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keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: ii

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii (epilogue)

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @firein-thesky

word count: ~15.2k

Healing takes time, but it’s easier with someone else around who’s on the mend with you.

(You and Keigo learn to start living again.)

warnings: codependency but make it sexc, injured reader, post-trauma symptoms, reader has abandonment issues, angst, ouchies <3

a/n: part 2 :’^) we made it!! soft hurt and very horny codependency that involves keigo’s immaculate d*ck. all that is left after this is part 3 which will be more of an epilogue :’^)

enjoy loves <3

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The doors to exit the hospital scare you.

How can they not?

They’re... automatic.

The glass panes are wide, sliding and slapping as folks come and go, the quiet ring of metal on metal and the slap of the plastic padding makes your heart race.

Get over it, get over it, get over it—

It’s just some doors, they’re normal.

You’ve walked through automatic doors so many times. Never before had you even taken conscious note of them.

(But that was before you heard them let in that man who—)

Without thinking, you take a little, tentative step back from them.

Consider you are leaving your own slice of healing hell; you are shakier and sweatier than you would’ve liked. Your clothes are like the ones... he used to wear, cheap garments obviously pulled from some industrial multipack that stank like plastic and rubbing alcohol.

You hate it.

But you didn’t have another choice. Your old articles were bloodied and disposed of long ago, and the hospital gowns you wore during your stay were far more uncomfortable than your scratchy, wide pants and crewneck long sleeve the same pale, lifeless blue as your old bed sheets.

It would be enough.

You shift the crutch under your right arm and shuffle the backpack on your shoulders. It contains just enough to get you to the shelter, where they’d supposedly have a bed— a cot, more than likely. You had a toothbrush, some extra socks, and a prepaid card for a single, one-way train trip across the country and into the unknown.

Tears stung your eyes as you lingered by the doors.

It all feels so uncomfortably real. The world kept moving, and you’re reentering it far-more battered and perpetually bruised.

And completely alone.

(The thought horrifies you to your core, but you try to ignore it.)

Despite the time you spent at the hospital, you were leaving without a hint of reverie. Everyone, nurses and doctors and anyone who has fucking eyes is too busy dealing with the casualties that had lasted months.

It didn’t matter how long you stayed. You were just a body. A fucked up one too.

You count yourself lucky to even have the backpack, as cheap and sterile as it smells.

It all unnerves you, but you didn’t have a choice. Numbness settles over you as you accept your future.

There... is a little glimmer that he will show up.

(He won’t. Empty promises.)

(Everyone leaves.)

(Why’d you call him, anyway?)

(Because no one had spoken to you like a human in a month.)

Solitude makes people desperate and crazy.

You are a little crazy, you know. Maybe not in a bad way, but certainly in a way that is eating you up and out in ways you don’t understand. You don’t have the energy sort through it all. You just have to finally start moving forward. Or try to.

Tentatively, you walk toward the doors, stepping out and onto the pavement. You lurch and you would’ve tripped if not for the crutch shoved under your arm.

For the first time in a long time, you suck in fresh air and the trickling sunlight. It feels fresh, cleansing you with each little inhale as you face your cheeks to sky. You have your moment, basking before your journey.

Then someone whistles. You ignore it at first.

The person whistles again, calling out—

“Your ride’s here, starshine!”

Your breath punches from your lungs. You whip your head to the sound.

Though it’s overcast, you do see your morning sun.

Your steps stutter as you nearly trip over your feet.

He is standing, not far at all, leaning against a shiny black car, sleek and expensive and out of place. He’s all overgrown hair and lazy-expressions, one which stretches into a grin as he sees you.

And you see him.

(He really came?)

(Of course he did.)

Your crutch nearly clatters to the ground as you stumble toward him. The moment you waver, he’s running to catch you.

You meet each other halfway.

And without a goddamn lick of shame, the moment you near him, your arms lock around him. Your face buries into the hollow of his throw and you inhale. The scent of him, a bit spiced but mostly skin and sweat fills you. Not a hint of antiseptic.

And you shudder at how good it feels.

He stabilizes the two of you, greedily wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing as if to give a much-needed greeting.

There’s a moment of heat between you, familiar and blessed and so damned missed that you both share shuddering breaths.

“It’s good to see you, starshine,” He soaks up any part of you he could get to. So casually, he touches like he wants to consume you.

You squeeze him just as hard.

“You came?” Your words muffled into his skin.

He simply nods, and the only confirmation you need to sink into him. Perhaps, there’s onlookers, but neither of you have the mind to care. All you care about is the shift of his muscles beneath your fingertips, the heat of him, his golden, pretty visage—

Like he had so many times, he tucks hair behind your ears and tension drains from him.

So tenderly does he squeeze around your middle where he holds you up, “Let’s go home, starshine.”

You want nothing more.

...

The drive to your new home is long, but you don’t mind.

The world has changed in the months you’d been tucked away in the forest-hidden hospital. As disconnected as you were, you still heard of the unrest and upheaval across the country. The political clashes are marked by the... contrarian billboards lining the highway, new slogans battling each other every mile or so.

The scenery slowly goes from flatlands, to wetlands, to rolling hills that are a lush green. From the safety of the car, you could see that the air even looked wet, and you could imagine the way it would stick in your throat and tacky the tips of your fingers.

“Where do you live?” You finally ask, voice soft in the melancholy softness of the light mist that sprayed the car.

“In the mountains, high-up,” He squeezes your hand (the one he’s been holding the whole ride). Quietly, he adds. “I still couldn’t bear to be too close to the ground.”

He laughs, though it fades into the suddenly heavy air.

This is the world, isn’t it?

You blink, gulping at the face of your reality, and let your eyes go half-lidded as you trace the shapes of growing evergreen as your drive takes you higher and higher.

...

Keigo had made up the guest room for you.

He doesn’t have much for extra sheets and softness, let alone decor, but he does what he can. The bed is made and pressed with clean lines, freshly washed. The curtains on the windows hang heavy, but warm up the room with their clement, tan fibers. It’s a start, with lots of space for you to add your own touches as well.

He’d spent the night prior on it, laboring, like he was preparing a nest as opposed to a simple bedroom.

(It is a nest, but he doesn’t need to accept that just yet.)

There wasn’t anything else to do for a while when he first escaped that fucking hell. He’d really given up. Keigo was uncomfortably content to rot away as he had dreamed of since he’d been burnt. The little, dusty corners of the cabin would’ve made perfect places to waste away in peace and alone.

Except, he didn’t.

Keigo started to make the home better.

He isn’t sure if it was out of some need to just do something, and the outdated, worn cabin was his most available canvas. Part of him is convinced it’s some buried avian instinct, and without the Commission’s constant hovering, he has no reason to suppress those more animalistic urges. The need to nest somewhere cozy and safe took him over, and he had gotten to work.

The cabin is cleaned up incredibly well. New appliances, floors patched and polished. The furniture is mostly old, but it’s obviously been shined and tended to. The living area isn’t horribly large, but it’s more than enough space for the two of you. It has wide windows that looked down upon the slopes and peaks that your home is nestled in. The colors are warm oranges and tans that are easy on the eye. Nothing too red and nothing too blue.

Nothing too imposing.

(Nothing too reminiscent.)

He leads you from the car, gingerly helping you up the rickety stairs to the front door.

The wound on your leg may be ‘healed’, but you don’t appear comfortable in the slightest. Your expression pinches with half of your steps, the bending of your scarred flesh undoubtedly painful. It makes something in his chest squeeze as he navigates you into his house, from the snow into somewhere warm. A place that he crafted all on his own. Shaped with his own hands. A real possession, all his own.

When you enter, you don’t say anything, only tightening your grip on his hand.

“I like it,” You smile, soft and dreamy, worrying the strap of your backpack. “... Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?”

“Of course,” Keigo assures you. Of course, it was okay for you to stay. “I’m happy to have you here, especially when the other option is one of the shelters.”

You wouldn’t have lasted a day with your bum leg and natural softness.

The thought has him gulping, the heat flaring in his chest as he tugs you closer, ghosting his lips over your temple.

With only a bit of stumbling, he shows you the rest of the home.

...

You’re quiet the rest of the day, curled up on the couch in the same clothes you left the hospital in. There’s clear exhaustion in your face, from the dark circles ringing your eyes and the tremble in your hand and leg. Keigo is content to cover you in a nice knit blanket he purchased down in the nearby town, and let you rest.

His own back burns when he catches glimpses of your scar. It ran down all the way to your ankle, even bleeding onto the top of your foot. The gnarled flesh brings back memories of screaming and metallic exam rooms.

And he, like you, stares at a wall for a while before making dinner.

You can’t manage much.

The TV glows with some show you might’ve watched and been engrossed in it. But the hollow feeling in your chest keeps you submerged in the static of your skull. It’s more comfortable than acknowledging how quickly the picture moves in front of you.

Your only motion is a ‘light’ scratching over the thin fabric of your pants.

‘Light’.

He enters sometime later, bearing food and an easy smile that falls all-too quickly.

“Hey, starshine— oh fuck,” His voice clips as he enters, setting down steaming plates on the coffee table and pulling your hand from your thigh. The tips of your fingers are stained with enough blood to make your eyebrows shoot up.

Your eyes shoot to your leg, where you’d apparently tore through the thin fabric of your pants and torn your skin up without even thinking. So close to the scar—

Heat flares between, light bouncing in your eyes as you cover the hole, “S-sorry, fuck, I didn’t even realize.”

“It’s okay, it happens,” Keigo assures you, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Let’s clean you up quick and then eat, okay?”

You nod, exhaling a weight from your chest as the light skitters out of your eyes.

And the heat fades from the room. The absence of it chills Keigo, and the abruptness makes his nose scrunch.

He patches you up quickly and with a precision that screams ‘yes, I have done this far too many times.’ The wound isn’t too severe, just a nasty-looking scratch. The dried blood on your finger is wiped away.

You both settle onto the couch, eating in silence.

Something hangs in the air, thick and unsaid. Questions and paragraphs that have been ignored up until now. Not out of will, perhaps just tired negligence.

But, Keigo has always been the blunt type, so he finally asks one of the many facets that needs to be broached.

“What’s your quirk?”

A little surprised sound lodges in your throat with a bite of baked fish, “My quirk? I thought you figured it out already.”

Keigo raises a feathery eyebrow, “I’m a bit slow these days, starshine.”

The nickname makes something settle pleasantly under your ribs, and the light, little orbs of yellow and orange return to your eyes.

