too hangs there for a minute, where they both stop and sit in memory for a moment. Then they both close the lid of the box, and move on; the past will remain in the past, as it has to.

“I’ll be fine,” Shouta says for the third time, but he’s a little softer; and Hizashi seems to accept that.

As soon as Shouta’s aware is when things start falling into place. He’s visited by Nedzu, and by Nemuri, who yells at him a little. And then All Might, who apologizes profusely before Shouta kicks him out; and then doctors come and go. The darkness of the bandages leave him, though the fear doesn’t.

Shouta’s aware. Shouta’s functioning. These are the two arguments he presents when he tells everyone he’s going back to teaching, immediately.

Hizashi protests. A lot.

But Shouta walks with stiff legs and a dull ache into his classroom the following week, putting his hands together in front of him as his class stares.

“Should— sensei, should you be here?”

“I can teach. So I will.”

And so he does. Two hours into the first classes of the day, Shouta feels the strain. His eyes hurt. His head has spiked and is beginning to pulse with the dull background noise, with the light filtering through the glass windows facing the hallway.

By lunch, when class is dismissed, Shouta is keeping himself up by bracing himself against the podium. The students leave after he glares at them. I’m fine. Asui doesn’t.

“Sensei,” she says, “can I talk to you?”

Shouta nods. A flash of pain accompanies the motion; he winces, and he’s not quick enough to hide it.

“You should rest, kero,” she croaks. She’s observant, this one. “Sensei, I… you’ve done a lot for us. We don’t—my classmates and I don’t think any less of you, if you need time to heal.”

Shouta swallows. It’s a bitter pill.

“Please,” Asui adds.

He looks into her face and thinks, and that’s why I can’t.

“There’s no time,” Shouta tells her, “I’ve healed enough, so I’m here.”

When it comes down to it, Shouta will do the same as he did at USJ. He will put himself between a villain and his class, his students, the protective fire roaring to life deep under his skin.

Asui doesn’t look convinced. But she says, “If that’s what you think, sensei. I can’t… argue with you.”

“Is that all?” Shouta asks.

He’s already thinking about what to do next. Go to the teacher’s lounge, probably—Hizashi brought painkillers for him. Take a quick, twenty-minute nap that will last him for the rest of the day. Stand, even though it hurts, teach, even though every word and every breath hurts him. He has to. He has to.

Asui’s eyes shine. She blinks quickly, once, twice—she’s about to cry. Shouta opens his mouth.

“You saved my life,” she says, in a voice so quiet Shouta nearly doesn’t hear her. “Even though you- even when… you still saved my life. I just—”

And then she does start crying, and something in Shouta’s chest cracks open, next to his fractured ribs. Something deeper, something that hurts more.

“Kid,” he says, but he doesn’t know what to say, for once. What do you say?You saved my life. What do you say to that?

He shuffles carefully around the podium, and very carefully opens his arms and holds them out. Asui looks at him and then steps into his arms, wrapping her own around him. She sniffles against his chest. Shouta lifts one hand and then slowly settles it on the back of Asui’s head.

“I was scared,” she confesses, muffled against his shirt. Her shoulders shake. “I thought I was going to die. And- and then I was scared you were going to die be- because of me—”

“Asui,” he says, and that wounds him.

“And you’re here. ”

“My job is to protect you,” Shouta says, “and I will do whatever is in my power to do that. Okay?”

Asui takes in a breath.

“I don’t regret it,” he says when she doesn’t say anything. He strokes her hair. He doesn’t regret it, not for a moment; not at all.

“Thank you for saving me,” she croaks, stepping back with red-rimmed eyes. Shouta almost doesn’t want to let her go. Then Asui bows. “Really, sensei. You- Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Thanking him is not wrong; he can’t tell her that. But thanking him for doing the bare minimum, for being in a situation where the students had to fight back, had to protect the teachers… Shouta doesn’t want to be thanked for that.

“Still,” Asui insists, and meets his eyes with a piercing look. “Please- please take care of yourself, sensei. It would mean a lot to me, and everyone, if you did.”

She leaves after that, and Shouta spends the time looking at the empty doorway mulling over that thought. Something sticks in his mind.

He goes to the teacher’s lounge, meets Hizashi’s gaze. He doesn’t protest when painkillers are pressed into his hand, or when Recovery Girl stops by to look over him. And he does, briefly, close his eyes to rest.

When he blinks awake again, Hizashi’s there. He’s always there. Shouta thinks about telling him to leave, about telling him that Shouta will be fine, but he stops himself. Please take care of yourself.

“You alright?” Hizashi asks.

It’s hard to admit, but Shouta swallows his fear of not being enough, and says, “I could use some help.”

#asks #bnha #bnha fanfic #30 min fics #aizawa #present mic #tsuyu #anonymous

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a-bugz-life · 4 years

Text

Take Me Home || Anita & Marley

TIMING: The night of Marley’s Attack. PARTIES: @professoranieves and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Nothing like a bugbear attack to bring two people closer together.

The cool air almost stung as Marley sat on the front porch, phone in her hand. She had half a mind to just go back inside, to shut the door and not answer when Anita got there and to tell Erin not to answer either. But she knew very well that that was a terrible idea. Anita would probably never forgive her and for some reason, that thought scared her enough to stay sitting on the porch even though the cool air made her face feel like it was burning. From her messages, Anita almost seemed angry, but she supposed that was fair. Finding out from the news that she was mauled by a bear probably wasn’t fun.The actual explanation of what had happened was even less so. She rubbed the good side of her face and groaned, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes for a moment. How was she supposed to explain this to Anita? There was no way she was going to let her get pulled into this Roy business-- it was way too dangerous. And she wasn’t going to let anything happen to Anita if she could help it. She’d tear down the city if Roy even thought about touching her. The thoughts rumbled in her stomach and she prodded the bandage on her face. Erin had done a decent job at stitching her up, even better than Jane, but Erin had practice, so it made sense. The problem was the scab and the blood. They were drying blue, leaving little dark blue streak marks on her face. She couldn’t walk around like this and let people see her blue blood. But that was a worry for another day, because Anita’s car was pulling up now and Marley had no idea what she was going to say anymore. So she just stayed sitting, and watched her race up the driveway towards her.

When Anita had seen the article, her mind went to the worst case scenario. She knew that she and Marley had been playing it cool lately, but she just couldn’t even think about how to play it cool at that moment. After unanswered texts, calls, and messages (and a few awkward messages to her co-workers), Anita finally heard back from Marley. And she was in a fucking funeral home. When she finally pulled up she saw the silhouette of Marley sitting out front. That seemed somewhat promising? She could sit up at least. As she got out of the car and ran up towards where she was sitting she began to notice the bandages all over her face, the brace on her ankle, the bruises… everywhere. Maybe it was the stress of not knowing if she was okay for so long finally catching up to her, but Anita started crying softly. Once she got up to her, she gently dropped to her knees in front of Marley and gently took her hands. “I thought you were dead.” She finally said softly after a long period of silence. She looked up at her and she wanted to touch her face, but as she started to bring her hand up she suddenly became terrified she would just hurt her if she touched, so she pulled it back down. “I was really scared.”

Marley shivered a little-- not at Anita’s touch, and not even at the chill in the air, but perhaps at the idea that she’d scared someone so much they were actually crying with relief at seeing her alive. That wasn’t a thing that happened to her. She remembered nights of aching after her one and only friend had been killed in cold blood and she wondered if that was what Anita feeling right now. She squeezed her hands and leaned down a little, brushing a finger along her cheek to wipe away the tears. “Not dead,” she mumbled finally, aching with the stiffness of her joints. “See?” She took Anita’s hand and placed it gently on the unbandaged side of her face. “Not dead.” Her chest felt suddenly heavy, perhaps with exhaustion or perhaps with pain, but she felt her body slump and she dropped Anita’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

If Anita had been focused on what she was doing and not just on the relief of actually seeing her, holding her, alive she might have gotten embarrassed or self-conscious of how emotional she was being. But she wasn’t thinking straight. She didn’t think straight when it came to Marley. She nodded softly, forcing a smile, “Yeah. Not dead.” When Marley dropped her hand, she stood up, looking around where they were at for a moment. “You went on and on about how invincible you are… and then …” She waived her hands towards her general direction, feeling the unexplainable anger she had been feeling earlier creep up. “A fucking bugbear.” She mumbled, crossing her arms across her chest. Anita stood there for a moment, drowning in everything she was feeling. “Get in the car. I’m bringing you to my place.” There was a sharpness in her tone she didn’t mean to direct at her, so she paused and glanced over at her. “I mean, are you ok to move? I - I can stay here with you if you need to stay here.”

Marley watched Anita pace. She’d never seen her this outraged before, and it wasn’t even truly outrage, was it? It was almost something Marley didn’t recognize. “Yeah,” she agreed with a quiet sigh. She was too tired to fight any of it. “A fucking bugbear. They’re the only things immune to my mojo,” she said, leaning against the banister as she looked up at Anita. The sharpness of her tone made her startle a little and she stared wide eyed for a moment. “I--” she looked back at the house. There were a few lights on, but Erin knew Anita was coming. She turned back to Anita. “I can move.” Stiffly, she started to pull herself up using the railing, feeling the strain of the day really wearing on her now. She should’ve been relieved after everything-- she was alive and made it out relatively okay-- but something hung on her shoulder and in her stomach and it made her body feel just a little more weak. She went to take a step, stumbled, and reached out for Anita. “Maybe…”

Anita watched Marley as she started to stand up, there were obvious struggles as she moved and it caused a sharp twinge in her chest. As soon as she saw her stumble though, she quickly reached out and wrapped her arms gently around her to steady her balance. “Come on. I got you.” Keeping her arms firmly wrapped around her waist, Anita walked them slowly to her car. She knew that there was no reason for her to be mad. But she was. Not at Marley though? Or, maybe a little bit at Marley? Mostly at whatever fucking bugbear did this to them though. As they got to the car, Anita opened the passenger door for her, helped her in, and then closed the door. In the few moments alone as she walked over to her side of the car, she took a couple deep breaths, trying to stop her body from feeling like it was shaking. Once she got in the car, she had to keep herself from looking over at Marley, knowing that if she did she’d probably start crying again. So instead, she just backed out of the funeral home parking lot and started heading to her place.

Marley didn’t protest to Anita helping her, not like she might have usually. It just felt...different. She leaned into Anita and let herself be walked to the car, trying not to let on too much how painful it was. When she slid into the seat, she didn’t even buckle her seatbelt, just texted Erin that she was heading somewhere safe and laid her head back again. Anita didn’t say anything when she got into the car, and she didn’t look over at her, and Marley couldn’t help but wonder if she was somehow mad at her. If she blamed her, she supposed that was fair. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Next thing she knew, they were pulling up to Anita’s house and Marley couldn’t remember the past ten minutes. She blinked, rubbed her eye, wincing. She looked over at Anita. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled again, not really sure what she was apologizing for. “I can--” she sat up, opened the door, but groaned when the pain set in. “Guess I’m not invincible, huh?”

Anita had let herself be lulled into a false sense of security when Marley had told her that she couldn't be harmed at night. Her biggest fear was someone she cared about dying. She had been so calmed by her night-time immunities that she failed to consider everything that could go wrong before nightfall. “None of us are.” Anita replied softly as she got out of the car and went over to the other side to help Marley out of the car. Once they got inside her house she helped her over to the couch before going back and locking the front door. She stood in her living room for a moment, debating if she should go get a drink or go sit on the couch. As much as she really wanted to crack open a bottle, she felt an overwhelming need to be near Marley, so she just went over to her and sat down beside her. In the light, she finally took another good look at her. Her bandages covered up the damage… but it was clearly extensive. She noticed the blue blood and added that to the small list of facts she now knew about mara. “What the fuck happenned…” She knew just what the newspaper reported, but knowing how off they were sometimes, she knew that couldn’t be the whole story.

Marley sank into the couch. It was so comfortable, and Anita’s home was so familiar. As nice as Erin’s place was, there was just something about being here that let Marley sink into a comfortable sit and let her body relax. It smelled like Anita. She couldn’t entirely describe it, but she knew it was there. Although the pain meds had worn off long ago, the weariness was still there and it stayed heavy on top of her. When Anita came back, she tried her best to perk up, blinking the weariness from the eye that wasn’t covered in bandages. “It’s comp--” she started, and then remembered all the times she’d said that word to her and bit it back. “I didn’t know who he was,” she started out slowly, “he’s, well--” she rubbed her face, wincing again, “I’m sort of helping someone take down some sort of magic or otherwise crime lord. And he had followed me, apparently, to try and recruit me to their side. And when I said no, well…” she motioned to her face. The bandages probably looked bad, but the wound underneath was worse. She could feel it burning, each individual claw that had marked her face, probably for the rest of her life. She hated that thought and something burned in her eyes. Fuck, were those tears? She wiped them away quickly. “Luckily someone called the cops, otherwise I don’t think…” she hadn’t said it out loud yet and it wavered on her tongue, “I don’t think he would’ve stopped.”

Antia was about to snap when she heard her start to say the word ‘complicated’. But much to her surprise, she stopped herself. She listened as she began to explain, and while she didn’t love the fact that she was working to take down some magic crime man who aligned himself with a bugbear, Anita knew that Marley was a cop. For a split second she understood all those TV cliche’s about people who … cared about cops hating their jobs. The tightness in her chest swelled up again as she saw Marley start to cry. Anita had cried in front of her a lot by now, but this was only the second time she had seen this from Marley. She reached over and grabbed her hand. “Well. Someone did call the cops. So we don’t have to worry about that.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but deep down she was aching. She didn’t know why she was feeling this way. Well, no. She did know. Maybe she’d known for a long time but had just been in denial. Either way, seeing Marley like this physically hurt. “And obviously you’re not gonna be able to work on the case anymore. So, someone else can deal with this guy and his bear. Right?” Based on how Marley reacted when her partner went missing, Anita wasn’t very confident that Marley was going to agree with that statement. But she had to at least put it out there.

“Yeah,” Marley repeated, nodding as if that made it true and made it so that she didn’t have to think about the fact that she probably would have died had that not happened. She swallowed. She didn’t like thinking about that fact. She wanted to not think about that fact. She wiped away the last of the tears on her face and restrained anymore from coming out. “No need to get hung on what ifs, right?” When Anita grabbed her hand, she finally looked up at her. She could see everything that was wrought through Anita-- her worry, her fear, her pain, even her relief-- and she felt as if she were being punched in the gut all over again. The air was rushing from her lungs and she had to look away. “I’m--” She squeezed her hand a little tighter. “You know I can’t do that.” Bit her lip. “I have to keep going. If I stop now, then he wins. They win. Besides, I need to pay him back for this,” she said, motioning to her face. “It’s--” ugly? Gross? “--it’s bad.” She didn’t want her to see it.

“No,” Anita protested softly. Realistically, she knew that she couldn’t tell her to not pursue whatever this was. That wasn’t what Marley did. She was a fighter, and this was clearly a cause worth fighting against. She stood up, taking a deep breath and pacing around a bit. “No. You can’t just go after these people. Look at what they did to you when you were fully healthy?” Even though she knew it was worthless, she needed to say it anyway. “Marley. If something were to happen to you? I mean, I l-” she very quickly cut herself off, recovering within seconds, “We just found each other. We just found our rhythm. And I’m not gonna just sit here and say ‘Yeah! Go after the people who almost killed you!’ because I need you alive.”

“This only happened because I wasn’t aware,” Marley said, watching Anita pace. “They won’t get the upper hand again. They don’t get to keep getting away with this shit. We’ll eventually be one step ahead of them. It’s--” she felt another wave of exhaustion come over her, finding it hard to focus on Anita. The world blurred slightly and she tried to blink it away. Missed the slight hiccup in Anita’s words. “I don’t-- I can’t not. I can’t just stop. You don’t have to agree to it, or even like it but--” she looked at her as best she could, “if it’s too much you have to tell me now. I can’t get used to having you around only to have you leave when it gets too hard. I can’t do that again. I can’t--” she shook her head despite the pain, “--I can’t have you just to lose you.” She wouldn’t know how to handle that. She’d never needed someone like this before.