And heat fills the room, like it had so many times before. Like those first nights in the common room, stargazing in the lamp and starlight. It’s warmth that bleeds between his bones and tendons, through and through.

Keigo puts it all together, jaw going slack and eyes going wide.

Had he never realized it?

It does make sense, in retrospect and without a sinfully heavy dose of painkillers swimming in his veins. The heat that permeated all of the nights you sat, eyeing the stars and each other.

The odd heat of it all.

You’d been warming the two of you. Souls cold from the sterility of it all.

“That’s your quirk?” Keigo leans in closer, inspecting the little specks of light in your irises. The tell. “This whole time?”

“U-um, yeah,” You worry a hangnail. “I don’t mean for it to be activating all over the place, but it has been since everything happened.”

“Why’s that?”

You chew the plump of your bottom lip, brows pinched.

Without thinking, Keigo bows to the will of the ever-present, needy feeling in his chest and presses a little kiss to your forehead, willing it to smooth away some of your worry.

I’m not upset, the action says, but the cabin is quiet.

“... You know how cats purr?”

Keigo quirks an eyebrow, “I do.”

“Well, I think it’s kind of like that,” You met his eyes, the light returning and the fire-like warmth tickling the hair on your arms. “Cats purr when they feel good, but sometimes, they purr when they’re not doing well.”

“... ‘Not doing well’?”

“If they’re in pain, or if they’re really scared,” You go quiet, tracing a seam on Keigo’s jeans. “They’ll purr to comfort themselves. It’s like that.”

Comfort themselves.

No wonder all those nights you spent together, you felt so warm. It was your quirk—

And you must’ve felt awful.

Part of him feels betrayed, just for a moment, before it dissolves with the watery look you wear as your injured finger traces over his knuckles.

And the heat of you flares.

Your quirk is a part of you.

“I didn’t think to tell you.” Your voice wobbles, yet remains vacant. “‘M sorry.”

You don’t need to apologize.

If anything, the knowledge only strengthens Keigo’s resolve.

...

The first weeks at the house are odd as you both settle into rhythms of living. There’s an orbit to how you choose to live, though it’s not predictable or reliable. It can’t be, there’s no way for it to be. You float around each other like little planets to a fickle sun, unstable and wavering, but elliptical, nonetheless.

You’re both learning to be human again with your own rhythms.

Keigo’s biggest challenge is dragging himself from bed each morning. The lazy bones he thought the Commission had broken and beaten out of him still remain somehow. Now that he has no obligations to tend to at the break of dawn, he thoroughly enjoys lazing about in the sheets, even if he’s just staring at his wood-paneled ceiling wishing that Dabi had finished the job and burned him dead.

He’s doing great.

Despite his sluggishness, you move about on your own.

You make coffee each morning, and curl up on the couch under the same knit blanket. A few patches of the multi-colored throw have been pulled apart by your restless hands.

Neither of you comment on it.

Though Keigo takes longer to rise, you move far less during the day during those first weeks. You’re tethered to the cushion until the sun goes down.

It’s like the nylon straps at the hospital never left your wrists.

Your vacant nature scares him, if he’s honest. There’s an unspoken, massive wound you carry with you, both physically and mentally, and its manifestation is a little haunting.

Keigo knows about trauma, knows about how the mind worked and how to, you know, deal with it. He is— was, a hero, for fuck’s sake. Trauma is in the job description and he’d had his fair share of bruises before he went undercover, before he killed Jin (REALLY don’t think about it—), and lost his wings. He’s stitched himself up by filling up his schedule with anything he could. Distractions. Things to occupy him, help him forget for a while. If that didn’t work, he always had a bottle or two of imported soju that he could nurse.

Again, coping.

The state you’re in is the opposite of coping, it’s being. Existing. The strain you carry from everything shows in you, and the way that it’s manifested terrifies him.

Keigo is smart enough to know to keep a few boundaries. He can’t fix you and he can’t get it in his head that he can. He’ll smother you; he knows he will. The solace he finds comes from being there when you need him, and always being close by.

It’s all he can do to soothe what’s obviously an open wound. He has his own, that you tend to in your own way as well when you can. It’s all give-and-take, naturally and easily.

You’ll find yourselves on the couch together, leaning and touching so naturally, but with no intent. Your little fingers trace shapes over his clothes, hearts and lettering he can’t catch. The heat of you will cling to him, whether your quirk activates or not.

He holds you, simply and truly. Tries to be a new, kinder being.

...

You don’t have much that is solely yours.

You’d been living in an odd combination of Keigo’s clothes and the single outfit you arrived with. It works, enough. Most garments are worn until they’re filthy, but it takes you a little too long to notice.

Keigo notices.

One day, he sits down with you and his heavy, black credit card and helps you pick out... whatever you wanted. The guy is loaded and will be until he dies, and he’s smitten to help you pick out whatever you need.

You’re more challenged by the task.

“I’m fine, you don’t need to do this,” you murmur into his collarbones, narrowing your eyes at the laptop screen. “I have enough.”

Keigo clicks his tongue, rubbing the fraying fabric of your shirt, the same, cheap scratchy fabric from the hospital. Your pants are soft cotton, old ones of Keigo’s that he should probably throw away. You adore them, and spend most of your time in them, too.

“You deserve some nice things that are yours, don’t you think?” He coaxes with some extra soft touches as you glare at the screen.

Perhaps, you think to yourself. Your jaw locks.

You deliberately avoided thinking about your lack of... things. The absence of all the bits of you that you had once carried tugs at something deep in your chest. Grief, probably. Loss at the very least. Your home has been torn apart and you have nothing. Not a single remnant of then except you. And you’re hardly a good cast of the existence you once lead.

The world feels dimmer with the thought.

...

The house gets cold at night.

It’s inevitable, with the chill of the snowy valleys and peaks slipping through drafty windows and cracks in the woodwork. It slunk into the house once the stars rose, sinking bone deep. It’s easier to ward off during the day. The little stray touches and the ambiance of shared presence helps.

But, you slept separately.

It’s cold— so fucking cold in your beds. Keigo hates it. Despises the way how it makes his eyes droop and his body heavier than it should be. Despite not having wings any longer, his other avian traits lingered, and torpor was definitely not in his top three faves. He can only be thankful that he thought to invest in an electric blanket for himself, for his nest.

Though it would be a lot better with you in it, the last thing he wants to do is push you. You’re fragile. Everything is fragile. Keigo has laid awake on more than one night, trying to make sense of all of it, everything and coming to the conclusion that sleeping in his too-big, too-cold bed would have to do.

Sometimes, there’s no way to swallow the state of things.

...

“Your packages are here.”

You look up, eyes wide and sweet.

Oh, yeah. Material goods.

Clothes.

Objects.

It takes a while, but the result of your shopping spree is a small horde of packages down at the town post office, all with your name attached. The idea of so much newness is daunting, but your few remaining garments are threadbare and practically falling apart. It’s necessary, you acknowledge, even if you’re terrified of not living in Keigo’s worn crewneck.

(Change can be good, you remind yourself. The thought is quiet.)

Keigo stands by the door, buttoning up his coat and lacing up his boots as you watch from your soft perch on the couch. The blanket has a new, wide hole picked in it, but you don’t notice.

“Would you like to come with me and pick them up?” Keigo flicks his gaze to you with a careful, easy smile.

You hadn’t left the house since you’d arrived.

The thought sends your stomach knotting and sweat gathering in your palms. You jerk your head side to side, sinking back down into the cushions.

Keigo doesn’t hold it against you. You can tell by the way his expression softens around his eyes.

He leaves after kissing you on the forehead a few times, telling you he’ll be quick to return. It’s not often that he leaves, though he’s always timely on coming back. His excursions are never more than a trip to the town market, thankfully. An hour or two feels like a lot, but the too-still air and quiet of the floorboards without Keigo’s pacing unsettles you.

Not having him near unsettles you. The thought of having him gone for too long shoots something hot and needy in your chest.

(Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave—)

Thankfully, just like always, Keigo isn’t gone for long. And he returns bearing a few armloads of packages and some takeout curry. You take it all, and him, greedily.

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

...

It’s a few days later when Keigo wakes to you knocking on his door in the early hours of the morning.

It had been a... rougher day. You had been a bit livelier early on, joining him on the snowy patio for morning coffee and even taking a quick walk around the neighboring forest. With the snow so deep, you could only go so far though. The motion of it aggravated your injury, left your gasping and clawing at Keigo’s arm as the scar tissue pulled.

The scar is still dead, thank god, but the impact is just as present physically as it is mentally for you.

The rest of the day you spent curled up on the couch, taking little sips of water between short naps. That night, you hardly touched your dinner. Keigo was smart enough to cut up some fruit and lay it with a handful of crackers and offer it to you throughout the rest of the night. You nibbled at the bits, but hardly consumed much at all.

You went to bed early, giving him a hard hug before retiring to your lonely room.

Those days are the worse, the bad ones. They’re the ones where Keigo wants to break all the boundaries he still has. The little touches and kisses he gives you are one thing, but there’s much more he wants to do. Craves doing. But, pushing you too far or too hard would break you. He’s smart. He knows that. So, Keigo doesn’t wait. He satiates all those protective needs.

He accepts circumstance, just as he always has.

(He doesn’t understand how much you crave him, but that’ll come later.)

That night, things begin to shift.

His voice cracks with sleep as he calls for you to enter. You linger in the door frame, clutching a pillow to your chest, like a scared child who’s had a—

“Nightmare?” He asks, sitting up and tugging a blanket with him to cover his bare chest.

The cold air of the cabin hits his scars. He hisses under his breath, shoulders drawing tense. You must notice, eyes going a little wider as you recede from his room. The darkness of the hallway nearly dissolves you. His chest aches, hands tightening around the fabric in his fists.

“Come back here, starshine, come on,” Keigo calls, praying you’ll heed him. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?”

Keigo half-recognizes that that’s a very loaded question, but you’re both a bit sleep addled. Maybe it will slide.

Your eyes alight in the pitch of the room, sputtering with little orbs of amber. Your atrophying arms squeeze the pillow, and you take a few more tentative steps closer.

“... We’re safe, right?”

The question surprises Keigo, enough to make his old wounds ache.

One loaded question answered for another.

It’s reasonable to ask. It’s very reasonable to ponder. Keigo has wondered about it too. The townsfolk don’t know who he really was, and he was quite secretive about the initial move. The world hadn’t caught onto the fact that ‘Hawks’ had moved him and his new love to an isolated little cabin in the woods, and hopefully they never would. Society had a lot bigger problems, according to the over-processed news channel he tuned into on occasion.

Keigo was old news at this point.

So many heroes had been called out for poor behavior. Scandal after scandal, coverup after coverup. Corruption, everywhere. It was an industry secret, all of the bullshit behind closed doors. Keigo’s little double-agent schtick and you know, murder of a good man (for the love of god, do not fucking think about Jin) was still bad, but the public had a whole new slew of bullshit to torch people at the stake for.

Still.

He’s glad no one knows about your little hideaway or you.

“We’re safe, starshine. Very safe.”’

It makes his answer easier to say, more honest.

You inch closer from the doorway. There’s a tremble in your shoulders that runs to your hands. You’re only wearing a t-shirt and thin shorts, maybe just panties, he can’t tell. Your scar runs down your thigh and calf, gnarling and twisting the flesh it dared to mar. The seam of it is a shining black that Keigo had failed to notice before.

It reminds him of why you’re so scared and the types of nightmares you must have.

“... Promise?” You stop at the foot of the bed, throat bobbing with a thick gulp.

Keigo gives a sympathetic smile, patting the sheets next to him, “I promise. You’re safe. We’re safe.”

You look skeptical, but climb into bed with him all the same.

Something stirs in Keigo’s chest as you do. As he watches you clamor over the sheets and blankets he... nests in, the heat of it fills him. A combination of yours and his own, spills through his ribs and down to his toes.

He shudders with it, something needy wriggling down from

You sit up on your knees, sinking into the mattress and holding the pillow tight to your chest. Watching, eyes still alight and wide.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keigo asks.

You don’t, you both know that, but breaking the silence is a start.

You push the pillow against the headboard, trading it to link your fingers with his, over his chest and pressed to the linens.

You squeeze and let out a breath you’ve been holding. There’s a weight to it, like there’s something you’re actually carrying. There has been something you have been carrying, but only you are able to see it— feel it in its actuality.

But, that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder the burden alone, especially on darkened, lonely nights.

He tugs you closer, mindful of your tenderness and the scars you both bear. The night is only lit by starlight, and the room is dark with the new moon. It makes it easier to be closer as you settled into the bedding next to him.

It’s uncomfortable for a few moments.

Despite how much contact you share, this feels different. The little touches, kisses and caresses you trade throughout the day are second nature. Comforting someone else who so obviously needs it. His person who needs it.

(He wonders if you think of him as your ‘person’ too.)

You lay on your side, facing away from him as you fall into his nest, still tense, still on edge and unsure. It reminds him of those first days at the hospital, when you both had lost your tongues and yourselves and just enjoyed the stars together in oddly comforting silence and broken conversation.

It’s a process, he reminds himself.

Keigo slides closer, throwing an arm over waist and adjusting the blankets with his other. There’s plenty, piled on top of each other without much reason. Careful hands properly tuck you into it all, next to him, with him. He brings them up to your chin, pressing stray hairs back into place and laying a trailing kiss or two over the back of your neck.

“... Is it okay if I stay?” Your voice sounds far-off, like the question is more for yourself than for him.

He can feel the unease and fear still bound up in your shoulders. It’s always there, whether it’s a moonless night or a snow-glitteringly, sunny day. The tension he presses his thumbs into is held in all of the muscle of your back, in your hips, your hands— everywhere.

It makes part of him ache.

A few little coos, soft little rumbles, roll from the back of his throat.

Normally, he’d be a bit embarrassed. But at the birdish chirps, you’re falling deeper in the sheets, the nest, and against his chest.

“Please stay,” He assures you with a squeeze. A small comfort, one he’d keep giving.

The odd quiet returns, sans the little sounds in his chest.

Slowly, tentatively, you turn in his arms. Your own lock over his waist, splayed low on his spine. The pads of your fingertips brush scars, the old ones and the new. It makes him writhe a bit in his own skin. It’s unfamiliar, compared to all of the cold prodding and meaningless pleasure he was used to.

It is the closest anyone of familiarity has been to the scars in a long time, and you, preciously, grace him with the softest touch. No expectation in it, just some much-needed, shared bits of love. Once again, precious.

And you both relax into it all. The ambient thrum of the other's body, the shared breath and smells that mingle between you. There’s little pains and stings that never really go away, but with the other so close, neither of you mind.

It’s hard to tell when your quirk settles, and the organic heat you create together fills the rooms and your lungs.

All Keigo knows is that he falls asleep with your lips brushing the hollow of his throat, still and warm against his chest. The feeling of the living rhythm of your body with your breath lulls him off, content and hazy.

...

You never sleep alone after that night.

Keigo pulls you into his room, or you pad in after brushing your teeth and pulling on your soft, soft sleep clothes. The bed feels a lot less big and lonely with the two of you wrapped up in each other, fully giving in.

It puts Keigo at a remarkable amount of ease.

The urge in his chest to ‘keep you safe’ feels the most sated at night, when he can keep as close as you both can bear. Your hands always make their home at the base of his spine, or the fat and flesh between his lower back and his rear. The pads of your fingers rub away years of stored tension and weight, quietly and kindly before you fall asleep each night.

During the day, you’re equally as needy, though you’re slowly becoming a bit more independent. You’re more lucid in general. Though the couch and worn blanket are your greatest comforts (other than him), you’re beginning to stray and poke around the house a bit more.

The shelves have a few more familiar comforts, things Keigo had slowly accumulated to pass the time. There’s a video game console or two he’d never used, a few stacks of books he’d heard were good, and some tucked away art supplies if inspiration struck.

As much as he urges you to take and use whatever you’d like, you’re still tentative. The first few times you pluck a crisp book from the shelf, Keigo’s back aches with how the old muscles that once controlled his wings tried to puff-up non-existent feathers. Despite how it tugs at all the wrong parts of him, he still glows at the progress.

You start to help him with dinner too. That’s some of your favorite time.

There’s a rhythm to it, when you both start preparing meals together. Keigo can’t season food for shit, (though, he’s made leaps and strides with cooking that pats himself on the back for) but he’s quite skilled with a knife. Remnants of his training that have domestic applications.

He doesn’t tell you that that’s why he’s so good at dicing vegetables and paring meat, he just chatters to fill the air. You tend more to the process of cooking, seasoning and watching and nodding along to his words.

The more meals you share in creating, the more you start to speak up.

It’s progress, even in something so small.

...

But progress isn’t linear.

It’s not even a goddamn line and it’s fucking infuriating.

...

The depth of winter bears down on the hills, the house, and the two of you. You’re coping, both of you. But the momentum of it is fragile.

It scares you, secretly and privately.

You feel fragile, and you have for a long time. Your scar remains tender, gnarled and ugly on your leg. You avoid looking at it at all cost, though Keigo has free reign to graze tender touch nearby it.

That’s how you find yourselves, leaning on each other on the cushion of the couch and idly watching the glow of the television. Your cheek tucks over his shoulder and you watch with half-lidded eyes. You’re only half-there as Keigo changes the channel.

He hums after a few moments.

“There’s a storm coming tonight,” Keigo tells you, lips just a touch dry against the shell of your ear. “I’m going to go to town and—”

Oh wow.

You interrupt, fisting the front of his shirt, “Can I come?”

The question stuns both of you.

Your eyes are honest as you peer up, genuinely unsure if you can.

“Of course, starshine,” Keigo assures. You notice the way his eyes, his pretty eyes, look wide and bright. All for you. Wow. “Let’s get you out of the house, hm?”

Getting out.

Time has stretched out and you can’t remember the last time you left for anything more than a little stroll on the backroads, Keigo on your arm. Going to town and seeing people strikes something odd that has your stomach churning.

You’re nervous when you finally pile into the car, both bundled up with hats, mittens and scarfs (Keigo wears a mask to better hide his identity, but he’s sure some of the townies have figured him out.) The tasks are simple. Stock up for the coming storm and make sure he pays to plow their little backroad out once the storm passes. Easy, things that wouldn’t take too long, but it still makes your palms sweat.

Keigo massages your thigh as you drive into town. The comfort of the snowy hills and evergreens disappears, and it has you in goddamn knots.

You squeeze his hand, locking your jaw.

“I’m scared.” You break the silence as the small structures of the town come into view. “I don’t know if this was a good idea.”

You haven’t decided again.

He kneads his thumb into the tension in your thighs with a little smile, “Let’s give it a try.”

“It’s scary, though.”

“I know.”

You pull at a hangnail with your teeth but say nothing else as you roll in and park at the small market.

The first thing you notice is the goddamn doors. Automatic doors.

When you see them, you want to climb back into the car, maybe the trunk for fuck’s sake, and hide like you’ve never hidden before. Go home and bury yourself in a snow pile with how your heart hammers in your chest and your breath catches.

Deep breaths.

You catch yourself, just a little.

You keep walking, Keigo’s hand in yours and you enter the market like nothing feels as wrong as it is.

The store is small, but there’s a decent selection, all things given. Keigo places a basket in your hands, tells you to ‘go nuts’ and ‘literally get whatever you want, especially if it’s salty or sweet’ and you heed him the best you can. He busies himself talking to the clerk, organizing with that honey-voice you crave.

You take a few deep breaths and walk around the market like a normal person.

(Even though, the last time you were in a situation close to this, you got that nasty, cute scar on your leg.)

(You suppress the thought for as long as you can.)

The basket gets filled quickly, but you stuff it to the brim. Keigo picked out plenty of good food, and had learned how to cook decently, but having some... agency felt nice, if not fucking terrifying.

You’ve got your back turned to the entrance of the store when the (automatic) doors suddenly swish open.

A chill so cold and hard shoots down your spine and you freeze, hovering over a box of breadcrumbs.

One...

How long was it between that sound and when he touched you?

Two...

This was a terrible idea.

Three—

It was four—

Four—

Four seconds, you propose, as your heart beats out of your chest and you sweat under your arms. Four seconds from the door opening to pain.

You wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

Just more voices from the front of the store, a figure entering your aisle and then leaving.

You hate the way you're so rigid, tense enough in your shoulders for it to hurt. The ghost of the wound on your leg makes you want to fall to the ground and writhe, but you grab the box of breadcrumbs and try not to think.

It works, and you land next to Keigo, presenting your filled basket to be rung up.

You bury your face into his shoulder and take a deep inhale. Keigo keeps you close, tucked in your side with an arm around your waist. Your anxiety must’ve been quite visible, as he takes to quietly rubbing your shoulders over your sweater.

Things get hazy as you feel safer. Keigo laughs and sways the two of you as he speaks to the clerk.