Suddenly, Anita felt guilty for her attempt at asking Marley to back down. She knew that wasn’t the kind of person Marley was. Rather quickly she returned to her spot on the couch beside Marley. “Let me make two things clear, okay? I am never going to be okay with you actively putting yourself in harm's way. Because the thought of getting used to you being around and then having to cope with your death fucking terrifies me. I’ve already lost someone once. I don’t know if I can go through that again.” She paused, tucking a loose strand of Marley’s hair behind her ear. On the good side of her face, of course. “But I’m also in too deep. I’d rather push through the hard parts than miss out on the good parts. So, I’m not gonna idly stand by when I think you’re being reckless. But,” she shrugged slightly, “I’ll always be there to pick you up from weird funeral homes afterwards.

Marley felt almost instantly relieved when Anita came back to the couch and sat beside her. Something was building inside her chest, spreading throughout her limbs and making her feel a warmth she wasn’t used to quite yet. She’d felt it a few other times around Anita-- during their “date” the other night, lying under the stars; when she’d fallen asleep on her after the carnival; that first morning she’d stayed over and woke up next to her in the sunlight-- but it was still a mystery to her. As Anita spoke, she couldn’t help the tired smile that pulled onto her lips, curling up the visible side of her face. Even as it stung, she kept it there. “It’s just the one,” she finally said, reaching back out to take her hand, pressing her palm against her good cheek. “Just the one funeral home.” Anita’s cool hands felt nice against her warm skin in contrast to the burning of her wound. As she looked back at her, words that’d she never used before burned on her tongue and in her mind. They tasted like fire when she tried to open her mouth and say them, and she choked them back, instead saying, “You’re the only one I want to pick me up.”

Lately Anita had been opening herself up a lot more to Marley. Saying things that just a few weeks ago she would have felt scared to even think. But there was a strange calm she had been starting to feel everytime she was around Marley. A calm powerful enough to have her just say everything that was on her mind without getting worried about the implications. Well, almost everything. “One funeral home. Got it. So, I take it you know the owner or something then?” Whoever they were, Marley obviously called them first. It made her feel oddly… jealous? But other people was the one topic that had always been touchy for them. “Well, you’re the only one I’d offer to pick up.” Anita pressed a soft kiss against her good cheek, wanting so badly to be able to fully cuddle her, bit also worried about causing her any additional pain. “Can you at least promise me that you won’t go putting yourself in harms way again for like … a week? We can just stay here where it’s safe.”

“Yeah,” Marley said with a slight nod, “her name’s Erin. We’re-- friends.” Friends was the simple way of saying it, but Anita didn’t want complicated and so simple it was. She’d tell her another day, when her face wasn’t burning and her heart wasn’t racing, that Erin was the one she was helping, that Erin was part of the reason this bandage was on her face. She didn’t blame her, but she knew Anita might. Marley felt her hands shake a moment and her mouth got dry. Anita was still talking, as if she didn’t understand her words. Which was fair, Marley barely understood what she was asking for. She sat up a little and turned to full face Anita with a little effort, a little wincing, and put her hands on Anita’s shoulders, holding her firmly. More for herself than Anita, as her arms vibrated and her heart felt as if it might burst from her chest. “No, I mean--” she started, paused as her throat tightened, “--I only want you.” And maybe it was because she was still shaking from the idea of dying by a bugbear’s hands, or maybe it was the fact that all she’d thought about when she was with Evelyn was wanting to be with Anita, or maybe it was even just the morphine talking, but Marley couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I just want to be with you.”

“Right, a friend.” That was their code-word, wasn’t it? But then Marley said something that caught her off guard, and Anita stared at her a bit dumbfounded. Mostly she was wondering if it was the pain meds saying that or Marley saying it. She found herself really hoping it was Marley saying it. “As in you don’t wanna go out to bars and pick up strangers anymore?” She couldn’t help but think about the one time Marley tried to call Anita her favorite and she sort of spiraled. Exclusivity had terrified her, she openly disavowed it. But there Marley was, telling her all she wanted was to be with her. Very briefly she thought about the last time she had seen Luce and how she kept thinking about Marley the whole time. “I just want you too.” The idea terrified her. What if she wasn’t enough for Marley? What if she couldn’t be a one-partner woman? It was worth a try though. Marley was worth a try.

Some part of Marley knew that this wasn’t going to be easy. But sitting here, saying this, it was easy. And it was what she wanted. What was the point in being with other people when all she longed for was Anita? Even Marley understood that, clear as day. And perhaps because she’d never felt that way before, she understood it even more clearly. It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted before, but she wanted it so bad now it nearly tore up her insides to not say it. “Yes,” she answered plainly, heart drumming loudly in her ears. Almost so loud she nearly missed her answer. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of Anita saying no, as if she’d known somewhere deep down that she wanted the same thing, despite how much it may have frightened her. Marley could feel her fear like a tiny flame in her stomach, and she wanted to both savor it and put it out. Fear was good, Peter had told her. Fear kept you humble, kept you safe. He’d always told her she needed more fear. And not to eat, to experience. And so she’d savor this fear they both felt, and keep it close to her heart. Without another word, and despite the pain in her face, she pulled Anita to her and kissed her. Pulled away after a short moment and muttered, “Oww…” with a smile.

“And no hooking up with non-bar non-strangers?” Anita felt like she knew the answer. But this was uncharted territory for her, she wanted to make sure all the bases were covered. The night had started out absolutely terrible, but now Anita was sitting there smiling. She kissed her back gently, both feeling a need to be as close to her as possible and worry about her injuries. She hated that the kiss apparently hurt, but she knew that wouldn’t be the case forever. Teasingly, she asked, “So is this the equivalent to you asking me to be your girlfriend?” The word felt foreign on her tongue, and honestly she didn’t care much about that label. Which was admittedly a step forward because the word used to make her cringe. If Marley wanted to use it, she wasn’t going to object. She looked into Marley’s eyes for a little while, captivated by the beautiful colors. “Are you gonna take all of this back when the pain medicine wears off?”

Marley shook her head. “Just you,” she mumbled against her lips. “I’d only be thinking of you, anyway.” She could taste the blood on her lip again and lifted a hand to touch her lip, wiping it away, blue smearing across her fingers. “Damn…” she looked up at Anita, slightly surprised by the use of the word, but tonight was just full of surprises, wasn’t it? First a bear in a bar, now this. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” she said back. It didn’t matter to her, either, as long as the feeling was mutual. She’d never had a girlfriend or boyfriend before. She wasn’t even sure the word entirely fit, but she would make it if that’s what Anita wanted. She had a hunch Anita felt the same. The thought of their similarities settled into Marley’s stomach again, like a cat curling up comfortably in its bed, reminding her that she had found something here that she’d never thought possible-- a purpose. A way to make herself not a monster. As she had killed for Jane, she knew she would kill for Anita, too. This was how she would keep herself from being a monster, even after all the years she’d told herself she was not capable of caring. This was how she make herself anew. She looked firmly at Anita-- as much as she could with one eye bandaged over-- and said, with a coy smile, “the morphine wore off a while ago.” Before hands dug back into Anita’s shirt and pulled her close again, lips against hers again.

Anita cocked an eyebrow slightly upwards when Marley didn’t reject the word ‘girlfriend’. “We don’t need to put any kind of label on it. Unless you want.” A wide grin crossed her face as she let out a soft sigh of relief, “Good. I wasn’t gonna let you take it back anyway.” She kissed her again, wondering how long it would be until they could kiss for real. Or at least until they could kiss and Anita not worry about making her … girlfriend?... bleed. As she pulled away she moved slightly closer, so their bodies were at least touching. “Don’t think you being so damn cute made me forget that you didn’t answer my ‘please stay out of danger for at least a week’ question.” There was an odd ease in knowing where Marley stood regarding their relationship. Ugh, she hated that word. Less so applied in this context, but still. There was less of a chance that she’d suddenly walk away from Anita. Though the pain that would be caused if she did certainly would be far more unbearable.

“Girlfriend works,” Marley answered quietly, even if the word buzzed like electricity on her tongue. “Never had a real one before, might as well try it out, right?” The only other time she’d even considered the word was when she was seventeen and she’d had a high school fling with another girl who was new to the school as well. It barely counted. Marley’s lips tingled for a moment when Anita pulled away. She ran her tongue along them, wondering when she’d feel normal again, whatever that meant. She nearly scrunched her face at the word, but she’d let it slide for now, if only to spare herself the pain. “Alright,” she agreed, “one week. I’ll stay out of trouble for one whole week.” Stiffly, she readjusted herself, as Anita came closer, and moved to lay her head into Anita’s lap, laying on her back and looking up at her. Mirroring the moment Anita had done the same thing to her, last time they’d had a conversation about their feelings for each other. Her eyes, glowing red, gazed up at Anita. “Just for you,” she added on, half a smile poking out from under the bandages.

“Okay. Girlfriends.” Anita felt nervous about putting a real word on it. It made her more worried about messing it up. “I’ve never had one before either.” She wanted Priya to be her girlfriend, but they never really got that far. “I guess that means neither of us will know if the other is fucking it up, huh?” It was mostly a joke, but like a lot of her jokes it was rooted in a real concern of hers. When Marley repositioned herself, she reached down and very gently touched the bangaged side of her face, her fingers just slightly brushing the bandages. “Thank you. I’ll feel better about you going out and being reckless if you’ve at least had some time to heal first.” She sat there for a moment, running her hands gently through Marley’s hair. “Oh, uh, by the way. I may have reached out to your partner, Jane, when I thought you were maybe dead. So if she mentions some random woman who was asking about you … that was me.”

“What about--” Marley started, then stopped. Anita had only spoken once of the girl her family had killed in front of her, and even though Marley had never had that, she understood the pain it might cause Anita to talk about. She swallowed it back, instead, and let out a long breath. “Guess we’ll just have to be honest,” she answered quietly, closing her eye for a moment, letting the calmness comfort her. “Or just not fuck it up.” Even if she wasn’t sure she was capable of doing that. She didn’t want to, but how many things had slipped through her hands by now? She swallowed again, breathing slower. Anita’s hand brushed the bandage on her face and she understood with a quick thought that she would have to see it at some point. She couldn’t hide it forever. “We’re not talking right now,” she mumbled, glancing away. “I think I’m mad at her for some reason.”

“Right. Just not fuck it up.” Anita knew that was easier said than done, but this was their first hour of being girlfriends, so she didn’t want to dwell on it. She took a few moments to just relax. To appreciate the weight of Marley pressed against her and find some solace in the fact that Marley knew the very dark parts of her life, but still felt comfortable enough to lie in her lap. “You should make up. Then maybe she could help you not die on this case.” Admittedly, even though they had just agreed to be exclusive, she still felt sort of intimidated by Jane. Maybe because she never met her before so she didn’t really know what she was up against. Or maybe because there had to be such an intimate bond between partners.

Marley wanted to point out the irony in Anita saying that-- Jane had gone off on her own and actually gotten herself killed. But she didn’t need to know that. It would only make her worry more. Instead, she furrowed her brow and frowned. “It’s not that easy,” she said, wondering exactly why it wasn’t that easy. What was stopping her from just talking to Jane? “She did something stupid and got herself hurt and now she’s trying to act like it was nothing and everything’s fine. And I know it’s not, but she won’t talk to me.” She was doing exactly what Marley does to other people. Perhaps that was where her hang up was. Or perhaps it was something deeper. “I was so afraid I was going to lose her,” she muttered quietly after a long silence, “I don’t know how to tell her that.”

Almost instantly Anita regretted even bringing up Jane. The only other person she maybe felt similar about was Morgan. But she had never slept with Morgan. So she just sat there for a little while, stroking Marley’s hair and trying to figure out what to say. “You almost died tonight. I’m pretty sure she’s feeling the same way you felt when whatever happened with her happened.” It felt uncomfortable giving her advise on how to get back on good terms with Jane. But… that’s what people did for those they cared about. Wasn’t it? “I’m sure it’ll work itself out.”

“Don’t remind me,” Marley huffed quietly. She hated having to admit that that stupid bear had won this round. But that’s all it was-- round one. And she was going to make sure round two was the end of it and that round two was the end of him. She just...needed to rest first. Recuperate. Like Anita said, take time to heal. She subconsciously lifted a hand to her face, prodding the bandage. It itched. “I guess,” she mumbled after a moment. They’d have to make up eventually, right? Or Marley would just have to get over whatever was bothering her. They were partners, after all. They needed to be able to completely trust each other. Marley looked at her hand and remembered the man she’d drained the life from. She’d done it because he was one of Roy’s henchmen or whatever crime lords called their minions-- but she’d also done it for Jane. Felix had, too. She curled her hand into a small fist before opening it up again. “I think we should celebrate,” she said suddenly, looking up at Anita again.

Anita didn’t know what else to say. She had gone from thrilled to insecure faster than she thought possible. She had never felt like that before. She had never been jealous of two separate people in such a short span of time. Marley had too many friends. So she did her best to push all of those thoughts away, focusing on what she had in front of her. Anita smiled softly and looked down at Marley curiously, “Celebrate? I’m pretty sure there’s only one adequate way to celebrate becoming girlfriends with someone… and I think you are way too injured to partake.” She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, “But I suppose I could be open to other suggestions.”

Marlery pouted. “Get your mind outta the gutter,” she said, but she couldn’t hold back the grin that told her she was teasing. “I think you underestimate my pain threshold, but fine. We can do something else.” She feigned distress, putting a hand to her forehead and sighing heavily. “You know what would feel really great about now, though? A nice, hot bath. I heard that’s good for sore muscles. It probably is good for bear fighting bruises, too, don’t you think?” she tilted her head slightly, looking up at her. “I’m supposed to wash my face anyway. Two birds with one stone.” Even if the idea of Anita seeing her face torn and blemished made her wonder if she’d look at her differently. If she’d look at her and have those same eyes full of pity that she barely remembered a nurse having, before she saw the blue blood, and her look turned to confusion and distress. “I may need help undressing, anyway,” she tacked on while a coy grin stretched up the good half of her face.

“My mind’s always in the gutter. You should know that about me by now.” Anita grinned, loving the idea of a hot bath. Especially since she had the foresight to buy an extra large bathtub for moments just like this. Well, actually everything about this situation was something she ever predicted happening, but that wasn’t the point. “Mmmm. I like the sound of that. Plus, we both already know that I’m sort of an expert at getting you undressed.” It was reassuring to know that even with what they had just confessed and even with Marley having just been mauled by a bugbear, they were still able to be themselves. It made her feel even more confident about them. “As much as I love this view,” She started, looking down at Marley again, “You are gonna have to move so I can go start your bath.”

“Mmmm,” Marley hummed softly, closing her eyes to enjoy the moment just a little longer. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.” This natural...rhythm they had was so easy to fall into. Even if they’d just confessed something big, even if she’d just been injured, even if she’d been in a situation where she should have, by all accounts, died. This was always the same. Even after all the times they argued, it came back to this. Maybe that was why Marley found it so easy to ask this of her. Why she found it so easy to accept a feeling she’d never felt before. This was a relief. No matter what happened, coming here to Anita was a relief. When she opened her eyes next, Anita was looking down at her with those same big, green eyes she’d seen so many times before. She’d have smiled, had her face not already begun to hurt again, a slow burn that traveled up and down her cheek. Probably from all the talking. “What? You’re not gonna carry me?” she teased, before sitting herself up stiffly, pausing a moment to let the dizziness settle itself. “I’m wounded.”

“As entertaining as it would be for me to try to carry you, I would be terrified that I’d drop you and just injure you more.” Anita stood up from off the couch and offered her arm up to Marley. “I’ll gladly escort you though.” It was hard to not overreact about Marley’s injuries, especially since she refused to stop going after the person who did this to her. But Anita knew that the best thing for both of them right now was to set that aside and try to ‘celebrate’, as Marley put it. Admittedly, Anita wasn’t sure if they were celebrating her not dying or them deciding to date. Maybe both. Both were worth celebration.

“I’ll take a rain check, then,” Marley said, taking Anita’s arm and hoisting herself up with great effort. Her whole body ached now, as if she’d been thrown in a tumbler and then left out to dry. “Fuck, who knew fighting a bear would be this painful,” she muttered off-handedly, letting Anita lead them into the bathroom where her oversized tub was. She sank onto the side and leaned over, trying to finagle her socks off, thanking her past self for removing her shoes while she was still standing. She managed to get them off with an effort she wasn’t sure she had enough energy to repeat yet, so she sat back and let out a long breath. Glanced over at Anita, lifting a hand to the bandaged side of her face again. “Guess I’ll at least have a fun story to tell now, right?”

“Pretty much everyone.” Anita replied, even though she knew it was a rhetorical question. Once they got into the bathroom, she slid down and sat beside Marley. She tried not to laugh when she saw her struggle with her socks. “Pretty sure I offered my undressing services already. Please, take me up on them.” She knew Marley was stubborn, so there were probably going to be a lot of things she refused to let her help with. But this was something that she could do, so she was gonna. “Fun? Wow, we have very different definitions of that word.” She reached up and caressed the unharmed side of her face. “A very interesting story though, that’s for sure. Never met anyone who’s had a bar bear fight story before.”

If it had been anyone else offering, Marley was sure she would have adamantly refused. She didn’t need anyone’s help, she was capable on her own. Even if it took longer or hurt a little bit more. She’d always been on her own, doing everything on her own. Sure, there’d been small reprieves of time when she’d had people around to help her, but they’d never lasted. But if she pretended this wasn’t technically Anita helping-- that it was something more intimate-- than it didn’t make her stomach clench as hard. She held up her arms, as high above her head as they would go, only flinching a little at the pain in her abdomen, her ribs. “I’m ready to be shirtless,” she said to her. “I’m gonna be the center of every party now, with this story,” she said, letting her weary mind unfocus, “with this scar.” Under her shirt, more bruises were revealed, splintering up the side that collided with the bar top. Little scratched from the pieces of glass that had dug into her skin when she’d been tossed onto the table. She looked back over at Anita and understood that reassuring smiles weren’t going to help this time.

“Wow, ready to be shirtless? You really know how to turn up the heat huh?” Anita grinned as she teased her. Joking helped, right? As she reached over and lifted the hem of her shirt, she realized that she was actually kind of nervous to see what she looked like under the shirt. Everywhere she could see already was covered in scrapes or bruises. While she wanted to believe that was the extent of the damage, she knew that wasn’t the case. She tried to keep her face neutral as she lifted her shirt up, gently pulling it over her head. As she looked up and made eye contact with Marley, she could see the hesitation in her eyes. “Only you could still be hot covered in bruises.” She reached back to unhook her bra, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek as she did. This was absolutely the first time she had ever undressed a woman for non-sexual reasons. It was odd, but she’d do anything for Marley.

Marley watched Anita closely, carefully. She could tell this was strange for both of them. Once her shirt was off, she reached out and tugged on Anita’s. “Your turn,” she said quietly, turning her eyes down. She wasn’t quite ready to reveal what was under her bandage, even though she felt oddly vain saying it. Part of her power had been her good looks, her attraction. It was already statistically proven that people let their guard down around good looking people and she’d always used that to her advantage. Not that she thought Anita only liked her for her looks, but the claw marks down her face had changed a part of her. Marked her permanently. Even if she was just realizing this, it still burned hot in her stomach. She let out a huff, a short chuckle on the end of her breath. “Now you’re just being cheeky,” she muttered, looking back up at her. Next came the pants and Marley winced at just the thought, knowing it was going to disturb the leg that Tommy-- no, the bear-- had tried to crush. She stayed still, waiting. Watching Anita with one tired eye.

Anita smiled when Marley tugged at her shirt and then quickly complied with the request. After all, it wasn’t fair for Marley to be the only one getting naked. Before moving on to help Marley take her jeans off, Anita sat up slightly and began running the hot water. She had an immaculate hot water heater, but it did take time to warm up. She turned her attention back to Marley, laughing softly. “Me? Cheeky? Never.” She then proceeded to carefully unbutton and unzip her jeans. “Can you lift your hips up a bit?” Carefully, she slid her jeans down. Once she got to her brace, she gently tried to stretch the jeans over it before pulling them all the way down and over her feet. She then stood up and slipped out of her own pair of jeans, tossing them into the corner of the bathroom. “It’s kinda like strip poker. Except we’re not playing poker. So, maybe more like strip tennis?” She mused as she sat back down beside her.

“Strip tennis,” Marley repeated, “good one. Not at all accurate, but I’ll take it.” The bruise that ran up her leg-- which was also swollen and red-- looked a little like someone had simply dumped paint on her leg. It was purple and blue and it chased its way up to her knee, across the top of her thigh. For a moment, she remembered watching the bear fall through the air, aiming to crush her entire body beneath him. She hadn’t had enough time to get out of the way completely. What if she hadn’t had enough time to get out of the way at all? She shivered, looking up slightly startled when Anita sat down beside her. Let out a long breath. All that was left to remove were the bandages-- well, and their underwear, but that wasn’t the issue, was it? She looked down at her legs, her feet, her stomach, before putting a hand over her face. “You’re not allowed to look at me with those big, sad eyes, okay?” she muttered softly, glancing sideways at her. “Promise me you won’t change how you look at me.”

“I think it’s very accurate. But fine, I acquiesce.” Anita tried her best not to look at the extent of most of the injuries. She knew if she fixated on them it would just remind her about how close she was to losing Marley, and then she’d start crying again. What the hell was it about Marley that made her so emotional. She never cried over women. “Big, sad eyes?” Anita asked with a slight smirk. “I was unaware that I had big, sad eyes.” There was a part of her that wanted to just cloud the situation in jokes, ignore the serious stuff. But she could tell this was something that was bothering Marley, so she dropped the smile. “I could never look at you differently. Okay? Physical appearances don’t mean anything. I mean…” She gestured to herself, “This isn’t even really me. This won’t make me look at you differently. But, if you’re really worried about the scars, I know a really great place to get a glamour.”

“You definitely have big, sad eyes,” Marley said with a tired grin, “beautiful, big, sad eyes. But only sometimes. Mostly they’re just cute.” She reached out with her hands and took Anita’s hand, placing it gently over the bandage on her face. She let out a long breath, before looking her in the eyes. Somehow, she trusted herself with Anita completely. Somehow, she knew she’d tear herself apart before letting herself hurt Anita. Their soft red glow cast onto Anita’s hand on her face. “Will you show me one day?” she asked quietly. “When you’re ready?”

There was a soft flicker of panic in Anita’s eyes when Marley asked if she would show her what her true form was. She had never shown that to anyone other than Priya and that didn’t exactly end well. She wanted to show herself to Marley though, and she was appreciative of the fact that she recognized that she might not be ready yet. “Yeah. One day.” Anita pressed a soft kiss to Marley’s lips, then looked over at her bandages. “Are you sure you’re supposed to take them off already? Do mara have like… speed healing?”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Marley said quietly, but there was no push to her voice. No pressure. She knew, though, that whatever Anita had behind her glamour, Marley would still want her. Would still need her. She pressed gently back into the kiss, Anita’s cool lips soothing against the burn of her cut. She let out a soft chuckle again, shaking her head. “No, we don’t. But gods, do I wish we did,” she murmured. “But yes. I’m supposed to clean it at least three times a day and change out the bandages. Erin gave me extra.” She reached up, then, and started to peel the top of the bandage down. Her hand only shook a little, wincing with the pain. “Hope you’re not squeamish,” she said in a strangled attempt to joke, but her voice betrayed her, wavering on the words. She swallowed and pulled it down the rest of the way, revealing the four large claw marks that stretch from her forehead to her chin. Raw and bruised and caked with blue scab and sutures made for dead bodies. Her heart leapt into her throat a moment. “Still think I’m cute?”

Anita tried her very best to not look at Marley with ‘big, sad eyes’, but it admittedly was hard. Not because seeing the scar made her feel anything less for Marley, but because it was such a clear reminder of the pain that she must have been in when she was attacked. Still, she did her best to keep her face stoic. She reached over and grabbed the bathroom trash can, then tossed the bandage into it before putting it back. “Absoultey, the fucking cutest,” she said with a wide smile. “I’m also going to take that question as you finally admitting that you are, in fact, cute.”

Marley didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Anita spoke and she let go of it. Her body deflated, finally letting out all the tension she’d been holding in since-- since, well, since she’d first arrived at that bar. She leaned into Anita, pressed her forehead to hers. “I really wish I could just kiss you everywhere without hurting right now,” she muttered, letting out a breath. She tugged on her. “C’mon,” she said, standing slowly, “it’s time to celebrate.”

“We should do that the moment you can do that without hurting.” Anita replied softly, then pressed a kiss to Marley’s nose. She stood up, then dropped the drain stopper and let the tub begin to fill up with steaming water. She then offered up her hand to help Marley climb into the tub. After she helped her in, she went over to the counter in the bathroom and lit one of the candles she had there. Then she went over to the tub and carefully climbed in with Marley.

#wickedswriting #t:marley #chatzy #chatzy:marley #take me home

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bumblingalong · 4 years

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Hades and Persephone: Afraid to lose what they may have

Hi, here’s a little one shot for you all! This is my first hadestown fic in general and Hades/Persephone moment so if characterisation is whack then I am really sorry. All mistakes are mine since it’s almost 3am and I wanted to post it now instead of editing in the morning... I do warn it’s a bit angsty and slightly addresses TW the theme of miscarriage/child loss. I just fancied writing again and continuing the procrastination of my uni assignments...Enjoy!

What did he love about Persephone? She had an unbelievably kind heart, kind to the point where she took in Orpheus at the age of 20 with Hermes. Did she know anything about babies? No. She learned though, she really played and got into the games. She was at every event that mattered; parents evenings, school concerts. She even tried to bake for the kid’s charity school events. That role was best left to him or Hermes though, a fact only known after her first disaster of an attempt. The point was Persephone was in some ways destined to be a mother, she was the best mother to Orpheus and would be the same to her own children. If only she had the chance.

“Why are you here? You’re supposed to be catching a flight this afternoon. You should be packing or something. You shouldn’t be here.” Persephone rasped tiredly, hearing his footsteps enter their room as she continued to stare at the wall ahead.

“I have been organising for Hecate to cover for me, she’s been working on the case too so it would make sense.” He sank himself onto the bed, reaching out gently towards her to bridge the divide. A divide that seemed to be growing evermore with each passing day. Each failed attempt. “I thought it would be best for me to stay here with you.” “You don’t need to be here.” She grumbled into his chest, her voice raw and empty from the tears shed over the past few days. “I’ve dealt with this before, and at this rate I’ll deal with it again.” She didn’t mean to be so offhanded, so bitter with the man she adored.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with it alone Seph, I will never leave you to face these things alone. You should know that.” He knew his reassurances were wasted, most likely falling upon deaf ears as he stroked her hair.

He knows not to push her when she’s like this, when the pain is so fresh and the wound has yet to even scab over. He has felt her retaliation and the sting of her words far too many times to count, when their fights were described as something legendary by Hermes. A battle of fiery wits that more often than not was resolved by a rather amorous reunion, those times seemed to be long gone. At the beginning they would fight constantly, never anything particularly serious but their passion always seemed to overflow in their words. Both far too stubborn to let the other opinion win so they fought, it was why her mother deemed the match to be rather ill suited to begin with. That was before she realised how much Hades truly loved and worshiped her daughter. He’d give anything for her to have that venomous fight in her now. Anything would be better than this. The catatonic woman in his arms was not the same, she appeared now to be a porcelain doll. One more failed attempt and she may shatter entirely.

They lapse into silence for a while, the void overtaking the room as he continually strokes her hair. His repetitive motions meant to calm her and potentially lull her out of the nothingness, maybe into some form of rest. He knows she hasn’t been sleeping well ever since it happened, throughout their relationship he had been the restless sleeper so constantly in tune to the feel of her body tucked into his side. Lately though the chasm seems to be growing as he yearns to reach out for her and ease her quiet tears that begin a restless night.

“Maybe I should deal with it alone. It’s my fault. I am the one who can’t do what she’s biologically supposed to.” Her bitter quiet tone breaks the silence that had settled over them, a crack in her voice showing how little she had spoken before now. “Every time, every god damn time. Your part is fine but me.” She breaks off from her quiet rant berating her own ability to be a mother. “We have tried so many times Hades.”

Her tired tone breaks him, a man torn by his wife’s anguish. He doesn’t know how to respond. She won’t accept false niceties and reassurances that it isn’t her fault. He never has and never will blame her, yet she continues to blame herself time and time again. He cannot tell her that he almost doesn’t want to try again. The IVF that didn’t take, the miscarriages; it’s all too much to bear. He is a man who is simply afraid of losing his wife to the pain, he can already feel her crippling under the anguish. He cannot afford to lose her entirely if the next attempt didn’t take too. Yet he cannot tell her no if she asks him again with that last glimmer of hope in her eyes. No matter how much pain it may cause them, he could never give up trying for her.

In the past he had suggested adoption, they had all effectively taken in Orpheus as their own even if Hermes was the only name on the certificate. She claimed it wasn’t the same though, that yes she loved Orpheus dearly but he wasn’t theirs. She wanted a baby that was truly a product of their love, that she could grow and nurture for 9 months in pregnancy. Adoption simply was immeasurable to what she wished a pregnancy could be for them. The last time he had brought up adoption a screaming match had erupted after which he slept in the spare room for a solid week, only going back to their room after she climbed into his bed with a murmured apology one night. She never did sleep well without him.

“Persephone I am not leaving you to deal with this alone, in sickness and in health was what I said and I meant it.” He sighed, feeling her breath begin to slow as she began to drift off. “To me that means mental health too, I am not leaving you or losing you.” The final part was more of a reassurance for himself than his now asleep wife. “I cannot lose you to separation or to this, I’m here for as long as you need me.” He is so afraid to lose her, to lose everything. She is both his heart and home, he can never let her go. For now he will wait. Wait for her to rest and heal, to hopefully be restored to more than this fragile shell.

#hadestown #I did think about this having a mega fight but I didn't want hades to storm out #persephone #hades #hadestown au #hades and persephone #also yes the start is inspired by marriage story because I rewatched it and wept recently #julia writes #hades x persephone

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cyberwolfwrites · 5 years

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Peter Meets the Avengers (V. 2)

“Mr. Stark, I’m fine!” Peter says, reaching towards his backpack that Tony is currently holding. Tony pulls it out of his reach and Peter winces as his side stings in pain. Tony raises an eyebrow at the wince.

“I’m not letting you carry the bag, Pete,” Tony says, walking into the elevator, Peter stepping in beside him. “You just got out of the medbay because you decided to go and get yourself shot. You’re so lucky that I didn’t call May about this." Peter visibly deflates at that, hissing as his ribs throb in pain.

"It only skimmed me,” he utters, crossing his arms over his chest. “And besides! It’s not I haven’t been shot before!" Tony sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, because how could I not remember when Karen–not you–called me because you decided not to inform me that you were digging a bullet out of your leg with your eyebrow tweezers," Tony says sarcastically as the elevator stops.

"They weren’t mine!” Peter stressesm as he follows Tony out of the elevator and into the common room of the Avengers Facility. “They were Aunt May’s!”

“That doesn’t make it better, kid,” Tony mutters, tossing Peter’s bookbag onto the couch. “Go ahead and get started on your homework,” Tony looks up at the ceiling, “Friday, can you put Star Wars Episode IV on?”

“Of course, sir,” Friday says, the TV flicking on not even a second later. Tony bustles around the room, brewing a new pot of coffee and tossing a few bags of popcorn in the microwave. He grabs some blankets out of the cupboard by the TV–a new addition after learning that Peter gets cold easily since he can’t thermoregulate anymore–and grabs the popcorn from the two microwaves and a cup of coffee.

Tony joins Peter on the couch where he’s in the middle of some complicated looking chemistry homework. “Need any help, kid?” Tony asks, watching as Peter fills out his worksheet. Not to his surprise, Peter shakes his head.