(Her sons are going to blow your little house out when the storm passes. The family cat recently got out and came back pregnant. Her husband has been reading some odd literature he found on the internet. Something about ‘the strong triumphant over the weak’. Her daughter might be able to return from her foreign university now that the travel restrictions had been lifted.)

Everything moves forward, even if it’s unpleasant.

It’s an awful reminder at an inopportune time.

You watch your feet as you crunch your way back to the shotgun side of the car, only relaxing when you hear the doors lock and the engine thrum.

...

The storm comes, just as the faces on TV said it would.

You’re in the country, in the hills and mountains where the weather is already turbulent and changeable. All the same, the overcast skies dump snow over the land and blanket the world in quiet and cold.

Snow silence sucks the sounds from the air, sans the howl of angry wind.

You’re tucked away and safe. It’s Keigo’s only solace.

After going into town, you keep more to yourself as the storm takes it sweet time rolling in. He recognizes the far off look in your eyes; it’s the one you wore stargazing, but there’s no kind smile on your face. Just a thoughtless frown as you go through the motions of your day.

It makes his chest ache.

(Part of him regrets bringing you with him to the market. It rots part of him, and he can only hope it sprouts again.)

Finally, when the storm truly comes and the hills get heavy and crisp white, a bit more of you returns. Keigo wants to take the fragments you’re willing to give him and tuck them close, horde them and squeeze. The way he’s gotten abashedly greedy for you has him handsier and needier.

He’ll take what he can get, and give what he can too.

It’s easiest to bear at night, probably out of habit. Maybe the time in the hospital fucked both of you up (yes, for sure, it did), but nighttime was the time where you were open and easy with each other.

The storm gives the perfect opportunity to all of your time shamelessly twisted together, only leaving for brief coffee breaks and light meals. Otherwise, you’re both nested.

Pillows and blankets piled on the oversized mattress, all soft against your scars and old scratches. Keigo’s still fond of the color red, he can’t let that go, but he trades in the scarlet that was once his ‘brand’ for a deeper burgundy. All the sensations are rich and velvety, whether it’s the bedclothes you’re wrapped in or the touches you share.

It feels safe.

The feeling is something almost foreign to Keigo. He’s been getting used to it, even as the isolation weighs down on him. No one around means no reason to be so alert. The house isn’t bugged, there’s no villains or Suits watching his every move. He’s just a flightless bird, with no cage, but no captors either.

It feels amazing.

It feels even better that you’re always the heat against his side. That you and your perfect, sweet hands always know how and where to touch. Your words flow easier when you’re so close, so surrounded and so deliciously suffocated.

Keigo fills you up in all the best ways, and you’re finally able to breathe easier.

You tell him your secrets, little stargazing facts and facets of you that you’d held away and far from him before.

“Do you know what cosmic microwave background radiation is?” You ask, sweet as your lips nip at his jaw.

“No, not a clue,” He laughs, the giggle only you get to hear.

You hum, shifting your thighs so it lies over his. Your hips grind, slow and unhurried as wind rattles the windows.

“It’s this ambient radiation that’s just everywhere, all the time, forever,” You tell him, voice going a little huskier despite the fact you’re talking about theoretical astrophysics. “It’s left over from the Big Bang. A little bit of the beginning that never stops.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“A documentary, love.”

The questions fade as your lips slide together, lazy hands sliding into each other's hairs. You pull, only lightly, just to bring him closer. Keigo gets greedy, (again, always), licking into your mouth and tasting you. It’s all cheap coffee and the stale mint of toothpaste, and he drinks you down like the finest nectar. He sucks on your tongue, moaning at the way you keen and shift next to him.

It’s not enough. It never is, so he rolls to sit himself over your hips and grab your jaw in a tight grip. He can’t be too forceful, he can’t— his little birdbrain won’t let him do anything too rough to you, even if neither of you would mind it. He tilts your head just right.

You roll your hips up, breath mingling with his as it hitches and shudders from you. It’s so much, so much good, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Keigo pulls away, eyes half-lidded to take in your own blown pupils. It makes something purr in his chest, to see your eyes already glassy and wide for him. Your neck is thoroughly covered in darkened splotches, already sucked and bitten while the storm sang.

Little marks of him.

“You’re all mine, you know?” Keigo nearly moans at the way your expression goes gooey and sweetened. He tightens his grip on your jaw just a fraction, enough to make you gasp before he licks and nips below your ear. Just to make sure you hear him. “‘Everywhere, all the time, forever’, I’ve got you.”

“Y-you do,” you gasp as Keigo shifts your sleep shorts off, pushed away forgotten in the nest. The thin tank top you’re wearing is hardly covering anything, not that either of you care. The nearly-sheer fabric of it stretches over your collars and curves beautifully. It does nothing to hide the way your breaths heave or the sweat and heat gathering on your neck.

You’re bared to him.

And if Keigo’s being honest?

You own each other, in the most pleasantly fucked up way.

“Y-You’re so good,” The word holds weight, so much heaviness. Keigo groans, palming one of your breasts and rolling one of your nipples. It’s ambient, something to occupy himself as he resists your words. Just a little—

Your hand slips into the front of his sweats, bare beneath, and wraps around the velvet of him. Thick and hot, firm in your hand but not close enough.

You squeeze, almost in warning.

“You are good.” You gasp as Keigo pulls off you, leveling gazes with you, all pretty eyes reflecting the starshine and snow. He is good. There’s so much more to it than that, but your poor, fucked up little mind can’t synthesis it yet. Only that Keigo is good, warm, safe, and wholly yours. And you’re his. You stretch to ghost a kiss over his lips. “My good boy, always keeping me safe. You keep me so well.”

He stills, even as you slowly pump in his cock. It twitches in your hand, your thighs squeezing between his hips.

Keigo’s mind races, in the best way.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmurs, head tilting and body sagging to drink down your kiss-bruised lips. More, more, more— “You just need to be taken care of.”

“I don’t need to,” You lie, huffing.

Keigo raises an eyebrow, biting his lips as your grip floats down to his balls, massaging them in your soft grip. It’s tender, weirdly vulnerable, as the whole of you two are.

“Maybe you don’t need to, you’re very capable,” Maybe not right now, but he knows it’s in there. “But you want it.”

“I-I like it,” You scramble the wording, shoving down his sweats, huffing again and urging Keigo to kick them away. Your palm goes to his cheek and drags him closer. “I like you a lot, love you, you know. You make me feel... safe. It’s a good feeling.”

It’s the most honest you’ve been in a long time, and it sits in the air. Keigo remains silent for a moment, silent and trying to control the way his birdbrain wants to take you. Wants to fuck you up and ruin you for anyone else.

You’re his, aren’t you?

“Good girl,” Keigo breaks the tension, squeezing your hips to the point of bruises. His, his, his. “I keep you so good, don’t I?”

You nod, spitting out little affirmatives between kisses. They dot his cheeks and forehead, slipping to his nose and downward. You pull his bottom lip into his mouth, letting out a little half-sob as Keigo’s touch drifts to your cunt, to your clit that’s swollen and untouched.

More, more, more—

“You keep me so good,” You gulp, whining and grinding into the heel of his hand. Slick coats your sex, sticky and hot. “So, so good—”

Keigo drops down the bed, ignoring the flare of his scar tissue, to seat himself between your thighs. They get thrown over his shoulders with a squeeze. His hands cup your ass, slipping a pillow beneath your hips before eating your cunt like he’d die if he didn’t.

It’s one of his favorite things. Stuffing you full of him until your belly swells is another, or seeing the way his cock opens and stretches you until you’re gasping for breath and begging for more, more, more—

Keigo slips a finger into you without resistance. He curls it, unyielding as he massages the little knot of nerves in you that makes you arch and beg for more, for him.

You choke on a sob when he adds another finger, and he hushes you so sweet, tears prick your eyes.

“Starshine,” He coaxes, withdrawing only to give your clit, a few kitten licks and slow kisses. His gaze flickers towards yours, holding your wet eyes. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

You nod, the meat of your thighs squeezing around him. Keigo would be happy to die like this, you soft and opened for him, crying for him. Broken and cracking for him, by his tongue, by his touch, Him. His.

“Who takes care of you?” He curls his fingers, and you throw your head back into the nest of pillows.

“Y-You,” Your voice breaks and you rub at your cheeks.

“Who knows just how to keep you so well? How to make you feel so good?”

He presses a third finger in, tending to your clit as you cry above him. You’re molten around him, and he laps you up until the smell and taste of you is all he comprehends.

This is what you both need, isn’t it?

Each other. All of each other.

Your cries turn sour quickly, and it has Keigo jolting up, fingers withdrawn and leaving you to feel empty. The little sobs turned into hiccupping cries, one's stifled with the back of your hand.

Keigo rises over you, tugging you hand away to get at your cheeks, kissing them soft and sweet.

It isn’t often that you cry, surprisingly. You probably should more often.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Keigo urges. Please, please, just tell him what the fuck is wrong. He knows, you know, the meat of it all. But please tell him something he can tend to. Something he can stitch up because god, he needs to be useful— “What’s making your cry sweetheart? Tell me.”

You paw at your forehead, “It’s silly.”

You sniffle and look at him with the most unguarded expression he’s seen you worn. The vacancy is gone, the hollowness and pain has been pulled away in the safety of that perfect nest and all that’s left is—

“‘M scared,” You mumble. Your arms curl over your chest, covering what’s primitively most precious to you. “I’m scared.”

Your eyes grow bright and heat, hotter than anything he’s felt from you, explodes over the room.

He’s half-choking and he fucking loves it.

Something in his chest snaps and he worries your hair, bringing his nose to yours, nuzzling and nudging your hands away. He nips you. His poor little birdbrain.

“I’m afraid you’re going to leave.”

Keigo stills.

He sits with your fear for a few beats.

“I’d never leave,” He says easily, truthfully and fully. He couldn’t.

Those long nights in the hospital and the warmth passed between you had so easily gotten you wormed his chest, right next to his second and third rib. He can feel it, always; you’re ever present. He grabs your arms and holds them to yours sides. You’re exposed, soft flesh and squirming a bit beneath him. He wants to mark you purple and near-bloody, so that no one would think of you as anything other than his.

His, his, his.

He shows you.

Worn hands, a bit chapped with the dry air, pull your high to rest on his shoulders. He massages your calves, kissing your ankles.

“I mean this real lovingly, starshine,” He breaths deep, fisting his cock with a few slow strokes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t get a chance to protest as he slides into you in one stroke. The stretch of him has you burning; he can tell by the way your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his shoulders as your little cries only get harder.