“I’m good, Dad,” Peter says, not even realizing that he’s said dad as he tends to do every once and a while. “I’ve got it covered." Tony just hums and covers the two of them in blankets before focusing on the movie.

It’s not even halfway into the movie until Peter’s finished with his homework. There wasn’t too much assigned this weekend and he got most of it done on the four-hour drive up here, despite the fact that he got shot a little before Happy came to pick him up. Peter had managed to hide his bleeding side from the man easily and it had actually scabbed over by the time that he arrived at the Facility, but apparently, he can’t hide anything from Tony, who met him at the Facility door.

Peter tosses his things to the side and scoots a little closer to Tony, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his body heat. Tony just sighs as he feels the spiderling sidle up beside him and wraps his arm around the kid, pulling Peter into his side.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter sighs, his head resting on the man’s shoulder. Tony just brings a hand up and cards his fingers through Peter’s curls and hums contentedly. The kid’s started to leave his curls alone after Tony mentioned that it calms him when they’re watching a movie together and end up cuddling.

It’s not long until Peter’s yawning and fighting off sleep. The movie’s got about half an hour left but the methodical way that Tony runs his hand through Peter’s curls and the arc reactor’s soft buzzing begins to lull him to sleep.

“Go to sleep, kiddo,” Tony mutters catching sight of the time. It’s been a long day for the both of them–it’s nearly nine at night–and that wound has to be zapping Peter’s energy.

Peter nods off with Tony’s reassurance and Tony just sits there, enjoying the moment with his kid. That is until Friday interrupts him with less than favorable news.

“Sir, it appears that the ‘rogue’ Avengers are on their way up,” she says, causing Tony to curse under his breath. He stills as Peter shuffles a little. There isn’t enough time to even wake the kid, let alone get him a floor up where his and Tony’s bedrooms are, not that far away from the rest of the groups’. And honestly, Tony doesn’t want to wake Peter up.

He’s noticed that the kid has been going out at random hours for patrol that is pass curfew–which they will be talking about–but he’s also noticed how the kid’s been a little more quiet and tired lately. That only leads to one conclusion and that means that he’s been having nightmares, and Tony doesn’t want to ruin the little bit of uninterrupted sleep his kid seems to be getting.

Tony grimaces and decides to just let the group up and not disrupt Peter. He knew that they’d be returning, the Accords had been revised for a few months and they’ve been pardoned for just as long. He just hates that they’ve decided to come now when his kid is hurt.

The dreaded ding of the elevator announces the arrival of the group and what they’re met with is Tony’s glare. They haven’t seen Peter yet, but as they shuffle in sheepishly, they notice the bookbag, the movie, and the kid tucked into Tony’s side. Clint opens his mouth to make a remark but Tony beats him to it.

“If any of you wake the kid, I will kill you." Clint promptly closes his mouth and Tony continues in a whisper. "Your rooms are where you remember them and they’re untouched, but they might be a little bit dusty. Now, get lost." Steve looks like he wants to say something but the muttering of the mystery kid cuts him off.

"Dad?" The word’s a soft mutter, but with how quiet it is in the room–the TV had been muted–everyone heard it. Everyone’s faces color in disbelief and shock and Tony sends them a stern glare before softening his gaze as he looks down at the kid cuddled into his chest.

"Yeah, Pete?” Tony asks, his voice low enough that only Peter can catch it. His kid moves around a little before sitting up, rubbing at his eyes with a yawn. Peter reaches for something, possibly a blanket that fell on the ground, before pulling back with a sharp hiss.

“Ow,” Peter groans, not yet noticing the group of stock-still superheroes. “I think I tore my stitches." He rubs at his eyes a little more before looking around the room, almost immediately locking eyes with the rogue Avengers. "Uh, Mr. Stark?”

Tony sighs. “They just got up here, bud, don’t worry. Blows aren’t going to be thrown around tonight,” Tony says, leaning up and looking at Peter’s side. “Now, let me see if you actually tore your stitches.”

The rogue Avengers watch in shock and disbelief as the mystery kid lifts up his shirt and peels back a slightly bloodied bandage while Tony pulls a first-aid kit seemingly out of nowhere. Even more shock is bestowed upon the group as they all realize the wound for what it is, a gunshot wound. Peter and Tony don’t pay them any mind as Tony changes the bloodied gauze and tapes the wound up. They may have gotten the wound checked out not even two hours ago, but Peter already managed to get quite a bit of blood on the gauze pad he had since apparently, the stitches pulled a bit when he was laying against Tony.

“Go on up to bed, kiddo,” Tony says, packing up the first-aid kit and putting it away. “You can meet everyone tomorrow." Peter seems to want to say something but one stern look from Tony leaves him reaching for his bag. "You can leave the bag down here, Pete,” Tony says, worried about Peter’s wound. “I’ll bring it up in a bit.”

“Okay,” Peter says softly, rubbing his eyes as he makes his way past the group of still shocked superheroes. “Night, Dad.”

“Night, kiddo,” Tony says, sending a look to the group as they go to say something to Peter. Tony waits until the elevator’s closed before sighing and beginning to clean up the mess that he and Peter made. “Are you guys going to head up to your rooms or what?”

“You can’t just expect us to leave without asking you about the kid!” Clint sputters, gesturing wildly towards the elevator doors. “I thought I was the only one with a secret family!”

Tony glares at Clint, clenching his jaw as he throws the blankets into the cupboard, not even bothering to fold them. He tosses the popcorn away and grabs his cup of coffee. “Tony, who is that kid?” Steve says cautiously, a frown marring his face.

“He’s none of your business, Rogers,” Tony grounds out, making his way to the elevator. “Now if you need me, I’ll be in my lab." Another question makes him halt.

"He yours?” Natasha asks softly. Tony grinds his teeth.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “He’s mine." At that, he walks into the elevator, ignoring their questions as he makes his way to his lab for some well-deserved tinkering.

#peter parker #tony stark #avengers #peter parker meets the avengers #post civil war #post cacw #submission

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badwolf-in-the-impala · 6 years

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~The Cripple & The Bastard~

~Chapter 6: Lonely Hearts~

Previous Chapters: ((Ch.1 - Ch.2 - Ch.3 - Ch.4 - Ch.5 - Ch.6))

Image Credit: Myself - badwolf-in-the-impala

Pairings: Ivar the Boneless X OFC

Rating: NSFW

Warnings: Verbal/physical abuse, violence, kidnapping, scars, sexual content.

Chapter Warnings: Talk of scars from physical abuse...nothing to terrible thought.

A/N: Thank you guys for sticking it out and being so patient and supportive. I truly do appreciate every single one of you <3 All your messages lately have really meant a lot.

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Yara woke late the next morning to find herself alone. Breakfast and a small note sat next to the bed where she would be sure to find them. ’Back soon.' Was all it read. Heaving a sigh, she sat up and stretched gently before climbing out of bed and getting dressed for the day. Shoveling down her cold breakfast before venturing outside.

The day was warm and she enjoyed the feel of the sunshine on her skin as she took to busying herself for awhile at the small forge Floki had constructed for her. Working on her half of their project, before eventually growing hot and restless from working in the sun, deciding to walk down to the water where she sat in the shade; feet dipped in the cool water. Relishing in the feel as it lapped against her feet gently. She would have given anything in that moment to be able to jump in and go for a swim, but Helga had forbid it due to her wounds that were still healing. So there she sat...hot, bored, and alone for Gods knows how long.

It was approaching early afternoon judging by the suns position above the trees, and Yara was beginning to have her doubts that they would be returning anytime soon. Pulling her feet from the water, she allowed them to dry for awhile before slipping her boots back on and making her way back up to the house. Working on completing the days chores to keep herself busy. Growing frustrated when even that failed to pass enough time.

Finally growing bored enough, and lacking things to keep her attention, Yara ventured off into the woods to set Snares and collect more Herbs, to help restock Helga's supplies. Taking her time for the remainder of the afternoon, as she wound her way lazily through the trees. Watching in amusement as birds and other small creatures -- wrapped up in the throws of Spring time courting -- fought for the prettiest females attention.

The sun had finally started to set when she made it back to the small house...finding it still empty, distant sounds of a celebration drifting through the evening air; she sighed. It was the first time in weeks that she had been truly alone. Forgetting what it had felt like to not have another person around...it made an all to familiar, hollow, feeling form in the pit of her stomach as she frowned deeply.

Trying to focus, she worked on skinning out the rabbits her snares had managed to catch on her way back. Putting them in a stew with an assortment of veggies from the garden. Laying down on the bed, waiting; for someone...anyone, to return to keep her company. Watching, almost entranced, by the flames of the fire that flickered in their wildly heated dance. Allowing them to lull her into darkness as she dozed off.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that she woke; the feeling of another presence in the room nearly startled her to death. That familiar Sapphire gaze which watched her carefully having taken her by surprise. Ivar sat propped against the bed comfortably, chuckling with a mischievous smirk at the reaction his presence had brought fourth from the sleeping form he had been watching so intently.

“Nice of you to finally wake up.” He stated, stoking the fire before leaning back with a grin. "I was beginning to grow bored." He smirked.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?” She grumbled, wincing as she sat up. Noting that the forgotten bandage on her back was pulling uncontrollably and had not been changed since the previous morning. Ivar frowned at her pained expression.

“Are you alright?” He asked, all amusement falling away as he pulled himself up to sit on the bed beside her, brows pulled together with worry as he watched her carefully.

“I slept late...” Yara replied, her voice still thick with sleep. “Everyone had already left by the time I woke...Helga never removed the bandage from my back.” She stated awkwardly, standing as she rummaged around through the supplies on the table for the salve and clean bandages. Placing them on the bed out of habit before retrieving a fresh bowl of water and some cloth. Staring at them for a moment, trying to figure out how exactly she was going to tend to her own back. Ivar rolled his eyes.

“Sit.” He ordered unexpectedly, pointing to the floor in front of him. Yara looked at him with a dumbfounded expression as she tried to protest. Mouth opening and closing several times as she attempted to form some kind of word.

"Sit." He ordered again. Shifting so that she could sit beside his legs on the floor. The tone to his voice silenced her protests, and while not enthused, she obeyed any way. Sliding on to the floor quietly, crossing her legs underneath herself as she tugged the shirt over her head and clutched it to her chest. Taking deep shaky breathes in hopes in would keep her heart from leaping out of her rib cage. The blush she had been trying to fight off creeping up her neck rapidly at the touch of his hand on her shoulder.

Brushing her dark hair to the side gently, Ivar carefully pulled the old bandage back, a surge of anger racing through his veins as it revealed the healing lashes that lie across her back. Several of them being noticeably deep, even scabbed over. He bit his tongue; careful to remain quiet and keep his touch gentle, as he cleaned each area carefully. His fingers brushing against her skin lightly, tracing over other healed scars that marred her back, noting how her skin flushed with heat at the action. But what caught his attention, was not the scars, but the large and intricate tattoo the rested on her left shoulder. Fingers tracing the workings of a tree --Yggdrasil to be exact-- gently, making her shiver under his touch as he withdraw his hand. Clearing his throat he grabbed the salve.

“Did it hurt?” He questioned, fingers applying a layer of salve to the wounds on her opposite shoulder. “The tattoo...I mean.” Yara simply shrugged, the action causing the muscles in her back to flex slightly.

"Not really." She replied softly. "I have felt worse pain than that of being tattooed." She stated. "I find the pain more...comforting?" Shifting so that her left hand was holding the shirt in place over her breasts, she moved to roll her right arm over to reveal the runes and symbols that trailed down her forearm.

"They suit you." Ivar replied, smoothing the bandage over her back gently as it bonded with the salve. Yara pulling the fabric of her shirt back over her head, tightening the laces in the front as she stood to clean up the supplies. Ivar's fingertips grazing her own as he handed her the salve. The corner of her mouth quirking into a small smile.

"Thank you."

Things remained quiet between them for some time as she cleaned up and put away the supplies. The sounds of distant celebration catching her attention once more as she dished up a couple bowls of stew, offering one of them as well as a cup of ale, to Ivar before sitting down on the floor in front of him.

"Sounds like quite the celebration." She commented before taking a bite of food. Savoring the flavors of rabbit and fresh herbs, finally realizing how hungry she actually was. Ivar nodded in reply as he swallowed his own bite of food.

"It is Bjorn's send off...they leave in the morning for the Mediterranean." He stated before taking a sip of ale, setting the cup back down next to him. "He was sorry that you could not be there, but hopes you are feeling better." Yara smiled softly, raising her cup in reply before taking a small sip.

"Floki and Helga also send their apologies."

"I take it their apology was sending you to annoy me?" She replied dryly, but her eyes held a glimmer of humor.

"Someone had to make sure you weren't about to set the house ablaze." He replied with a smirk. "Not a bad job on the food, either...Helga might make you a decent wife for someone after all." He chuckled, ducking as he dodged the spoon she threw at him; green eyes glaring intently as she poured herself more ale.

"Have to work on that temper of yours through." He smirked.

"If anyone should be working on their temper, I hear it is you." She glared playfully up at Ivar, one eyebrow cocked as she challenged a response. Ivar bit his tongue with a grin, but remained quiet as he finished his food, indicating that she had won...for the moment at least.

Placing his empty bowl into her out stretched hand as she stood and tidied up before sitting back down on the floor next to his feet; refilling both their ale cups before leaning back against the bed. Watching as the flames of the fire cast shadows across the mostly dark room. Small talk filling the gaps of silence as the night wore on.

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Hours had passed, but they seemed like mere minutes; the sun beginning to peak over the mountains, welcoming a new day and shedding light through the window into the small house. All the ale was gone, and Yara laughed freely at some ridiculous story Ivar had been telling her. Her sides ached and tears filled her eyes as she struggled to catch her breath.

Ivar smiling fondly for a few brief moments at the sound. She was always so void of emotion that it was nice to see the change. To watch her be so full of life for even the briefest of moments...it made emotions that Ivar had never felt before stir within him; making him both angry, and afraid...happy, and confused. All he knew for certain, was that he enjoyed seeing her happy. Making her happy.

As her laughing finally died down. heaving a sigh that was quickly followed by a yawn as she stretched, head rolling over the edge of the bed, landing on his shoulder.

"You, are drunk." Ivar chuckled lightly as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her own eyes closed and her face relaxed.

"And it is your fault." She grumbled tiredly in reply. A small hum leaving her throat as his hand absentmindedly reached to stroke her hair gently as he watched the sunrise through the window. The distant sounds of the celebrations having long died off. The morning filled with the soft sounds of nature, waking to start it's day with the rising sun.

Ivar's back ached from sitting for so long in one spot. Shifting carefully, he pulled himself up onto the bed, stretching with a groan before moving to rearrange the now unconscious girl beside him under the furs. Laying down on the opposite side of the bed, watching her peaceful features as she drifted further and further into the reaches of sleep. Ivar moving to tuck a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. Finger trailing gently from cheekbone to jawline, thumb settling on the small cleft of her chin; taking the opportunity to memorize every perfect feature of her face.

"Rest well...my sweet Ylva." He spoke gently. "I will return soon." Pulling away as he lowered himself onto the floor, he dragged his way towards the door as he headed back to the village to see Bjorn off on his latest journey.

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TRANSLATIONS: Ylva ((from my findings)) is Old Norse for She-Wolf. Pronouncing to the effect of "ULL-VA" the U being a more UH sounding.

TAGLIST:

@captstefanbrandt @jade770 @readsalot73 @that-goodgirl @greennightspider @microsmacrosandneedles @irishhiggins @dmv49 @naaladareia @terrainhead @xxwarhawk

#The Cripple & The Bastard #Vikings #Ivar The Boneless #ivar's heathen army #ivar x ofc #Ivar Lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #Vikings fanfiction #Vikings fanfic #fanfiction #alex hogh andersen #writing

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taiyothings · 5 years

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OMG OMG OMG So someone sent me a fan written piece of my girl Luna!!! I'm dying and I am so in love with it. They aren't on FA so can't credit them But thank you so much Andrew! Art is done by NightTwilightWolf Starmuttani This Of All things

A child sat alone by the roadside, face smeared in grime and blood, as they watched the flickering flame-light dance off of the twisted metal that was once their family sedan. Sirens blared but the child did not hear them. Paramedics and fire and rescue crewmen scurried around the wreck like ants whose pheromone path had just been thoughtlessly trod upon. The child watched them, too. “Grandma, what is going on?” the child asked. A gentle voice beside them cooed. “They are doing their best, child. There are still people stuck in the wreckage.” “Are those people going to be okay?” “Yes, child. The workers you see are very good at their jobs. Nobody else is going to die today.” The child smiled a little. They had been on a drive with their parents who had decided to go on an impromptu picnic at a nearby park for the first time in forever. The child loved the park very much; watching people walking their dogs or skipping stones across the pond on the park’s edge. Even simply feeling the gentle kiss of the breeze on their skin as they dozed off in their parent’s arms under a shady tree would have been enough to make a memory they would not soon forget. All of that was just what could have been, now. The car crash had seen to that. This too would be a memory not soon forgotten. A moment’s lapse of concentration would leave a lifetime of scars on a number of people. The child and their parents, the other driver and the pedestrian unlucky enough to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only one soul had experienced the misfortune of passing, though. This left the child with only one question. The child turned to face the gentle voice beside them. “Why is this happening grandma? I don’t understand.” There was a moment’s pause as owner of the voice searched for the words. “The world is a kind and gentle place, child, but it can also be random and cruel. I cannot tell you why this is but I can show you. Close your eyes and let me take you away from this place.” Once the voice had gone silent, the child did as instructed and closed their eyes. Nothing happened at first but soon a haze descended upon their mind. Through it shined light and colour, the likes of which they had only ever seen in dreams. It gripped them, softly caressing their mind and lulling their body to rest. The child’s limbs grew heavy and their breathing even and slow. Everything around them seemed dull and unmoving as if it were submerged in molasses. They felt as if they could fall asleep at any second if it were not for an uncomfortable feeling that brushed against their mind. Though the child could not see it, they felt a presence not too far away. It was not an evil presence, or at least what they understood to be evil, but rather a dark one that sent a shiver up their spine. “Worry not, child. No harm will come to you,” the voice said. The kind words eased the child’s mind. The presence was still there but the child was also not alone. They were protected. They were safe. Moments passed as seconds until finally, the child fell asleep. Through the haze of dreams, the child saw their home. It was exactly as they remembered it when they had left in the morning. Birds chirped in the flowering tree in the front yard and the neighbour’s cat, a fat and greedy ginger tom, mewed softly at the front door, begging whoever was home for treats. The front door opened and familiar voices burst forth. It was the child’s parents’ voices, only they weren’t the gentle, caring voices that the child knew. Words edged in vehement acid and sadness cut through the air and the child felt a uniquely profound sadness that they had never felt before. They were arguing about something and neither was willing to concede an inch. What the argument was about didn’t matter, nor did who was right and who was wrong. Sharp words that were better left unsaid were uttered and old wounds had long since scabbed over were tore open. The child wanted to cry and they wanted to scream for their parents to stop but they couldn’t. “Grandma! Why are you showing this to me?” the child called out. The gentle voice remained silent but the images froze in time. The child’s parents were in the doorway with ugly expressions to mirror ugly feelings upon their faces. Slowly, they started to melt away like sand through an hourglass, leaving the child alone in the haze of dreams once more with nothing but their newfound sadness. The child wept and sobbed, their tears floating like waterbound diamonds through the ethereal haze. Time passed, though the child didn’t feel it. The only way the child could be sure that time had indeed passed was that something else happened. Somewhere, a phone rang. It rang and rang but nobody picked it up. After it stopped, the answering machine beeped. After the tone, a tinny-sounding voice spoke. “Hi… honey,” it said with a forced kind of pleasantness. It was the child’s father. The voicemail went on, “I just wanted you to listen to something. I don’t need to have an answer right away. I want to let them have one last happy memory before… well, I’m in talks with my lawyer and I would hope you are doing the same. Anyway, I want to go on one last picnic. The three of us. We can make sandwiches and skip stones across the lake and for just one day pretend that nothing is wrong.” The child couldn’t believe what they were hearing. How long had this been going on and what else had their parents been hiding from them? “I think we both know what’s going on but I don’t want our problems to ruin our child’s life. Like I said before, I don’t need an answer right away. Just… if you can do this for them I’ve resolved not to blame you anymore. I’m through acting like a spoilt child. Anyway, my lawyer just got back from his lunch so I guess I will see you at home.” The child sat, gobsmacked. Feelings that they couldn’t name or even describe welled up inside of them and overflowed, spilling ugly colour throughout the haze of dreams like a squid expelling ink. Chaotic images started to take shape, forming sneers and twisted, mocking faces. “Why didn’t they tell me?” the child thought. “Is it because it’s my fault?” “Be at peace, child,” a familiar voice said soothingly, dispelling the faces and returning the haze of dreams into its original state. “Grandma?” “Do not fret. There is nothing you can or could have done. Your parents only kept this from you because they love you. They wanted to protect you from the ugly sides of themselves.” “But I don’t understand!” “I said that I would show you that the world can be a cruel place but also that it is a kind and gentle one. What can you say about your parents now that you have seen this?” “That…” the child trailed. “That?” Swallowing the lump that had formed in their throat, the child went on. “That even though it was making them both suffer so much, they still put me first. They wanted to protect me.” “Good. And what does that say about them?” The fresh memory of angry faces and harsh words flashed through the child’s mind but it didn’t change their response. “That even if they don’t love each other anymore, they still love me.” “Yes. Very good, child.” The voice sounded satisfied, in a way. “Now, let us continue onwards.” The haze of dreams shifted and began to move once again, coalescing at the child’s feet and forming a small lake that shone like a mirror. The child gazed into the mirror lake and saw an unfamiliar room. There was a bed with a woman laying in it and a lot of odd-looking equipment and devices with screens and displays that beeped and hummed. Many of the devices were attached to the woman, who stirred when a door was opened and a doctor stepped inside. “Hello, doctor,” said the woman weakly. “Hello,” the doctor replied. “How are you feeling?” The woman creased her lips into a thin smile. “I would be lying if I said I was feeling fine but I can manage. When do you think I’ll be able to go home?” The doctor said nothing for a moment, instead taking a deep breath. “I regret having to be the one to inform you of this but I believe it will be safer for you if you remain here. I know it is your wish to have the delivery in your own home but at this point I simply cannot allow it as your doctor.” “Oh,” the woman said dejectedly. “I know nothing is wrong now but given your medical history, I think it is safest if we keep you here under observation.” “Is that so…” The child took pause for a moment. They had no idea what was going on but they had never seen someone looked so crushed before. Without realising it, the child had leaned in closer and closer until their nose tickled the edge of the mirrored pool, sending ripples out and across its surface. Even though they were only watching from a dream, it was the child’s genuine hope that the woman could go home and do whatever it was she wanted to do. As the ripples reached the edges of the pool and started to make their way back, a shocked expression crossed the woman’s face for an instant before all of her colour drained away. “Doctor, I think my water just broke,” she whispered almost distantly. The doctor immediately sprung into action, calling for nurses and things to be brought to the room. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” the doctor said hurriedly. “Just breathe. An orderly has just called your husband and he said that he would be here soon.” Just as the image in the mirror lake began to disappear, the child heard a pained moan. Based on the voice, it came from the woman. Calling out into the darkness, the child asked, “Grandma, what was happening to that poor woman?” The voice returned as if it had been there all along. As far as the child could tell, it had been. “That woman is bringing a new life into the world.” “You mean she is having a baby?” “Yes, child. Her loved one promised that he would get there as fast as he could when it was time for the baby to be born.” “Oh,” the child said. “That is great and all but I don’t understand why you wanted to show me this.” “Remember that the world can be random and cruel, child. This woman’s husband was the man driving the car that struck yours.” Suddenly, the child did not feel so good. They felt dizzy and faint and their world began to spin. “That’s so s...” the began but couldn’t find the strength to finish. The world fell away and everything that had been was suddenly replaced with pain. “Sad,” the child said, barely above a whisper from bleeding lips. The dream had ended and now the child found themselves in reality once more. A reality that they had only just now become able to comprehend. “Grand… ma?” the child uttered, pausing to fill their now shallow lungs between each syllable. “Yes, child?” Talking had suddenly become much harder but the child tried their best. “You’re not really... my grandma… are you?” “No, child. My name is Luna and I am a spirit of the afterlife. I am here to take you away.” Through swollen eyelids, the child saw a magnificent fox with many tails and whose fur was the as the sky at twilight on the roadside where the child had sat earlier or, at least, the place where Luna had shown them to be. It was a beautiful, gentle-looking creature, befitting of its kind voice and demeanor. “I don’t... blame the other driver... or my parents for the crash.” “Good, child,” Luna said. “It is nobody’s fault, really. It is just an unfortunate accident.” The voice had become distant and difficult to make out, like it coming from another room. The pain that wracked the child’s body too was becoming dull now. “I guess I’m... just unlucky…” “Yes, child. You have been most unfortunate but this could have happened to anyone at any time. It is my sole wish that you do not pass from this world, hating it and the people who yet live in it. Even though the world is random and cruel, it is still a kind and gentle place.” “I see that now,” the child replied. Strangely, speaking had become much easier and it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from their little shoulders. The child heard cries from outside belonging to their parents as well as the sound of some kind of tool chewing its way through the burnt out husk that used to be their family sedan. They would never make it in time, the child knew, because it was already too late. The paramedics, bless their souls, would try. They would always try but sometimes all the effort in the world cannot stop the inevitable. “Worry not, child. Another spirit shall be here soon to collect you and take you to a place where suffering does not exist. Her name is December. Promise me to greet her properly.” “Okay,” said the child. “I promise.” Luna, the magnificent fox then vanished from view and the world began to shift out of focus. Gone was the car and the paramedics and rescue crew. Gone were the child’s parent and the dazed and confused looking man who was soon to be a father. It was sad that they had to leave the world so soon after entering it but the child felt at peace. It wasn’t as if they would never see their parents or loved ones again. It was simply not their time.

Moderators Note: OMG OMG OMG So someone sent me a fan written piece of my girl Luna!!! I'm dying and I am so in love with it. They aren't on FA so can't credit them But thank you so much Andrew! Art is done by NightTwilightWolf Starmuttani

#Luna #AskDecember #Writting #Fanart

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geminimoonbeamx · 7 years

Text

Bucky Barnes x Plus size reader Confessions

Word Count: 3K +

Warnings: Smut. Oral(male receiving) Mentions of violence and trauma. Mentions of Anxiety. Lotssss of cursing

Bucky wasn’t feeling so hot, the run in with the Hydra agents a few days ago was still taking it’s toll on his body. Being a super solider, genetically enhanced to be able to take a beating, was the only reason he was still alive. His three cracked ribs we’re all but mended and most of the superficial bruises and cuts we’re healed, leaving in their wake little scars and lumps. The gash that had been sliced into his head, the one that Bruce had said would have been his doing in, if not for the “super healing”, was all stitched up and still throbbed, but had begun to scab up and was reacting to the stiches well. He still had to wear the bandage that annoyed the shit out of him and itched something awful, but it was a small bargin to make.

The whole group that had gone on the mission; Tony, Steve, Bucky, Thor and Nat were all recuperating from the blood bath that had went down were all still hurting for the most part.

Bucky had been forced to bed rest, to let his body be idle so it could recover fully, and hadn’t left your room in over 48 hours. He liked your room a lot better then he liked his, even though it was identical to his lay out wise. Being the S.H.E.I.L.D appointed “Baby Sitter” to the Avengers meant you had moved into the tower, Tony giving you a “bunk”.

It was like being back in college, and at first you’d been annoyed. For you, who had lived on your own for years, the idea being forced to share your space with other people was daunting. But the so called “bunk” Tony gave you was one of the large, modern rooms. You’d made the best of it. Made it your own. Your large bed was adorned with soft bedding; littered with soft faux fur blankets and piled high with decorative, throw pillows.

Bucky liked to tease you about them because “who in their right mind needs this many pillows?” but in secret, he loved your bed. Loved how comfy and homey you we’re able to make the space. He felt the whole building was a little to clean, too hospital like with Tony’s mod decoration, but not your room.

It smelled warm and sweet from the littering of candles. Just like you.

He’d all but moved in to it with you since you two had started “going steady”.

He never knew how much he hated sleeping alone til’ he’d started sleeping with you, your plush body reassuring next to him. Your soft arms and doughy thighs wrapping around him, welcoming him to cling to you. The nightmares that had plagued him nightly now came in far lest frequent bursts, something about being lulled to sleep by the sound of your muted breathing, was like an all natural sleep aid…what he didn’t realize is that you, and your sleeping habits had become dependent on him too.

On the warmth he seemed to generate, on his small wheezing snores, on his arms protectively thrown over you.

You hated when he went on missions, dreaded them like you dreaded nothing else. Waited for him desperately, throwing yourself into whatever work you could find to keep your mind occupied, until he came home to you. It was a little pathetic really. You, a (Y/A) year old woman, not being able to sleep. Or eat. Or think right with out this man.

You always imagined the worst while he was gone, tied yourself into knots, had to take more of your anti-anxiety medication then normal. What if he was taken by Hydra again? What if they killed him this time? They only consolation you had in those panic laden moments was the absolute knowledge that Steve loved Bucky as much as you did. Maybe even more. And that he would NEVER let any of that shit happen.

The latest mission had brought your fears to life, you knew it was bad from the news reports. From the frantic coms back to base. They’d been ambushed by a group of Hydra agents who had some weird, deadly alien weapon; a bomb. Twelve civilians had been killed. The group almost been killed. Watching them hobble into the tower was like watching a scene from a war movie. Slow motion, all of them bloody. Like something out of a fucking nightmare. You’d almost hysterically sobbed at the sight of him, limping- his hair matted with grit and gore. Even though Bruce and the other medical’s had assured you both that he was fine you was still pretty shaken up.

You were more happy to have your beat up soldier in your bed, where you could see him. Where he was tangible and breathing. You weren’t very sure you ever wanted to let him out on another fucking mission again…

You walk into your room and see Bucky sitting propped up against the headboard and a white furry blanket pulled around him as he watches the TV. His eyebrows are knitted together, and it would almost look comical paired with the bandage on his head(major grumpy cat vibes) but the TV flashes with News images from the battle that had ensued in Japan. That had left him bruised and battered and bed ridden.

You shut the door behind you, loud enough so that it catches his attention and his blue eyes snap over to your entering frame and he gives you a half grin as you kick off the pair of leopard print heels, eager to get into bed with him.

“Hey kitten” He gruffs out his special name, just for you, as you climb cautiously onto your side of the bed. He’d told you that he wasn’t hurting much anymore, that you didn’t have to be so carful but you weren’t listening.

“Hi baby” You reach over kiss his scruffy cheek, nosing the indent below his cheekbone for a moment. Just breathing him in. You’d had, had to leave for a few hours, go do your job and work on cleaning up the aftermath.

Why had the hours felt like an eternity?

He looks you over, frowning a little bit as his metal hand comes up to stroke your cheek. You look tired, not even the concealer could hide the bags you were sporting.

“You look ’s bad as I feel” He mutters, not liking the state of his girl. You huff a laugh. A sweet little sound.

“That’s not very nice, asshole” Your words hold no venom, only teasing as you pull away so that you can get a better look at him. He doesn’t look so great himself. You finger the edges of the bandage on his forehead feather lightly.

“You know I think your a dime piece” Bucky reassures and you roll your eyes “You look exhausted though”

“That’s because I am. I didn’t really sleep that much last week. And now you’re a cripple and I’ve got to be your nurse, you’re never going to give me a break, are you? Being with you is my second full time job now” You tease and he pokes your shoulder in retaliation, but it’s made him chuckle. Which was your goal.

You could always make him laugh. You we’re such a little shit.

“Why didn’t you sleep last week?” He thinks he knows why, but he wants to make sure. Wants to hear you say it.