“Bear it, I know you can,” You had before, and you would many times more. The stretch feels amazing, even if it burns something in your core. You like it, how the pain pricks something that shoots into your toes. Only Keigo gets to fuck you up, gets to own you. “You’re always good f-for me— f-fuck, so fucking good—”

His, his, his.

There is, of course, the inverse.

You grab his jaw, your grip tight like his was earlier, and you meet his gaze. You blink away tears, sniffling, but expression set with determination.

“You’re mine too,” You squeeze around him, grinding down to the root of his cock. “‘M only good for you because you’re mine too, Keigo. All of you.”

Without thought, your hands ghost over his scars.

You have avoided them for so long. It was an untouched spot, something tender and from a time where Keigo was being that was entirely and wholly different from who he is now. It’s a piece of him that’s always been off-limits.

But you’re both so cracked open, you do it without thought.

And something in Keigo snaps.

He pushes you down by the backs of your thighs, folding your legs to your torso. And he fucks you.

His hips slam against yours, opening you up with pants and groans. You feel full, full of him in every and all ways, everywhere, always, and forever.

You’re greedy with your touches, tugging him closer and uncaring of the way your nails scrap over his shoulders and arms. His body is yours and you’re his. It’s disgusting, it’s fucked up and perfect the way you slot together. It’s like little, scared pieces of existence slide together, and everything feels whole, yet open and uncracked.

Keigo fills you up with a sob, tears dripping down his cheeks as you pressed down on the burns and scars that rack down his back.

“Fill me up,” You demand, the heat of you swelling as his hand dips to your clit, circling and rolling with the little pleas falling from both your lips.

The world drips as his thrusts go harder, sloppier as you tip your head back and scream. Your voice breaks, hoarse from all your pleading and possession.

Keigo stuffs you, tip of his cock pressed to the deepest parts of you. His cum, all him, leaks from around his cock as he gives a few more weakened grinds. He makes sure you’re full, content and sated and his.

He falls over you, coating your cheeks in kisses and praise. You sputter little sobs for him, begging for him to be closer, despite the way he still fills you even as he softens.

It never feels like enough, the closeness. But you’ll settle for all of him that you can get.

...

The storm passes, and you spend your time much the same way. Fucking, feeling, and for a little, blessed while, forgetting.

Eventually, the snow stops falling. The wind that has been whipping the power into tree trucks and your windows falls still. It’s peaceful, then. Not that it wasn’t before, but without the weather bearing down on you, you’re both less hungry. Still greedy, just not starved.

You share the first morning after the storm outside, on the porch. Keigo had shoveled a little clear patch and you’d brushed off the two, brittle lawn chairs that had seen better days. You fixate on the task a bit too much, the steaming coffee you’re to share is forgotten. The straining plastic of the chairs is a yellowed-white and bright red. It felt strong enough under your fingers, cold fingers, as you cleared away the snow.

It feels like a remnant

Whatever fixation you have on the object passes as Keigo runs a hand up your spine. His hand is wide and warm, still a bit warm from the toasty mugs.

You rearrange your chairs and yourselves to be close as can be, in your little patch of snowless porch, and sip at your coffee as the world begins to wake up.

...

Oddly enough, the storm helps you make forward progress, at least a little. You take up making breakfasts on your own, occasionally carrying plates into the bedroom with a big, previously unseen grin

Keigo returns the smile so big, his cheeks burn for hours.

You take to a few of the little crafts and things Keigo has been hoarding. Paper folding and little canvases with acrylic painting are your favorites. Sometimes, you paint your little strokes and press creases from the comfort of the couch. Other times, you make you place for the day at the kitchen island while Keigo makes his day-long meals.

There’s a rhythm to it that’s so good.

It’s progress, and seeing it visibly start to the fill the walls feels good for both of you. Your little canvases get hung around the cabin, little portraits of the stars and their mother, all for you and Keigo to admire. ;;

...

He gets the call exactly three weeks after the storm passes.

Keigo awakes before you to the shrill ring of his cell. It vibrates against the bedside table, loud enough to wake the both of you. You both startle out of sleep, squeezing each other.

He takes the call in the other room, after he sees the contact name.

[Suits] Calling...

He paces as he listens to her drone on.

There’s no greeting, no “hey, how does it feel to be a flightless fucking failure?”. It’s business. Just business. It’s always been like that with her, and the lot of suits that treated him like a fixture until he got particularly cracked and unsightly.

“So, you come into Tokyo, we’ll do a small event—”

“The event you’re describing really doesn’t sound small,” Keigo tilts his head and gives an angry smile to his own reflection in the mirror. “It sounds like a circus that I really have no interest in being a part of.”

“It’s for the people, Hawks—”

It makes him snap.

“Stop fucking calling me that.” He growls into the receiver, grip tight enough to hurt. “Stop calling me, stop asking me, I am not coming back.”

The woman is silent on the line for a beat, before spitting, “What if I didn’t give you a choice?”

His blood runs cold before burning in his veins. And he laughs.

“You think you could?” He only feels a little hysterical. “You don’t have any power, not over me, not over anyone else as far as I’ve seen, Madam President!”

“Hawks—”

Shut up, shut up, shut UP.

“The Commission is dead, the world is in chaos, and putting the corpse of a hero on the big screen isn’t going to convince anyone that this is all fixable,” Keigo chest gets tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from the uncomfortable laughter he’s spitting or the sobs that are locked in his chest.

“So, you’d rather turn your back on the people you swore to protect?” Suits speaks with no emotion, not an ounce of feeling. “Selfish.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish. The word echoes in his mind, worms its way down his throat and suffocates him.

“You’re really going to say that to me? Of all fucking people?” He feels his nails break skin where he’d been clenching his fist. “Me, selfish?”

“You left, didn’t you? Ran away?” The woman has the stones to fucking laugh. “Everyone’s lost something. You’re not special, and it doesn’t justify—”

“What the fuck are you getting out of this?” Keigo interrupts, burning, burning— “Did you call me to go to this little gala or did you call to dig into your perfect little hero? You told me I could be done. Should’ve known you were lying, you always lie—”

“You’re being childish.”

“Oh my GOD!” Keigo nearly screams and doesn’t notice how you’ve tip-toed from the bedroom. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear you screaming at me, the woman who practically raised you, like some petulant brat. Get a grip, Hawks.”

He snaps.

“STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THAT!” He screams into the phone, vision going white and scarlet. “I am not Hawks! Hawks is DEAD! Why can’t you understand that? There’s no fucking hero to attend your little ‘healing’ gala, there’s just me. ‘Childish’, ‘selfish’, and wingless, babe. That’s what I’ve got, and this is what I am.”

Suits takes an audible sigh, and Keigo can almost see how she’s shaking her head at him, “You’re being ridiculous, Hawks. Take at least a goddamn ounce of responsibility for your actions that helped cause all... this.”

Ah, there it is. The thing Hawks has so properly compartmentalized, tucked so far back in his psyche that it’s almost impossible to reach.

How much of the dissolution of... everything is on him?

Something in him snaps, and it slips through his own fingers.

“I’m not going and this, Madam President? This is for me.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

He hears her unspoken words echoing in his skull as he hangs up, slamming the phone on the countertop.

Something hotter than rage and more poisonous than pain fills his blood, and it makes him want to both wretch and break his fingers in the same breath. He slams a fist onto the phone, cracking it against the countertop. He can buy a new one—

“S-Sweetpea?”

Keigo freezes.

You’re at the mouth of the hallway, hardly out of the shadows, eyes wide and fearful. His chest somehow gets even tighter.

Normally, he would’ve rushed to comfort you, calmed himself down to console you for seeing his little outburst.

But he doesn’t that day.

He breaths ragged with his lips slowly curling, panic’s ugly cousin turning his spit acrid behind his teeth.

“Here, let’s go back to bed, okay? We can—” You take a few steps closer, hand outstretched and eyes beginning to light.

Oh, and Keigo’s hit by fucking envy, and it’s over.

“Don’t.”

You freeze, “Pretty eyes—”

“Don’t, just don’t.”

You don’t move as Keigo trudges to the door, throws on his thick parka and snow boots, pocketing his keys and grumbles to you that there’s leftovers in the fridge.

It’s shitty and selfish.

And he just doesn’t care.

He can’t make himself care as the door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing off the trees and so quickly dampened by the snow.

...

Keigo drives, white noise in his ear that echoes the wind in the treetops of the mountains he’s descending. He’s only half there as he leaves town.

It’s still too much.

...

You, on the other hand?

You’re frozen, stuck-still, as you watch Keigo climb into the car and drive off. Maybe your mouth has gone a bit agape, you aren’t aware of your body.

You panic.

There’s no other word for it, not that you were able to think of as you were untrenched in it.

There’s something thick and knotted that is rolling unraveling in your chest. The... thing is worse than a feeling and runs deeper and hotter than you can manage.

You tried to manage it.

While Keigo is god fucking knows where, you paced the house, always within eyeshot of a window. Hoping for a glimpse of his dark parka, or the tufts of his blonde sticking out in the snow, a return—

Fucking nothing.

He just left.

No return time, no destination, just a departure with no explanation. He’d obviously left the cabin before, you’d handled those times quite well, but he’d never stormed out. Never raised his voice and screamed and then just left.

Is he okay?

(You heard most of the call, at least his side of it. Is that awful Hero Commission he told you about calling him back? Or even worse, dragging him away.)

(He’d tell you, wouldn’t he?)

(Guess you’ll never know! Because he’s fucking gone.)

It made something seize in your chest, hot and awful as you walked your circuit, praying. Worry is damning.

How could he just... leave?

You need him back.

You alone without him.

Your thoughts rot you, despite the winter’s cold outside. The chill of the cabin seeps into your bones, coats them and leaves you sticky and downright paranoid. The lack of... presence (his presence) was driving you up a wall. The air is too still, the floors quiet and without the telltale old creaks of movement that you’ve become accustomed to, and the cabin is silent other than your breathing and rabbit’s heart.

Beneath the anger was a thick layer of fear.

You are alone.

The feeling rolled its way into you as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

What if he never comes back?

Of course he is, you remind yourself, hurriedly, worrying the scary on your leg and picking at the core of it. He wouldn’t leave.

Why wouldn’t he?

The thought gets your poor little heart racing faster, air choking in your lungs. Your head whips to the window to see the empty, snowy driveway.

“I-I’m alone,” You break the silence of the house, the walls answering with their pensive quiet and the wind shaking the fresh snow from thin branches just outside.