“You know I cant sleep with out you” You admit to him, gnawing on your bottom lip for just a moment “Which is fucked up because I used to love sleeping alone. Did you take your pain killers?” You quickly switch the subject, leaning up on your arm to look down at him with a crooked brow.

Bucky sighs. He knows that you’re not very comfortable talking about your feelings like this, not even with him. In the four months that you’d been together, he’d learned that for as affectionate you could be, you weren’t good at voicing what you felt.

And he loved your voice.

“Yeah, I took some almost an hour ago- you know I cant sleep without you either right?” He pulls on your arm, trying to make your rigid posture loosen.

You’re unyielding, your mouth quirking and nose scrunching. He knows that’s your thinking face, you’re I’m unsure of how to feel face. So he goes on with how he feels instead.

“I had nightmares almost every night…I don’t remember them being so damn vivid, you know? Since I haven’t been having them as much lately. Steve didn’t really know what to do. I could tell he was real worried though. I felt like crap, I tried to suck it up but all I wanted to do was be here with you. In your arms. That’s all I ever really want, if we’re being honest here”

Hearing his confession makes you drop your head to his chest and wrap your arm around him, tighter then you’d let yourself in days.

“I thought you we’re dead, Buck. When Tony commed in- it was so fucking fucked up. And then you we’re all covered in blood and I was- I was just…so scared. I cant sleep when your gone. I cant eat. All I can do is freak out and be a total spazzy mess until your back” Your own confession comes in a fast woosh. Your words tumbling over themselves.

He rubs your back in soothing circles through your shirt. I’m here, it says. I’m alive.

“I’ll always try my hardest to come back to you. I’ll find a way back” Bucky vows and you just shake your head.

“You cant promise that. The shit that goes on out there is out of your control” it’s mumbled into his chest. Your voice cracks and it breaks his fucking heart, seeing you all torn up the way you are. Over him.

“Hey, Y/N, look at me. Please, kitten” He nudges your head with his chin “Please?”

Your eyes rise to meet his. (y/e/c) meeting baby blue.

“I know I cant promise that, but what I can promise is that you’re all I’m thinking about when I’m out there. And it…makes me fight harder. Because I just want to come back and see your face, one more time” he squeezes your dimpled cheek in affection and your big teary eyes roll “plus, I’ve survived a hell of a lot. You repeat that to yourself when ever you get scared, kay? I do”

You nod, taking mental note.

Your man had survived an a hundred foot drop. The war. Hydra, multiple times. He’d survived being an experimental plaything, he’d survived being a prisoner. He’d survived Nat’s pancakes(which had almost killed you all).

“I love you” It’s not the first time you’ve said it to him, but the look in your eyes…the complete and utter devotion. Like you were admitting, to both yourself and him, that you were his. That you’re whole fucking world crumbled when he wasn’t around. That you needed him more then you’d ever needed anything.

It makes the pit of his stomach tighten and stir because no ones looked at him like that…ever. Not even before he was a murder, before he was tainted by all the shit he had been forced to do. To have you, giving yourself to him. You, who shown like sunshine. Who demanded attention and respect, who was the most quick witted woman he’d ever met- truly had the compacts to love a man like him.

It boggled his mind. It set him on fire.

He reaches so that he can press his lips to yours, kissing you with all the things he cant say. He doesn’t ever feel more like himself, James Barnes, then he does when he’s kissing you. Like if you could see something in him, then maybe it was really there.

“I love you. I love you. I love you” you chant it like a prayer between his kisses. All that pent up emotion coming out in pure, raw endearment. He goes to roll over on to you but hisses at the strain, at the pang in his ribs.

“Hey” You soothe, pushing him back lightly into his positon against the headboard “You’re still hurt, broken ribs don’t heal over night, not even for super soldiers”

You laugh but he groans.

“Come here then” He pulls at your waist a little, wanting the intimacy of your bodies being pushed together back and you’re more then happily to comply.

You drive him nuts, he’s so attracted to you it kills him sometimes, he’s in a constant state of love goggled want when it comes to you. And when you praise him, with your words and your lips the way you are now, he melts. He’d give you anything you asked for He’d do fucking anything for you.

“Kitten” Bucky sighs as you kiss the expanse of his bristley neck, nipping at his jaw, nosing his collar bone. He couldn’t really move right now, which you knew meant sex was off the table. But his groans and moans, his needy hands. The thought of him having nightmares without you. It all spurred you on.

You just wanted to take care of him. Wanted him to feel better. Wanted how much you loved him to surround him.

And you’d always been a very…physical lover. People who think big girls don’t care to have sex lives are wrong. You need that connection. Especially with him. And it had been missing for a week.

Bucky feels your hand slink lower on his chest, still careful for the remaining bruising. Running over every nook, every muscle that was taught with excitement. You let draw circles on the apex of his hips, just above where the ‘V’ of his hips meets his sweat pants and his lower stomach contracts, beautifully.

“Y/N” he hisses as you tug at the hem of the sweat pants, enough to allow his cock to release from it’s confines, stand tall, and slap against his stomach.

You don’t think you’ll ever get over that view.

“Going commando, are we?” You whisper in his ear as you stroke the underside of him with just your fingernails.

“Please don’t tease me” Bucky begs. He knows how you are. Has been edged for hours before “Not tonight”

You nod against his jaw and begin to move your hand “Okay, baby, okay”

There’s so much pre-cum already, you use the palm of your hand to rub at his tip and the strangled little moans you get in return are fucking heaven.

Then, your moving down him, not putting any of your weight his healing abdomen as you go eye level with his cock. It’s dangerously plump, red and swollen as you hold him by the base.

“Poor baby” you coo as you press a loving kiss to the tip, running it over your lips in an attempt to soothe the engorgement “I’m going to take care of you, Buck. Don’t worry”

Bucky’s head snaps back hard onto your many pillows as he lets out a long breath tough his nose as you proceed to leave open mouth kisses all over him, sucking the sides of his hard dick, giving him all of your attention. Wanting to get every inch of him before you take him into your mouth.

You’d never had that great of a gag reflux, but god damn it, your try for him. Take as much as him into your mouth, down your throat as you can. Your body rejects it, your tight little esophagus tightening in protest and the gags you let out loud as you fight to take more.

Bucky’s eyes roll because holy shit, you’ve never taken this much of him in your mouth before. He has to see, he lifts his head enough so that he can see down his body, to where his cock is burred in your mouth. Your (y/c/h) is tumbling around your head, falling onto his stomach so he runs his metal hand trough it in order to collect it, to get it out of your face, to help his good little baby doll.

You look up at him, your eyes teary, the makeup around them smudged and messy. His cock in stretching your mouth wide, your pretty lips bursting at the seams with him and he fucking loses it. His hips roll, even through the pain from his ribs, and he lets out a screeching moan neither of you had ever heard.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t cum in a week. Maybe its seeing you, willing suffer to take him like you were, he doesn’t know.

“I’m cumming. I’m cumming, Y/N” He warns but you don’t pull away. You continue to gag around him, sucking and bobbing.

He cums harder then he thinks he ever has. The long milky spurts fill your throat and you breathe through your nose as you attempt to take it all. Bucky cant even form a complete thought, his mind has gone white hot, his ears are ringing and his whole body keeps shaking uncontrollably. You reach up and grab his hand, in an attempt to wordlessly support him, to anchor him.

I’m here, Buck. I’m here.

It’s impossible to catch it all in your mouth and it seeps from the corners of your lips, dribbling down your chin, your neck, into your shirt and cleavage. You don’t give up though, taking it until the spurts stop and he’s ran himself dry.

“Y/N” Bucky whimpers as he pulls on you hair, he’s too sensitive. Your mouth on him feels searing and near painful and you slowly release him with a little ‘pop’ and then look up at him through your eyelashes, your eyes cartoon like. Bashful and soft and young looking. Your lips were swollen and raw and glistening, your chin still dripping with traces of his cum. Your hair messy and wild from his fingers.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Haunting.

His fingers stroke across your forehead, pushing tendrils of hair away as his chest swells with fondness.

“Oh Christ, Y/N” His strong arms pull you up to him “Come here, baby”

“Your ribs!” Your protest but he doesn’t listen, he just holds you tight on top of him, cradling your face with his flesh hand, his metal one holing your soft waist.

“I’m sorry- I know you don’t like- you didn’t have to swallow” He whispers as he wipes at your damp chin. You’d never been a swallower, always begging him to tell you when he was close so that you could pull away.

You shake your head, hard.

“No, I wanted to” You insist, and he smiles at the fire in your voice.

He really was in trouble. Was in deep, when it came to you.

“I love you, Y/N” His tone…sounds something like worship “I love you so much. I cant- your-I need you more then I-” He still cant think completely straight, not after that orgasm and you press a small peck to his lips.

“I know, Bucky. I love you too”

Raise your hand if you’d suck Sebastian’s dick in a second *throws both my hands in the air* I got a lot of Bucky oral requests so here you all go! So I’m kind of thinking about doing a collection of these? With this certain reader who works PR an psychology for the Avengers? Maybe?😬

#bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes #plus size reader #mcu imagine #bucky barnesxreader #Bucky Barnesxplus size reader

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kimjongdaely · 7 years

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Taken [Chapter 13]

Mafia!AU

Pairing: Suho x Reader

Warnings: Language; may have triggering situations including sexual situations, abuse, violence, etc.

Summary: You were just a normal girl. You were just trying to get by. Until a rather unfortunate relationship brought you to the hands of Suho, the leader of the greatest mafia in the country.

Prologue│Chapter 1│Chapter 2│Chapter 3│Chapter 4│Chapter 5│ Chapter 6│Chapter 7│Chapter 8│Chapter 9│Chapter 10│ Chapter 11│Chapter 12│Chapter 13│Chapter 14│Chapter 15│ Chapter 16│Chapter 17│Chapter 18│Epilogue

You spend nearly a month lying in the medical ward. Your wounds are slowly healing, and it doesn’t hurt that much to move, only a few stings here and there.

Lay—now you tend to call him Yixing—has been a great support. He always spends time to chat with you, taking your mind off any negative thoughts. He takes care of you like an older brother, and you’re more than grateful.

Since you’ve healed so much, Yixing allowed you to move back to your own room, no longer needing to stay in the medical ward under his watch. He insists that you come check up every week or so just to make sure.

Your smile falters and falls once you exit the medical ward, feeling suddenly very uneasy. You tried to feign that you’re fine, but you’re not. Not at all.

It’s around sundown, since Yixing insisted to give you one last checkup to make sure you’re really fine enough to go back to your own room. You step inside the empty room, seeing everything untouched since the day you left. Fresh clothes were set neatly on the bed.

Yixing had given you a hospital gown to wear instead of your old, bloody and torn ones. Now, you’re glad you have casual clothes to change into.

You grab the clothes and make your way to the bathroom. You’re shocked by your reflection, dropping the clothes in the process. You look pale, sickly pale, your cheeks sunken in and bags heavy under your eyes.

You look dead.

Slowly, you peel off your clothes, undoing the gauze Yixing had wrapped around your wounds, and stand bare in front of the mirror. Your body is thinner than it used to be, results of you being deprived of nutritious meals.

You suck in a sharp breath as you mentally prepare yourself, slowly turning so that you can see your back.

You shake as you stare at your wounds. Scabs everywhere. Some of them have already turned into permanent scars. Blue and purples bruises stretch over your skin. It’s so horrifying you can’t seem to look away.

Finally, you hug yourself and collapse onto the cold tiles, sobs wracking your broken body. You know your wounds look worse now since they haven’t fully healed, but at the moment you can’t think about anything other than they’re never going away. Scars will remain, forever.

You don’t remember how long you sat there just sobbing, hugging yourself and trying to withdraw into yourself.

Eventually, Suho came in to get you. He probably heard you crying.

He crouched next to you, unsure what to do with you. He gently helps you up, leading you back out to make you sit on your bed. He leaves the room and then reappears with fresh gauze in his hands. You don’t move. You don’t lift up your head. You feel so helpless, so ugly, so broken.

You don’t dare look Suho in the eyes.

He slowly wraps the gauze around your body, his touch careful and precise. You don’t feel uncomfortably being bare in front of him, especially when his eyes never linger, just focusing on the task at hand.

When he finishes, he helps you pull on the large t-shirt, deciding to discard the pants since you didn’t look like you cared anyways.

He helps you lie on the bed, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Get some sleep, you need it.”

But you don’t want to sleep. You’re going to have nightmares again and end up waking in an hour.

“Can you…” your voice is soft and shaky, “…stay here? Just until I fall asleep.”

His face is unsure, but it smooths out into a gentle smile. He nods and grabs a chair to sit down next to your bed.

You close your eyes, feeling him watching you.

That night, you didn’t have a single nightmare.

You wake up expecting Suho to still be there, and you’re slightly disappointed when you find the chair empty. You mentally laugh at yourself; of course. You told him to only stay until you fall asleep. No way is he going to stay with you in that hard chair all night.

You get up, stretching, feeling the stiffness and slight throb that still lingers in your back. You go through your usual morning routine, deciding to go take a look at the practice arena. The others have come occasionally to visit you when you were in the medical ward, but overall you didn’t see them much. You can’t blame them, they have a lot on their plate.

You make your way down, poking your head through the door to find the boys indeed training.

“You’re up!” Chen is first to notice you after you stealthily slipped in, dropping the sword he was using and jogging up to you. You flash him a smile, nodding. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” Your smile tightens. “Slightly.”

His excitement dims. “Yeah…that’s expected after what happened.” He purses his lips tightly.

“I’m fine.” You try to cheer him up. “Don’t worry. I’m here now, right?”

He grins. “True.”

“Chen~” Baekhyun pops up from behind Chen with a wide smile, eyes twinkling. “Let’s have a duel!”

“Oh sure.” Chen grins. “We haven’t dueled in a while.”

“Are you going to watch us?” Baekhyun turns towards you with puppy dog eyes and you laugh, unable to refuse.

“Sure.”

“Yay! Watch me beat Chen!” Baekhyun runs off to get his weapon again, Chen following him while whining loudly saying he’ll be the one to beat Baekhyun.

You decide to take a seat on one of the benches aligned against the walls, letting out a sigh as you scan the arena, no sign of Suho.

“You look better.” Another voice speaks, and you look up to see Xiumin. He smiles and sits down next to you.

“I guess.” You mutter, looking down at your feet. “I slept well last night.”

“I’m glad to hear that. When we got you from Luhan,” he starts. “You looked like a corpse. Everyone was very worried. Suho almost had a panic attack.”

You smile at the thought. You go silent for a moment before deciding to ask, “…Where’s Suho?”

“Out.” He answers simply. “Another mission.”

“Oh.” You manage lamely.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Xiumin says after a pause. “But may I ask you a personal question?”

You cock your head at him. “What is it?”

“Do you like Suho?”

His questions is so abrupt you almost choke on your own spit, your face heating up rapidly. “I-I—What?”

He lets out a small grin. “You can be honest with me. My lips are sealed.”

You sputter a bit more nonsense before finally whispering, “…Yes…”

He nods. “Well, I kind of knew.”

You don’t think it’s possible for your face to get any hotter.

“I’m glad…that it’s you.” He whispers softly, and you snap up to look at him. “If it was anyone else, I would be suspicious of their intentions. But if it’s you…” He smiles gently at you. “I suppose there’s nothing to worry about.”

His words surprise you. He stands up without another word and goes back to train.

Nightmares continue to haunt you every time you close your eyes. You are reminded of excruciating pain like hot fire against your back. You always dream of watching flowers with Luhan before the scenery goes black and you’re back in your prison cell.

You wake up in cold sweat, panting. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, trying to calm yourself, pacing your breathing. You’re okay. You’re safe. Luhan’s not here.

You can’t will yourself to close your eyes again. It’s been like this every night. Back in the medical ward, Yixing would come to lull you back to sleep, only for you to wake up from a nightmare again. You feel bad for keeping Yixing up too, but you can’t help it.

Now that you’re alone, you feel scared. No one’s there to comfort you, and you suddenly feel claustrophobic even in your spacious room.

Before you know it, you climb out of your bed and head towards the door, peaking out to check the hallways. It’s in the middle of the night, so you’re not surprised to find it dark and empty. Everyone is probably sleeping or out working.

You tiptoe as quietly as possible to Suho’s room. He was the first person you thought of after you woke up, but now you’re not sure if it’s okay to do this. Will he be angry? Are you just an annoyance? A burden?

You shake off your insecurities and decide to give it a try. You try to open the door quietly, creating a small crack, peaking in timidly. The room is dark and quiet, and you can clearly see Suho’s form lying on the bed.

You open the door a little wider enough to poke your head in, and almost jump out of your skin when you hear Suho speak sharply, “Who is it?”

You nervously answer, “It’s me…I-I had a nightmare…” You squeeze your eyes tightly, expecting to be quickly rejected. You blurt out, “Can I sleep here with you?”

There is a pause, and you feel like digging a hole and burying yourself in it. But then you see his form shift into a sitting position, his voice now much gentler, “Sure.”

You slowly enter his room, closing the door behind you, and make your way towards his bed. It’s a little awkward; you feel like a child who goes running to a parent when scared.

Suho lies down first. You take that as initiative to lie down yourself, staying on the right side of the bed, putting distance between your bodies.

Your heart is pounding, and you doubt you can fall asleep like this. Although it’s definitely better than nightmares.

“Sleep.” Suho’s voice is quiet but strong. He turns to face you, and in the dark you can only see his silhouette.

You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come to you. You try to fall asleep for several minutes, but it’s futile.

Then suddenly, Suho wraps his arms tightly around you, bringing you closer to his body. He’s warm, so warm the ice in your bones that grew there in your time with Luhan starts to melt.

He tucks your head under his chin, his hands careful not to irritate your wounds. His left hand strokes through your hair softly, and you feel yourself calming down.

“It’s okay.” He whispers softly. “You’re okay.”

You feel sleep slowly come to you. You can hear Suho’s slow heartbeat, his breath steady against your forehead.

Sleep was peaceful that night.

Going to Suho’s room started becoming a habit. The first few nights it was still slightly awkward. You would try your best to sleep alone, but after several tries, you realize it’s futile.

Eventually, Suho got so used to you climbing into his bed in the middle of the night that he just offered for you to go to his room from the beginning. You heated up from embarrassment, guilty for bothering him like that.

But Suho doesn’t show a hint of being uncomfortable or annoyed at you. If he does, he hides it well.

It’s strange, not even Yixing can ward off your nightmares. But when you’re with Suho, everything feels like it’s going to be okay. You feel safest with him, and it’s funny because he was the first one who tried to hurt you since you came here.

And now he’s like your guardian, protecting you from any harm.

You snuggle closer to his warm chest out of habit. He smells nice, you note. Like warm vanilla with something that is distinctly his.

You feel sleep tug at your mind again, and you welcome it with open arms.

Suho shifts to wrap an arm around you, and you find yourself saying what you wanted to say for a long time. “Junmyeon, I love you.”

You swore you felt something warm graze your forehead, and you fall asleep to a low hum vibrating in his chest.

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Taken Mini Masterlist

A/N: Since y’all been suffering the past few chapters, I decided to give you guys some Suho fluff. Hope you like the chapter and as usual, please tell me what you thought! Thanks for reading again~

©kimjongdaely

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mintchocolateleaves · 7 years

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Pay No Mind (1/6)

Notes: Listen, I write a lot, okay? Welcome to the next tododeku oneshot thing I’ve come up with.

Summary: During a villain attack, Midoriya Izuku is hit by a quirk that leaves him stuck in the recesses of his own mind. It's up to Todoroki Shouto to enter, and find his way to the classmate he's come to rely on.

Todoroki Shouto blinks open his eyes to white.

It’s blinding, and light stabs against his eyes, his head reeling with a sharp throbbing. A headache, Shouto quickly realises, although it’s worse than that, pressure making it difficult to see without gritting his teeth together, grinding into bone as he tries to think.

He can’t think.

And that’s confusing in of itself, because usually, even when he’s in pain, he’s at least capable of thinking things over without wincing too much. Not a headache then, because they’re not this bad.

A migraine then.

“Todoroki,” Recovery girl says, and her voice is loud, too loud, as he glances towards her. He lets out a small groan as he shifts his head, squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to bring himself something resembling comfort. He voice is a little quieter when she adds, “yes, he’s awake but I don’t think he’ll be able to answer any questions right now.”

There’s some words, but it’s muffled, too far away to be heard without paying attention.

“Let him rest a while longer,” Recovery girl says. Footsteps crack against laminate flooring, until Shouto can feel the older woman’s presence beside him, a shift in the bright light burning his eyelids. “Todoroki, you’re in pain, can you tell me where?”

Shouto opens his eyes to look at her, winces, and tries to answer. He lets out a whimper, squeezes his eyes closed again, and tries to drown the world out with black.

“Okay,” the nurse says, “I’ll do a general check. Rest a little longer, alright?”

There’s a feeling of lips against his forehead, and within seconds, her quirk leaves his head lighter, his body lulling him back into sleep.

The next time Shouto wakes, his head is less cluttered.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position, looks around the room. There are several beds, most of them made, but two with patients beneath the covers. He can’t make out who they are though, they’re at the other end of UA’s infirmary.

It makes him wonder what exactly he’s done to find himself a patient here. The last time he’d been sat in a bed like this, he’d recently fought against the hero killer Stain, having established himself as a hand crusher…

Midoriya, he can imagine becoming a patient, but him? Without any recollection of getting harmed? Shouto bites the inside of his cheek and looks around.

Recovery girl isn’t on her computer, which usually sits in the middle of the infirmary, meaning he’ll have to wait for whatever verdict, or explanation she can give him. And knowing her rules, he’ll be skinned if he even tries to leave without her clearing him first.

So, Shouto sits, fixed to his bed and he surveys any damage he can.

He must have been pretty injured, because scabs line his left arm, the aftermath of burns being healed, but not completely. And his muscles ache an absurd amount, something that shows Recovery girl must have used her quirk to his body’s limit, leaving him exhausted.

Shouto glances at the burns, they’re dry, bright red around the edges, but he doesn’t really feel the pain. Meaning, they’re mostly healed, around the nerve endings anyway. Still, seeing them makes him feel nervous, and he lowers his arm, searching for something else to focus on.

He glances to his side, the small bedside table filling his vision. His phone’s on it, along with his keys – all things he realises were probably in his pockets when he’d been brought into the infirmary and changed into the blue hospital gown he’s currently swathed in. There’s also a paper note in it, the sides singed black.

Shouto picks his phone up – it’s dead – and then unfolds the note, trying to keep the ends from crumbling too much as he glances over it. The writing is his, an address scrawled in black across the page. He doesn’t recognise it, but with missing information in his head, he’s not really surprised that he doesn’t.

“You’re awake,” Recovery girl drags his attention back to the present. Shouto turns to face her, watching the nurse stride towards him. She offers him a smile, prescribed kindness that only she seems capable of handing out without seeming over the top. “It’s about time.”

Shouto watches as she moves one of the chairs by the side of his bed, moving it so she can face him when she sits.

When she’s comfortable, she places her hands in her lap and says, “what can you remember about the incident?”

Eyes widening, Shouto shakes his head, because if he hadn’t woken up in the infirmary he wouldn’t have known there’d even been an incident. He says, “I don’t remember anything.”

A rush of guilt races through him, sparks down his spinal cord, spreading outward as he admits it, because he should know. He glances down, sighs and mutters an apology. A good hero wouldn’t just forget how he’d gotten injured, he’d have remembered and figured out a way to avoid such a thing again.

“That’s alright,” Recovery girl says, and she nods her head. “You were brought into the infirmary with a serious head injury, I wasn’t expecting you to be able to recall much of what happened.”

The words offer the slightest relief, but not much. Instead, Shouto digs his nails into his palms.

“What did happen,” he asks.

“There was a villain attack,” Recovery girl says, and she crosses her arms. “It was just outside the Taito ward, and you got caught up in it, along with two of your classmates, Iida and Midoriya.”

Shouto feels helplessness and desperation run through him, as he turns. “Are they both okay?”

His gaze drifts past the nurse, to the two figures in hospital beds on the other side of the room, watching them breathe – he’d not thought it would be those two, and they’re still sleeping which obviously means they’re more injured and, and-

“You were the most injured,” Recovery girl says, “they’re both safe. Iida managed to get the help of heroes, before things could escalate. He sprained his ankle, but it’s already been healed. And Midoriya’s already been healed for the breaks he’s received, physically they’re both fine.”

Shouto exhales, shoulders loosening with his relief.

Then, he squints, turns back to the nurse. He narrows his eyes, trepidation filling him, “what do you mean physically?”

It’s simple really.

Iida, who’d gone in search for heroes, had been relatively unharmed, hadn’t been affected by any of the villain’s attacks.

Midoriya however, had been struck with a quirk partway through the fight, and had fallen unconscious. He hadn’t woken since.

“What do you mean Midoriya hasn’t woken since?” Shouto says, and he bites down too hard on the inside of his cheek that all he can taste is blood. “That’s not… He’ll wake up soon right, just let him get some rest-”

Recovery girl shakes her head, “it’s been six days.”

At that, Shouto balks.

Six days? But, but that’s not possible. Surely, they’re lying. Midoriya wouldn’t have just… fallen into a coma because of some villain’s, what kind of quirk even does that to a person?

“I-” Shouto takes a moment to think, comes short with nothing and finds himself cursing the villain’s he can’t remember fighting. “Why hasn’t he? Isn’t there any way to – what quirk – Will he be okay?”

He can’t settle on what he wants to say, each word springing to mind before he has the chance to fully say it. And with every second that follows, with Recovery girl’s expression so solemn, Shouto feels dread bloom in his stomach, a weed that overpowers any resemblance of hope he can feel.

“I don’t know the particulars,” the nurse says, although her expression says otherwise, “and the villains are currently still in custody, but it seems to be a mind-altering quirk that’s keeping him unconscious.”

It doesn’t help lessen his dread, and Shouto finds himself worrying, his gaze drawn to the bed Recovery girl has pointed out as Midoriya’s, the boy sleeping without any signs of awakening. Even the idea of the boy being unable to wake up again is sickening, let alone–

It’s a reality that Shouto doesn’t want to be a part of.

“Is there a way to wake him up?” He asks, desperate. There is a moment of hesitation as the nurse glances towards the other end of the infirmary, before she offers him another smile.

This one is not reassuring.

“We’ve got a quirk specialist coming in this afternoon,” she says, “we’ll see if she can reverse the quirk. Now, I want to test your memory and balance to make sure the hit to your head hasn’t left any lasting damage, alright?”

Shouto is meant to be resting when the specialist in psychological quirks and their effects enters the infirmary, but he’s not. He remains rooted in his bed, awake enough to listen to the conversation from the other end of the room, but with too little energy to insist he listen in.

“Oh,” the specialist says, her voice low and difficult to hear without straining his ears, “this is quite the predicament.”

“Yes,” Recovery girl responds.

“Let me just take a look-” there’s a pause, and seconds draw out into minutes of silence. “It’s as I thought, his mind is still very much so active, but he’s unable to wake up. Right now, he’s trapped in his unconscious.”

Shouto tries not to think too much over the premise, and fails. Stuck within his unconscious, among memories and desires, conflicts that Midoriya must be fighting against… being stuck without an escape from every thought…

“Is there any way to wake him up,” Recovery girl asks.

“It’s possible in cases like this,” the specialist says, “but most of the time, it’s dependent on the patient. You can have someone find them in their unconscious, but essentially, the patient won’t wake unless they break through it themselves.”

Shouto shrugs his blankets off him, plants his feet onto the floor and pushes himself up. He sways on his feet, grabs the rail at the end of the bed until he can regain his balance. Exhaustion seeps into his bones, makes it difficult to think things over.

“It shouldn’t take very long to find him in his unconscious,” the specialist continues, “the problem will be gaining his trust so that he’ll realise I’m telling the truth about him waking up.”

Shouto pushes himself forward now, paces towards the end of the infirmary, to where Midoriya’s bed is located.

“Let me do it,” Shouto says, and his voice is steeled, determined to get what he wants. Both adults turn to face him, both wearing various expressions of shock. “If it’s a problem of trust, then let me go in, Midoriya trusts me.”

The specialist contemplates it, but Recovery girl glowers instead.

“Absolutely not,” the nurse says.

“It would raise the probability of awakening,” the specialist counters, “but, you’d be putting yourself in danger if you were to do so, you’d be stuck in his head until the patient wakes up. Unlike me, who can simply come and go from his mind.”

“I don’t care,” Shouto says, and he forces himself not to sway on his feet again, not to let any signs of weakness spread across his body. “Midoriya’s helped me before, and I know he’d do the same now, so… let me help him.”

“I’m not putting another student at risk,” Recovery girl says. Shouto stares her down, waits to see if she’ll back down – she’s treated too many heroes to be intimidated by him. “Absolutely not.”

“Tell me honestly,” Shouto says, glancing at the specialist and ignoring Recovery girl’s refusal, “since Midoriya trusts me, would that make his odds of waking up higher?”

He receives a nod. “The rate of success goes from 35%, to roughly 60%, but there’s a 40% chance that neither of you will wake up.”

“I’ll do it.” Shouto says, and take a step forwards. He glances down at Midoriya’s sleeping form, grits his teeth at the idea of this being permanent, and shakes his head. “I don’t care if it’s risky, or if you disapprove, I still want to do it.”

Recovery girl heaves out a sigh. She says, “I can’t say yes, not if it means risking your life.”

“But you can leave long enough for us to do it without your consent.” Shouto says, and the nurse scowls at the thought. “Midoriya saves everyone without thinking about himself, and now you’re denying me a chance to repay that?”

“Your life-”

“Is only worth what it is, because he helped me.” Shouto’s mind flashes back to Endeavour, the man’s legacy that he’s thrown behind instead of fretting over. To his mother and how he’d finally met her again, purely because Midoriya had pushed him far enough.

Recovery girl scowls. She says, “I’m not condoning this.” Shouto opens his mouth to argue, but she stops him by continuing, “but there’s nothing I’d be able to do if you were to do so while I was making myself a coffee.”

Shouto lets out a sigh of relief, glances towards the specialist. He says, “will you…?”

She nods, although she too, looks nervous.

“Listen,” she says, “it’ll be dangerous, so don’t let your guard down. But more importantly, don’t use your quirk. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, you are going into his mind, and you can’t damage it.”

Shouto nods.

And Recovery girl, heaving out a sigh, excuses herself to go and make coffee.

The first thing Shouto sees upon entering Midoriya’s mind, is fire.

Glass has been blown out of buildings, smoke rising from them all – in the middle of the carnage is a villain Shouto remembers seeing from the news back in middle school, a sludge monster.

He remembers how All-Might had beaten it with a single punch, how Endeavour had seethed, his anger simmering before reaching its boiling point.

Shouto had been glad for his ice powers then, because he’d managed to cool his arm down quick enough to avoid any burns the man had ‘unintentionally’ given during their following training session.

“But why is Midoriya thinking about this?” Shouto wonders, glances around. There are heroes around, although he can’t see All-Might yet. And there’s a crowd, except they’re transparent, more like ghosts than people.

And there… at the back is Midoriya, stood watching with wide eyes.

It takes a few seconds to realise that this isn’t the Midoriya he knows, but part of the scene, part of this memory. Shouto races towards him anyway, glances at him with tension coiled around his bones.

“Midoriya.” He says, wondering if he can get him to snap out, of whether he’ll need to search further for the boy, “Midori-”

“Kacchan.” His classmate doesn’t even see him, pales instead in horror as he pushes past ghosts, attempting to reach the front. “No.”

Shouto turns, looks towards the villain. He remembers the sludge monster had taken someone hostage, but since he’d been a middle schooler, the news hadn’t been able to declare who, as per the privacy laws for minors. Now that he’s looking however, the hostage is very much so, Bakugou Katsuki.

And Midoriya is terrified by this fact.

“Someone help him,” Midoriya mutters, and he takes a step forward, raises a hand as if to help Bakugou. “Why isn’t anyone helping him?”