All alone.

All fucked up and broken and fucking alone.

“He wouldn’t leave,” You start talking to yourself, threading a hand in your hair, gripping. “He cares, he wouldn’t just leave.”

He cared about being a hero too and he left everyone else.

What if things changed?

Insecurities, new ones and old ones, cloud your mind and vision and stuffed your lungs. The grip on your hair goes tighter.

All alone in the mountains.

All.

Alone.

It scares you more than anything, how much you need him.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you tug at the roots of your hair. It hurts, but everything is starting to hurt very quickly, and a bit of hair pulling is child’s play to how it feels like your chest is being hollowed out.

You really have so little. It stuns you in the moment as you choke back a sob. The little house in the mountains, Keigo, and the starlight you still both enjoy— that’s fucking it. You’d never returned to your ‘apartment’, or rather the remnants of it. Any possessions you had were lost to destruction and unsalvageable. Your meager relationships and friendships had fallen away when you were bound to hospital for months.

He’s all you have.

“No, no, no,” You nearly trip in your pacing, dragging your feet as you accept your reality. “He can’t l-leave.”

The world responds with silence. The mountains are cold and lonely, just like you are. It’s cruel, it all hurts and after being in a daze so often, the reality of your situation hurts like a hot brand.

He’ll come back.

He cares.

You desperately try to convince yourself as you tug your parka on, throwing on your boots. You don’t bother to fasten or tie anything, you just stumble onto the deck blindly and scan the hill of the drive.

Not a single soul.

Something rotten curls up behind your teeth. Bile climbs the back of your throat and you have to swallow to keep from vomiting. Your chest is too tight, the world is too bright, and you’re terrified.

You’re not sure what to call the type of panic response you have; it doesn’t make any logical sense. Your heart runs in your chest, your breath is hot and tight, and you simply slip to the ground in the fresh snow.

And you wait.

...

Keigo drives until he’s nearly out of town, into some flatlands near the river that gurgles and churns nearby. The surrounding forest is the perfect place for a pensive walk.

It’s the best place for him to just get it out.

It had been a long time since Keigo had just talked to himself. Audibly sorts himself as he walks along the bank of the almost-frozen river. He doesn’t keep his voice quiet, no, its full volume complaining. It’s anger that’s bundled up in his chest that’s finally being lit and the smoke of it nearly chokes him out.

It’s not fair.

He does feel a bit childish, thinking about it like that. But hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t they told him that he’d done enough? He lost it all and was just starting to the plant the seeds for a new life to sprout. Couldn’t he just have that? He’s not the shiny thing he used to be he’s fucking worthless. And that’s fine. He’s made peace with it and can find worth outside of saving people.

He’s capable. Adaptable. And he’s doing it all at his trademark speed.

But the thing that makes his gut twist is facing everything he (ran away from) left behind. The only short statement he’d given after Dabi’s video was nearly as viral as the actual video of him killing Jin (don’t think about it, don’t think about it—)

He’s not sure what possesses him to pull out his phone and pull up the video. It’s not hard to find.

It hurts to watch, but he does it anyway. Fucking masochist.

He’s standing beside Enji and Tsunagu, all of them in hastily tailored suits. They all had their visible injuries. Scars and brands that had just been carved and burned into skin. They look haggard, they look beaten.

Because they were.

Keigo watches as he adjusts his microphone in the video and gives his statement. Stupidly simple and vague, all at the same time.

“The villain Dabi did not lie. I am the son of Takami, and I killed Twice of the League of Villains. It was all necessary. Please accept my apology for the upset I have caused.”

His voice doesn’t even sound like him. It’s manufactured and broken. He remembers how the smoke had charred his throat and lungs for the first few days, before he was transferred from Central to the big facility in the tall-tree-ed forest.

He bows on the video and Enji begins his statement. Something solemn about the suffering he’s caused his family, how he wants to atone and how he is atoning. The public was too angry to listen and is too angry to listen. And the world Keigo ran from is the result.

He lets himself cry.

Finally.

His shoulders shake as he hunches over himself. The tears slip down his chilled cheeks and make little divots where they fall into the snow beneath him. His little gasps turn into sobs, the kind that hurt your chest and give you a headache that lasts for days.

He repeats a little mantra between scratchy breaths—

“I’m still good.”

He falls against the thick bark of a tree and slides down to the ground.

He let’s go.

It’s good for him, cleansing. Maybe it’s the rushing of the nearby river or the snow he's buried his hands in, but with each ragged breath he can feel some of that filth that’s clinging to him fall away. Not all of it, not by a long shot.

But feeling the worst is the first step to feeling your best.

So, when Keigo’s ready, he stands and moves forward. Trudges onward, albeit a bit slower.

...

Keigo returns home just as the sky begins to change from red to indigo with the night. It paints the pines and evergreens an eerie, dark color, shadows long and deep against the fluffy snow.

His gut twists in knots as he gets closer to home.

He’s tired. Exhausted. His eyes are still puffy from his tears, sore and aching. His body still feels tight, tense in his shoulders and arms as he grips the steering wheel. He needs rest. A good cup of tea and maybe a beer later.

And you.

As weak as Keigo feels, he knows he fucked up... just a bit.

It wasn’t fair to storm out. He isn’t dumb. All the same, if he stayed with you in the cabin, he probably would’ve said something he regretted. Or locked himself in the bedroom all day. It wouldn’t have been good or fair for you or him.

(Coward.)

Probably, but he was also burned alive fairly recently, so he had to give himself a bit of credit.

As he nears, his stomach drops.

You’re on the porch. You sit on the steps, parka pooling around your waist as your head rests on your knees.

Something’s not right.

Some of his old, honed senses trill to life, seeing you. Something in his gut twists, the muscles in his back tense, the old ones that controlled his wings.

You must be cold.

Keigo leaves the car and slaps on a smile, “Waiting for me, starshine?”

You twitch, curling over your body harder.

Something is very wrong—

He calls your name, your actual name, and you hardly stir. You all but twitch from where you sit, head tilting up just the slightest bit. It’s not enough to ease any of the worry pulling his old muscles, if anything, it makes it worse.

He falls to his knees in front of you, ignoring the crack his bones make.

“How long have you been out here?” Too long, he knows the answer, but he still has to ask.

“... A while,” You murmur, barely audible. “You’re back.”

“I am,“ Keigo pushes you up by your shoulders, scanning your face as more fear curls in his gut.

Your eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“We need to get you inside, now,” He isn’t sure if he sounds scared or angry (probably both), and he can’t make himself care.

You’re freezing.

Too cold, way too cold.

Keigo had to take plenty of survival courses during his training with the Commission and he had learned plenty about hypothermia. His avian anatomy made him more susceptible to the cold and knowing the symptoms for himself kept him from turning into a bird-adjacent popsicle more than once. He’d rescued his handful of civilians—

(Don’t think about being a hero right now or you’re gonna start crying again.)

You’re not some civilian, you’re you and you’re in front of him with darkened lips and dull eyes and full panic breaks his ribs.

...

You remember how pretty red the sky was.

You like sunsets.

You should see if Keigo wants to watch the sunset sometime.

Keigo’s gone.

You could drive—

Keigo drove away. You’re alone.

You aren’t sure how long you sat in the chill, but it was comforting despite how your fingers and toes began to ache. Outside, there were plenty of sounds and sights to keep you company. The wind whistled through trees, and the sky echoed a few, far-off sounds from distant civilization.

It was nice. Peaceful, at the very least.

...

“Inside, you need to be inside,” Keigo sputters, pulling you up under your arms. Your feet drag for a moment before going flat, and you sway in his arms.

Getting you inside makes his body ache in new ways, your weight mostly on his side. Old pains crawled to the surface as he dragged you to the couch, setting you down on the cushion and assessing you better.

His hands run over your body, over curves and divots he knew and loved and the chill of you filled him with dread.

“Your pants are wet from the snow,” Keigo swallows, rising. “I’m going to grab you dry clothes.”

As soon as he tries to move away, you catch his wrist in a weak grip.

And finally, half-lucidly, you regard him with terror in your eyes.

“You l-left,” You spit, lips curling over your teeth. “You left, Keigo.”

You use his real name and he really wants to die a little.

Sure, Suits used it on the phone with him and it made him see blood fucking red, but it’s you, and you saying the name he never really had, for the first time, so fucking angrily makes part of his secretly fragile heart break.

He freezes, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at you.

“I’m sorry,” He says softly. “Let me get you warm, then we can talk, okay?”

You don’t look convinced, tightening your grip on his wrist and pulling him closer.

Keigo gives in, so, so easily, dropping to his knees and pulling your icy hands into his. He rubs warmth into them, bringing them to his lips and breathing hot over your knuckles.

“Please, starshine. Let me get you warm.”

“I’m already warm,” Your voice slurs, entirely unconvincing.

“I say this very lovingly,” He says, somehow cracking a smile, “but you’re genuinely hypothermic. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you need to get warmed up.”

You chew your lip, cupping his cheeks with your freezing palms, “... You’re not leaving?”

Your voice drawls and Keigo makes a note to turn up the thermostat.

“No, god, no, I’m not,” He tries to assure you, shaking his head, but your grip only gets harsher. He placates you with a squeeze to your knee. “Please let me help.”

He can’t tell you how much he needs to. How hyper aware he is of your chill and of his own thumping heart. That protective urge in his chest wants to just pull you to his chest and wrap you up in him, in his heat, but that’s for later.

Your eyes' gaze goes softer, little specks of light bouncing between your irises. The room fills with blessed, familiar heat and Keigo can feel his shoulders slacken and some of the worry in his chest dissipate.

...

He returns with some of his own soft joggers, fleece-lined and well-loved. He grabbed a few layers, and an armful of blankets and pillows. Anything he could carry gets brought as his little, avian mind craves something he suppressed for years so well.

Nest, nest, nest.

Heat them first, then nest.

He helps you slip into your new, dry clothes as your teeth begin to chatter. Thank fucking god. Keigo is smart enough to check your toes as he slips onto fuzzy, thermal socks, and they all look to be healthy and functioning.

You’re quiet during the whole ordeal, save for soft breathing and snapping teeth. You occasionally grab his hand and hold it to whatever part of your skin was bared, mumbling something about how warm he is.

Keigo eventually gets you settled and surrounded by blankets and pillows which you sink into, eyes hardly open. Only then does he feel like he can pull away enough to start the nearby fire.

It feels somewhat unnecessary, given you’re still heating the room. It’s probably somewhat for the atmosphere, considering the sky is nearly fully black. A bit of crackling flame and light would do you both good.