Shouto turns, glances around the crowd for any sight of All-Might, and doesn’t find him. But… but this is Midoriya, Shouto thinks. Why isn’t he rushing in to help, it’s something the boy has done several times since already this year.

“Why aren’t you trying to save him?” Shouto asks. This version of Midoriya doesn’t react to his words, and Shouto realises that it must be because he doesn’t fit into the memory, isn’t part of the scene. He’s simply an onlooker. “You’re strong enough to help him if you tried.”

Midoriya shrinks in on himself, “All-Might was right, I can’t be a hero.”

Shouto feels his eyes widen. All-Might said… something like that? But… Midoriya has always been the number one hero’s favourite student, something he’d tried to hide but hadn’t ever fully been able to keep from everyone’s mind.

“I’m just a wannabe,” Midoriya whispers, “I won’t be able to save anyone.”

The other boy flickers, much like the flames around him and within a blink Midoriya is at the back of the crowd again. Shouto watches silently, as the other boy spots the villain, notices Bakugou in it’s clutches.

“Kacchan,” Midoriya pushes through the crowd again, “no.”

[Next]

#Once again I'm gonna limit myself to a 25k max wc for this fic because I'm not subjecting myself to anymore pain than that #Midoriya Izuku #Todoroki Shouto #tododeku #Recovery Girl #Bakugo Katsuki #Iida Tenya #All-Might #Boku no Hero Academia #My Hero Academia #bnha #Fic: Pay no Mind #mywriting

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hurt-care · 7 years

Text

North to South

I’m a huge suck for Jon Snow so if you’re gonna put him in icy water and then show him looking sad in a bed covered in fur blankets, you better believe I’m gonna write the interim bit where he’s sick. (And hello, vanillas, if you stumble here. This is sickfic/sneezefic. But you’re welcome to check it out, I guess?)

North to South A Game of Throne fic

*SPOILER WARNINGS FOR ALL CURRENT EPISODES THROUGH THE END OF SEASON 7*

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If you're not planning on watching the show or just want some backstory for what is going on here without knowing anything about the show, here's some fast facts so you can still read and enjoy the story: -Jon Snow is a man from the North who recently fell through the ice on a mission and barely made it back to safety. When he was found, he was unconscious and mostly frozen. He was taken on board a ship belong to Daenerys Targaryen, "Mother of Dragons" and candidate for the throne. They've expressed some subtle feelings for each other up to this point, but nothing major. Daenerys "Dany" has recently had one of her three dragons die during the mission where Jon was wounded/frozen. Davos is Jon's squire of sorts (he's a knight) and Missandei is Dany's head handmaiden and advisor.

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When he wakes, he feels a hundred shooting pains across his body where the frostbite has nipped at his toes and where his skin prickles as it slowly returns to a normal temperature. Everything is stiff and achy and generally uncomfortable. But when he opens his eyes and sees her, it all fades away against the rush of sadness.

“I'm sorry,” he says. His voice sounds far away and barely a whisper to his own ears. He swallows and tries again. “I'm so sorry.”

He knows what needs to be done, even with the cold addling his thoughts. When she slips her warm hand out of his, he's no longer the King in the North; he's a subject of Daenerys Targaryen.

She leaves him lying alone in bed, his mind racing. In spite of his injuries, there's a warmth of desire pulsing through him and he closes his eyes, settling down under the furs and letting the heat spread through his limbs. But he's still weak and even the short visit has tired him enough to send him back to sleep quickly as the need for rest outweighs his want.

The next time he wakes, he's drowning again. The icy water's grip tightens around his throat as his furs and armour drag him further and further below the surface. Dead hands grab and twist at his ankles, pulling him deeper, but as he fights back and kicks upward.

And then he surfaces with a gasp, trembling from the cold. But he isn't back on the ice, north of the Wall; he's on a ship headed south and someone is trying desperately to help him.

“There's a good lad,” Davos says, holding onto Jon's shoulders and pushing him back into the mound of lumpy pillows. “You're okay.”

Jon falls back, coughing violently.

Under the thick pile of furs, he's shivering convulsively, unable to control his limbs. And the coughing won't rest, spasming and gripping his lungs in a fight to breathe. Davos shoves another pillow under his head, forcing his chest more upright, and claps a hand to Jon's upper back, giving him several sharp blows. Jon coughs hard once more and then regains his breath, going boneless and weak despite the chills vibrating his muscles.

“We have to keep you warm,” Davos urges, pulling up the furs so they're almost around Jon's neck. He tucks another small pelt around Jon's head like a hood. Jon doesn't protest. The ship is draughty and without the facilities for a fire, so he's grateful for any warmth he can get.

Davos rubs his hands up and down the outline of Jon's torso under the furs, trying to create more warmth. Slowly, Jon's quaking chills start to subside and he can mostly keep his teeth from chattering.

“You okay?” Davos asks. His worried face betrays the confident sound of his voice.

Jon nods weakly.

“Better,” he says, voice raspy. With sleep has come a deep-seated congestion in his lungs and nose that have left him breathing with a distinct rattle. Davos frowns and tucks the furs closer.

“I'm going to see if Missandei or one of the guards has some herbs to help your breathing,” he says to Jon.

“I just need rest,” Jon protests, his words followed by a snort and sniffle as he fights the congestion. He untangles a hand from under the furs and presses it to his nose. It does little except to encourage a sneeze that Jon muffles with his fist.

Hhh-gchfff!

“Health to you,” Davos replies. “You need medicines if they have them. I'll be right back. In the meanwhile...”

He reaches into the pocket on his belt and retrieves a rough linen square.

“It's not particularly soft, but it's clean,” he says, handing it over.

Jon takes it and presses it to his nose, stifling a second, more irritated sneeze.

Nhh-NXGHT!

Davos leaves the room and Jon lies still, feeling the gentle lull of the boat rocking his aching body. Where the magically-healed scars on his chest are marked, there are sharp pains as each cough and sneeze stretches the damaged skin along the stab wounds. He rubs the one over his heart absentmindedly, soothing the irritated scab.

He tries to relax, mentally willing his muscles to quit shivering, but every time he feels himself begin to slip back into sleep, he's startled by the reflex of a cough or the overwhelming itch in his nose as it demands to be cleared again and again.

When Davos returns, Jon is stuck in the cycle of a painful sneezing fit, curled up under the furs with the handkerchief held to his nose.

Eh-TSGH! Nhh-heh—eh-TGSGHH!

He pauses, looking up through watery eyes as the door opens. Davos has his hands full and Missandei is not far behind. Beyond them, he sees Dany watching silently. Their eyes meet for a moment before Jon is forced to blink with the onslaught of another sneeze.

Eh-TSCHITTT!

When he looks up again, the door is closed.

“Alright, lad,” Davos says, setting down a pile of accrued bowls and herbs and other odds and ends. “Let's see if we can get you settled a bit.”

He starts by tucking a wine skin under the blankets against Jon's chest. They've emptied it of its intended libation and instead filled it with hot water.

A metal bowl is set on the table by Jon's beside and Davos shuttles three burning coals from a bucket into the bowl. Overtop, he sets another metal vessel into which Missandei pours a jug of water and adds a handful of herbs. The liquid begins to simmer and steam, releasing a strong scent. Jon cannot yet smell it, but he can feel the hot moist air slowly begin to work at the congestion.

While the water begins to boil, the pair work to heat another metal vessel and brew a pungent tea that is offered to Jon in a ceramic cup.

“Can you sit up a bit?” Missandei asks, kneeling at the bedside. Jon pushes his hands down and sits up a little, sliding out from under the mound of furs. Even the slight effort results in a small fit of coughs. Missandei adjusts the hot water wine skin and then guides the cup into his hands, encouraging him to drink.

He sips at the broth tea, letting the hot liquid slide soothingly down his irritated throat. Between the tea and the steaming bowl, his nose is starting to dribble a little and he sniffs, trying to stem the flow.

“Sounds like it's working,” Davos remarks as Jon pauses to blow his nose before finishing off the tea.

“Aye,” Jon rasps, grateful. The warm broth has made him drowsy again.

Davos adjusts the furs and pillows, helping him to get comfortable. When Jon is finally asleep once more, they leave him alone to rest.

He wakes to a smoking basin at the bedside as the last of the coals burn out. The pungent steam has stopped and the room smells only vaguely of the medicinal vapour. Jon rolls over in bed and stretches, checking his body for pain. The warm wine skin has slid off sometime during his rest and is now sitting cooled on the mattress at his side.

Though his head still feels stuffed with cotton, he does feel an overall improvement. After two days in bed, however, he's beginning to feel restless. He sits up slowly, testing himself with careful movements. He manages to get himself to the edge of the bed and he stands on legs that wobble like a baby deer. Carefully, he stumbles his way over to his pile of thawed clothing and layers on the heavy cloak over his trousers and shirt. When he's dressed, he's panting and wheezing with exertion, and he takes a moment to sit down and wipe his running nose. Then, he tucks Davos' handkerchief into his pocket and mounts the stairs outside his room to the main deck.

The sea air is crisp and biting compared to his airless room and his lungs seize up for a moment, making him cough. He grasps at the ship's rail and bends over, chest convulsing. With a gasp, he recovers and leans heavily against the rolling side of the ship, looking out at the choppy waters.

“Jon!” a voice says, alarmed.

He looks up to see Dany approaching. He offers a wan smile.

“Your grace,” he croaks. His voice is barely a raspy whisper, so he clears his throat with a sputter and tries again. “Your grace.”

“You shouldn't be up here,” she says.

“I needed some air,” he offers in explanation.

“There are windows in your chamber we could open,” she says, looking at him with an expression of great concern. “You're not well enough to be up here. It's too cold.”

“I am a man of the North,” Jon says, though he's loathe to admit that he is quite cold and that the sea air is starting to bite at his still-sensitive skin. He disguises a shiver by moving to sit on a crate.

Dany remains standing over him, silent.

Eh-TSGXHTT!

Jon bends forward, sneezing into his hands. Embarrassed, he digs in his pocket for the handkerchief.

“Seven blessings.”

Nh-GHTT!

“And again,” Daenerys repeats. She sits at his side and extends a hand out tentatively. It rests on Jon's cheek and she can feel his teeth chattering.

He cannot help but lean into her touch. Her hand is unnaturally warm and when she removes it, his cheek still seems to radiate heat from her.

“Come back to bed,” she says, holding him by the shoulders and helping him to stand. He stumbles but she steadies him, leading the way back down the stairs to the ship chambers.

He stands shivering before her as she gently unlaces his cloak and heaves it onto a chair.

“Sit,” she instructs and he lets himself collapse onto the edge of the bed. She tugs off his boots and swings his legs onto the downy mattress, pulling the furs up over his shaking body.

“I'm sorry we have no facilities for a fire here,” she says, lowering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. She reaches her warm hands to touch his brow and Jon practically melts under her touch. “I wish I had some way to help warm you.”

“Your hands,” he says, eyes closed and face relaxed as she smooths the hair off his brow. “They're very warm.”

She smiles.

“I've been told,” she says. “A mother of dragons runs hot.”

The mention of her children opens the still-healing wound of her loss. Jon shifts under the covers, reaching his hand up to hers.

It's only for a moment that they touch before Jon suddenly withdraws his hand and turns his head away.

Hrhh-TSCHHT!

“Seven blessings,” Daenerys repeats.

“I'm going to be the most blessed man in Westeros,” Jon quips softly and he feels his heart swell at her resulting smile.

“Let me see if I can help any with that. If not, we'll have to get a second round of Missandei's broth tea.”

She reaches out both hands and gently presses her fingers along his sinuses, sliding downward with a gentle pressure. He winces but does not pull away.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“A little, but it's helping,” he says.

She guides her hands over his face, smoothing over his eyes and the worried crease in his forehead and up into his tangle of curly hair. The hair is oily and matted from days in bed but she combs through it, taming some of the mess back off his face.

“You need a wash, Lord Snow,” she tells him.

“I know it,” he says with a grimace. “Not much chance I'll be dunking my head in a bucket of seawater anytime soon though.”

“I'll see if we can heat up enough for a basin, then,” she replies, standing to go.

“Davos can see to getting me washed,” Jon says, feeling himself blush. The heat in his face is a strange sensation.

Dany smiles at him and lets a small laugh escape.

“Rest,” she commands. “I'll send one back with him.”

She leaves Jon in search of the ship's cook. When she returns with Davos and a steaming basin of water with clean cloths, Jon is asleep again, snoring softly.

“I'll tend to him, your grace,” Davos offers. “I'll wake him before it cools.”

“No,” Dany says, looking down at the sleeping man. “Leave it there. I'll sit while he sleeps.”

Davos sets the basin down on the bedside table and follows the command to leave. Daenerys picks up the cloth and dunks it into the warm water, wringing it out before bringing it to Jon's face.

She smooths it along his brow and across each cheek, then up to his hair and behind his ears. Jon sighs in his sleep but does not wake. She tucks the cloth around behind his neck, gently scrubbing at the nape and down to his shoulders.

Carefully, she folds back the furs and wipes the bit of chest above his shirt. Jon mutters something inaudibly and his head lolls to one side as he snores louder, struggling to breathe.

“Jon,” Daenerys whispers, gently trying to move his head back onto the pillow. “C'mon.”

He groans and rolls over, coughing fiercely. Each inhalation between coughs is a deep and wheezy rattle. Dany reaches under the blankets, finding the shivering curve of his back and she rubs her hand along his spine.

Jon's coughing doesn't settle and he wakes up, red-faced and covered in a cold sweat. He tries to sit up and is guided by Daenerys, who kneels on the bed at his side and mounds pillows behind his back for support.

He coughs and coughs, mouth desperately sucking for air between each violent spasm. His nose runs freely down his lip, mixing with damp sweat. Daneyres wipes his face with a clean cloth and tries to help him regain his breath.

Finally, he goes limp, breath coming in and out in an exhausted whistle. When he needs to sneeze, he barely has the strength to turn his head away.

Urhh-TSXCHHH!

“Please go,” he mumbles, wiping at his nose with the back of his wrist.

“Not when you're this unwell,” she says, reaching out to wipe his face off again. He allows it, but keeps his eyes downcast. “I need you recovered by the time we reach King's Landing.”

“I hear it's warm there,” he replies, eyes drooping with sleep.

“Warmer than the North, that's certain,” Dany says.

Heh—eh-nhGHT!

Jon sneezes again, shielding his nose with his hand.

“You're not having a very good time of it, are you?” says Dany sympathetically.

“It's hard to rest when you can't really breathe,” Jon admits, and then gives his nose a sharp blow.

Daenerys stands and circles to the other side of the bed. She settles herself tentatively next to Jon and gathers a pillow into her lap.

“Here,” she says, patting the pillow. She helps to guide his head to the elevated position on her lap and puts her hands soothingly over his sinuses, letting the heat of her fingertips radiate across his skin.

Jon sighs in relief and closes his eyes. Her hands work their way along his face and down to his upper chest where he fingers pause briefly as they skim the top of one of his scars.

He reaches up and takes one of her hands in his.

Raising it to his lips, he kisses her knuckles and Daenerys suddenly draws back, pulling her hand away.

“Jon,” she says. “I can't.”

He opens his eyes, looking up at her.

“I can't,” she repeats. “This meeting at King's Landing. It can be my only focus. Do you understand?”

He feels his stomach drop. He's taken advantage of her kindness and mistaken it for passion.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

She smiles gently.

“I should go. You should rest more.”

He nods, lifting his head from her lap and settling back into the pile of down pillows. She leaves him alone to sleep and when he next wakes, he's alone but with a fresh steam vapour rising from the nightstand and a cup of hot broth close at hand.

When they dock in King's Landing in a day's time, he's mostly recovered though he still wears his fur cloak despite the warm air, keeping himself wrapped tight against the coastal breeze. When he steps on land, he notices the scent of jasmine flowers from a nearby tree. He inhales deeply, grateful for his clear, strong lungs and the fragrant smell that reminds him of the scent of Daenerys skin close to his.

He thinks of it again later as he raises his fist to knock on her chamber door.

#sickfic #DustyFic

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