(He rarely lights fire, but considering the flame is a kind red and not a fucking disgusting blue, he can bear it. Especially now.)

When the fire is stoked, he turns back to you and deflates.

“I’m sorry,” You say, all soft and half-lidded from the blankets. “That was... dumb.”

“It was.”

Keigo can’t fight you on the obvious.

There’s a goddamn list of questions he wants to ask you. ‘Why’s and ‘what’s, but he has a pretty good idea of why you were sitting outside and what you were thinking.

He’s not sure you’d want to talk about it anyway.

The couch creaks when he sits down a few feet from your little nest, running a tired hand over his face.

“... You know, this couch folds out,” You shift a little, slow and lethargic. Still cold. “We should sleep out here tonight.”

He turns to regards you, and it takes everything in him not to fucking break.

“Why?” His voice shakes and he knows you can tell.

You hum, leaning toward him, “Change of scenery. I think we could both use it.”

“Later.” Keigo agrees. The urge to wrap you up in his (wings) arms feels unbearable, the little avian tickings in his skull loud and needy. “Warm first. Futon later.”

You huff weakly, but lift the blankets to let Keigo slip behind you. His body curls around yours, finding the coldest parts of you and tending to them first. His hands clasp over yours and your feet get tucked between his calves.

“Thanks,” You murmur, neutral and vacant.

Keigo doesn’t push you.

Instead, you stay tucked in his arms, still shivering, but significantly less cold. Your lips and cheeks look a far healthier color and they’re warm to the touch. He traces his fingertips over the curves of your face and neck, preening in the only way he can muster up.

You eventually break the silence, when the fire is all but embers.

“I heard some of that call…” Your voice trails off. “It sounded bad.”

“It was,” Keigo agrees with a little nod. He really doesn’t want to think about Suits and, you know, the rest of the world, but it feels necessary. “Very bad.”

“Who was it?”

“Old boss.”

“… And?”

Keigo sighs, squeezing you probably a little too tightly, “Why don’t we focus on warming you up from your hypothermic excursion and not my shitty life as a shitty hero—”

“You weren’t a shitty hero, Keigo,” He can hear the mourning in your voice and it makes him want to die, just a little. You cup his cheeks, eyes sad and soft around the edges. “You were a really good one.”

“Was I? News to me.” He laughs, the bitter sound tasting like bile. He hates it, the feel of it mixed with the heat and softness of you. It feels wrong. “I don’t want to talk about all that, starshine. Please just drop it.”

Your face hardens.

“No.”

“… No?”

“No, I’m not done,” You sigh, big and hard. “I think we’re more fucked up than we talk about, Keigo.”

He winces, but you keep going, and he doesn’t move to stop you.

“Probably.”

Your jaw sets like stone on stone. It makes him internally wince as your hands go to cup his cheeks.

“I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up, everything is fucked up. We can ignore it up here, quietly, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

Yes.

“Yeah.” He feels his gut roll, but he doesn’t stop you. His grip goes tighter on your hips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Can we just… Acknowledge it? Please.” You ask, beg, softly as you rub his cheeks with your thumbs. “Please, Keigo.”

He doesn’t know what to do at first. He really wants to lock up. Shut down. Lock all the nasty feelings in chest, behind his heart, so they can burrow into his spine and keep him moving forward.

He wraps his hands around your wrists.

Your eyes look glassy, tears sticking in your bottom eyelashes, but not daring to fall. Not yet.

“Keigo, I’m fucked up, I know that, and that’s okay,” You deflate a little. “I’m getting better. We’re getting better. I know we are.”

“We a-are.”

Keigo’s voice cracks, hoarse in his throat and tight as the uniform belt he used to wear. His lungs feel hot, too stuffed even as he tries to swallow the heat that’s welling up on the very back of his tongue.

“You are good, Keigo, I promise,” You lean in to give his forehead the lightest kiss and Keigo feels part of himself die in the best way. “Please, let’s just talk.”

And so, he does.

…

He tells you about Jin first.

You’d heard about him, the villain Hawks killed during the War. Published for the world to see, over and over, forever. The video was one you’d only seen once, during your early days at the hospital, but you could recall the footage on your grainy hospital television.

Your pretty eyes, pretty Keigo, cut him down. One of his old feathers, hardened into a stiff blade, struck Jin across the chest, arcing up to his neck and slicing a few important arteries and veins. It was an imperfect job, one that probably made his death more painful and prolonged than it needed to be.

You don’t let go of Keigo’s cheeks as he tells you the story. You can’t, you’re too busy thumbing away the little tears that roll down his cheeks.

He speaks between sobs that break from his chest. Underused and much-needed.

“He was good, starshine,” Keigo curls in a little on himself, but you keep him mostly upright. “I had to, y-you know? I didn’t have a choice, if I didn’t—"

How many more people would be dead?

His body convulsed, the little tears turning fat as he collapsed into your chest and buried himself in you. Like he was hiding, and god, did you let him.

You hushed him, soothed him with little kisses, and listened.

“And then Dabi—”

You hate him, obviously. You only know his name and visage, and you hate him so much it hurts. Part of you wants to rub at his scars like he lets you, but you decide against it in Keigo’s fragility.

He tells you of the blue flames, how the boot felt against his back, how his throat burned for weeks from the heat and smoke. His grip on you goes so tight, you’re afraid he’s going to tear your shirt to shreds.

“He took them, starshine,” Keigo’s voice muffled into your shoulder, the sound of it rattling you. “He t-took them!”

And he slumps against you, well and truly, and can’t muster up another word. All you could do is hold him, rocking him from your little, shared spot on the couch and whisper to him little comforts. You’re crying a little too, breath tight and hazy as you let Keigo shatter in your arms.

He’s not ready to talk about his wings and that’s okay. More than okay.

So, you soothe him. He soothes you right back, rubbing at your sides, hips, thighs— whatever he can reach and touch and claim. You’re good, you’re the closest he’s going to get to permeance and he’ll be damned to let you go when you feel so good and he feels so fucking awful.

You fall back onto the chest, pulling Keigo with you so he can lay atop you. His ear presses to your chest, heart thumping in his ear while you lock your arms around him. Caged in and held, with the lightest pressure on the thick skin of his scars.

“I’ll never truly get it, I can’t,” You admit, quietly as you smooth back some of his tear-matted hair. “But I want to be here. I want to listen when you’re want to talk. Need to talk. You can dash off on your own, Keigo, that’s okay. Just know that I’ve got you to, okay?”

Keigo sniffled, peering up at you with wide eyes, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

“I am now, aren’t I? Just a few hours out from nearly being a popsicle,” You hum and joke, glowing from the inside out when Keigo graces you with a little smile.

It takes a few more moments for him to cover, haul himself up to the crook of your neck and breathing hard and deep for a while. Like he’s trying to absorb you through scent alone.

“… Are you okay?” Keigo asks, squeezing you so tight it hurts. (And you want more of it.) “You’re not as cold anymore.”

“I’m feeling okay,” You paw at your face a bit, rubbing your cheeks like they’re still numb and not flushed with blood and sticky with drying tears. “I just freaked out a little.”

“… Because I left?”

You nod, chewing your lips.

“I don’t want to be alone, Keigo,” You whisper it, though he already knows your admission. “I’m terrified of you leaving.”

“When I left,” Keigo rises to meet your gaze, gooey and cobbled. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

“… Maybe,” You shake your head, refusing to look at him. “You didn’t say anything about coming back, just about… leftovers.”

You both frown.

“I panicked.” You shake your heard.

“… That’s what happens when you panic?”

“I guess?” Your mouth feels too dry. “I don’t know. I got scared. I panicked. What else was I supposed to do?”

There’s an obvious answer or two, but it’s unspoken.

“I’m not leaving,” Keigo rubs at your cheeks. “You’re gonna have to try pretty hard to get me gone, starshine. I love you too much to go easily.”

It’s a declaration, a strong one, and god does it feel fucking good to hear.

“… Promise?” You ask him as his palms cup your cheeks and jaw.

“Promise.”

“I heard on the call—”

Keigo interrupts you with a kiss, hard and long that steals your breath and makes your head spin.

“Promise.” Keigo breaths, pretty eyes meeting your heat-filled ones. “Everywhere, all the time, forever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a start, even if that insecurity is so deeply rooted. The adoration in his eyes, and the sweetness of his touch tempers it all. It’s there still, just like how there’s so much unspoken that needs to be sorted, chewed on, and digested.

But now?

The embers in the hearth need another log or two. The futon needs to be folded out and I’d be best if you shared a cup or two of tea. Preferably something with lavender that’ll scent the cabin with the smells of spring and herbs.

Now, you’re both more than enough.

…

thank you for reading!!💞keep an eye out for part 3! 👀

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawk x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia #anyways ouch <3 #kiss it better keigo #enjoy this big boy heheh #kith kith :'^)

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danddymaro · 3 years

Text

Stubborn | Rohan Kishibe x Reader

Recap :

- Kira is Dead (LOL)

Josuke isn't massively fucked as he was in the last episode LMFAO. Basically, things went a LOT smoother here, with only one little exception.

Rohan admitting his feelings while almost losing his (F/n)

Character injury

Major change in story

Happy end , no worries

Warning : Not so much romanticism but it was an idea I've had. And we just need to get these drafts outta here.

A/N:

Thoughts are in italics and quotations // ‘ Example,’

Flashback are all in just Italics

Word count: 3451

Stubborn

Rohan glowered at the younger, limping male as he trudged his way closer to him and the woman that was gingerly held within his secure hold.

"You..." the emerald-eyed male sneered before tenderly easing the (h/c) haired female down, mindful not to bring her any more unneeded distress.

He was then quick to shoot back up, moving in long strides, advancing towards Josuke with no trace of the tenderness he'd held moments ago, but rather, maliciousness that itched over his features as he came face to face with the younger.

“ Stay back !” Rohan nearly roared, moving to stop the dark-haired teen from further advancing towards the hurt, (h/c) haired young woman as she lay injured on the concrete ground.

Jojo was then pushed back by a jut to the shoulder that was executed by a bloodied hand that stayed and had every intention in the world from letting him advance forward.

"Don't you dare come any closer Higashikata," Rohan huffed out with the same venom.

With glaring eyes, Josuke shoved the shaking man aside, quickly doing away with the sudden grip with his own vicious jerking motion, not willing to waste any more time with useless quarrels when it could be spent helping (f/n).

“ - You can't be freaking serious!” Jojo cried out in return while not holding back on the aggressive shove, "What are you doing?" He then proceeded to ask, his tone wavering in the slightest, struck by the elder man's opposition.

'- Don't you care about her?' He wondered with bared teeth, ' Doesn't it hurt you to see her like this?' He added, eyeing her beaten sight, all with threatening tears ready to path way onto his young, yet worn face.

“- I need to heal her”! He then declared as he reached out past the artist, all in spite of his determination to stand in opposition

‘Closer...I'm almost there... I'm almost there (f/n),’ Josuke thought to himself, knowing he was just centimeters away from his stand’s working range.

“ What you need to do is get the hell away from her!” Rohan retorted, still fighting back, and yet, throughout the entire time, he hadn't taken the liberty to look down at (f/n), instead, training his spite-filled green orbs eyes on the frantic teenager.

“I didn't ask for your help!” Kishibe added, his spite heightened as he reminded himself just why she'd been targeted.

‘If it weren’t for you…’ The mangaka thought to himself, glaring venomously at the other male. ‘If it weren’t for you.... this wouldn’t have happened…’ He thought with assurance.

'If she hadn't gone out of her way...all for you...' He then added with the same spite, his entire body trembling with fury.

"I'll get her out of here myself, And I don't need you to get in the way!" Kishibe added, soon hearing sirens in the distance as the paramedics approached.

"I don't need your help," He proceeded to speak lowly.

"- But she does," Josuke said back, sternness in his voice, "and I'm going to save her," he said with certainty, not wanting to have another loss on his hands.

"I didn't ask for your help," Rohan insisted, and the arrogant declaration stiffened the teen with silence. “Because if it weren't for you..." Rohan then repeated out loud, his sentence going unfinished before he continued with another line instead.

"....You should have just stayed away from her, ” he maundered, going ignored by Josuke as he wordlessly brought out his stand, the large humanoid being standing tall and just as determined as its wielder, who by then had a grasp on what the real issue was.

It only took the few uttered words prior to understand the true reason behind the elder male's actions, and it made him seethe with rage,

“ You're pathetic,” Josuke said below his breath, unable to look away from (f/n) as he spoke, doing just what the other man couldn't.

'Is that was this is about?' He wondered, 'That asshole...he can't just man up, can he?

- Not even for you,' He thought bitterly while gazing down at (f/n).

“I don't give a damn about what you want. And I could care less about that simple-minded pride of yours,” he went on, his voice rising as he finally took a chance to look back at the other male as he let crazy Diamond's power befall upon the female.

Cobalt met emerald, and in between the fierce gaze were unsaid words shot in between the two, whereas an understanding was made.

'- Try to stop me.' Josuke taunted Rohan with a tight toothed grit, his body standing rigid straight as his hands which were at his sides trembled with his withheld fury.

The younger's haggard breathing steadied for just a moment as he stood as strong as his convictions were, and the very sight made the other man that glared at him scorn.

“I despise you,” Kishibe hissed before a sharp gasp came from below, the little noise stealing his attention, his eyes finally trailing down to the female to watch as the shattered bits of her bones took form.

The endless flow of her cuts then closed, stopping the messy spill.

His expression then unscrunched from its frustrated sneer to melting relief as he saw her breathing begin to steady and afterward, a low, drawn-out breath left him as he saw her (e/c) colored eyes slowly flutter open, the lovely drops gradually adjusting to the light of the cloudy sky.

A small grunt emitted from (f/n) before her (e/c) colored eyes fell upon the teen kneeling before her. Her two hazy orbs then locked onto the concerned blues staring down at her,

'JoJo...it's you...' She thought with a wave of comfort that soon livened her.

And after the relief settled, she then surged with elation, " JoJo! " (f/n) said amidst bubbling joy, her arms immediately circling his neck, tightly holding him with a urgent need to feel him close.

" Jojo...you're ok," she said sweetly, soon crying into his neck.

Her face then pressed directly onto blood and grime, ignoring the filthy stench that clung to him as fiercely as she presently did.

'You're alive...' She thought with joy, knowing that, that was all that mattered.

"...But you’re all beat up," she sniffled afterward, grateful that even if he was injured, he was well enough to stand, enough to tend to her.

A weary chuckle then left her as she realized how fortunate they were to barely scrape by.

“Yeah,” he breathed while releasing the same breathy chortle she did, and instantaneously, his tensed body melted under her loving embrace, realizing that they had somehow gone against the odds, and he was thankful that it was all over.

" Glad your back...and just as cuddly as ever too," he then smiled, the palms of his hands laying on her back, bringing her close while he returned her affection, grateful that he had another moment with her to add to his memories.

'He would have taken you too...' Josuke thought while closing his eyes, ‘ He was so close to taking you...' He added while sniffling, grateful that Kira had left without claiming another innocent life.

Peeking out from over the healer's shoulder, (f/n) then caught sight of the mangaka, observing as his face twisted into frustration, and she wasn't certain if it was fueled by pain or anger.

She noticed he was bloodied too, but couldn't see from where the gore spilled from, and she wondered when he'd arrived.

She asked herself whether or not he'd made it during their fight and had been caught in between as well because he'd seemed to have gone through an entire battle himself.

'Rohan...why do you look so...troubled? So …Beaten?' She wondered with concern, not knowing that the scarlet color that had clung to him so passionately had come from her, unaware that the reason he'd become so tainted by the tint was because of how strongly he'd held her.

He kept her in his arms, his vibrant, green eyes dimmed with horror as he felt how much of her life oozed from her stilled, cooling body.

"(f/n)?" He said softly while gingerly cradling her in a nurturing demeanor that wasn't too difficult to comprehend because by then, any fool could see how much he cared about her.

By then, every bit of the hesitance he showed before was disregarded as he left himself bare, unable to face the situation with anything but the truth.

Swallowing thickly, he let out a soft, weary chuckle as he looked down at her, his thumb gently gliding over the running red that painted her lovely lips.

"...You've made your point already, " He murmured softly as he witnessed the flow of his sorrow trail down the sides of her paling face.

' I can't live without you. ' He mused while he sourly smiled.

"...You're my best friend." He openly admitted to her, the softness in his voice so tender, one would never believe it ever had the viciousness in it to convey his typical arrogance.

' And I don't want to lose you,' He thought while pressing his forehead to hers before huffing out three little words that had knotted in his throat before, but somehow, now found easy to utter in spite of the thickness that clotted his throat,

"I love you..." he huffed, closing his eyes tightly.

Gingerly, the hand that wasn't supporting her trailed over her bruised cheek before holding it,

'Why....Why was it so hard to say before?' he wondered with frustration. 'Why is it that now, now that I finally have it in me to say it...you can't even respond back,' he added, lamenting being so cold with her in the past.

"Can't you hear me?" he asked her softly.

It was then that each and every instance he'd shown her anything but welcome tormented him because he recognized that every second of those memories could have been filled with her smiles instead.

If he hadn't been so bullheaded, then maybe he would have let his pride go for a moment and tell her what he felt.

If he hadn't let her go hours before, then she wouldn't have been in the killer's sight.

If he'd just pulled her back into his home and told her that he wanted her to stay a moment longer, then the outcome would have been different.

"Now, please...just wake up," He compromised with her, " Please...?" He whispered faintly, his voice falling into silence as she stayed still, unstirred by his plea.

And as he continued to speak and beg, the white material of his clothes soaked in the infectious red, letting it creep through the fibers until every thread was replaced with the color of her fleeting life.

And it wasn't long before the murmurs of bargain he released were then drowned out by a familiar voice, and it was at that moment that all of his suffrage evolved into bitter resentment.

' Why do you insist on risking yourself for him...?' Rohan thought with bitterness, witnessing how willingly she leaned into the other male, and much more, how happy she was to see him.

'Don't you get it?' He continued to silently maunder, 'Don't you get that ...eventually...one day...he won't be able to heal you?' he added.

'In the end...he'll lose you too...'

"Rohan..." She breathed, slowly easing away from Josuke, offering him one last smile before her eyes found their entire focus drawn to the irritated male whose sight drew far from hers, finding the rubble of the street more his taste.

His lips were pressed together until his mouth formed a thin, firm line that wouldn't allow a single peep to escape.

'Do you remember any of it?' he then wondered, not knowing which one of his organs had it worse, his twisting stomach of his overworked heart.

Slowly, his face filled with red, and he lost his ability to gaze at her any longer without turning completely vermillion.

Before she could question his sudden fluster, a faint memory of a sweet, sorrowful murmur came forth, and it made her eyes grow wide.

With widely peeled (e/c) colored eyes she gazed at the dejected male before trudging her way to him, all while slowly functioning before happiness flooded her and filled her with giddiness.

'It was you...' She thought with a bursting heart, her hands both flying to her torso to press over her heaving chest.

"Rohan!" she said while suddenly leaping towards him, surprising him with the sudden pounce.

"Rohan! I..." swallowing down thickly she chuckled, hoping it wasn't a delusion of hers.

'I heard... I think I heard you,' She thought with a heavy heart. ' I think that … we feel the same...' She mused while she felt his arms tightly wrapped around her.

She took the risk and pressed her lips to his, quickly discovering that she was accepted by the simple ease he displayed while melted along with her.

As Josuke watched, he took notice of the embrace they shared, observing the longing glow in Rohan’s eyes before they shut tight, taking in the way his hands held her, almost as though there was nothing more precious to him as she was.

"Of all people..." Josuke started, slowly shaking his head at the young woman, unsure of what to tell her, deciding to go with what was most obvious, and could basically sum it all up,

"Rohan...That guy...he's just insufferable," he mumbled lowly, and it made (f/n) giggle.

Rather than be insulted, the young smiled instead,

"He is, isn't he?" She admitted, unable to count all the times the man had made her fume, because, truth be told, he got under her skin more than anyone else could.

"He's insufferable, and kind of full of himself, and don't forget that he can be a real jerk too," She added while looking up at the bright sky.

"He's all of those things," she admitted while continuing to beam, acknowledging Rohan's worst points and accepting them.

"- But he's also sweet," She informed the Joestar descendent.

"When you ask him something, he might say no," She reminded him, " But for the most part, he'll give in, with almost no fight, just an annoyed, little sigh that makes it seem as though he could be doing better things when in reality it's all a front," She informed the listening male.

"It's all a front so you won't see how eager he is to please everyone," She explained.

" And it doesn't come from insecurity," She quickly added with certainty.

"It's not that he wants to be loved by everyone, or needs their validation," She further explained, making certain he grasped the reasoning behind the other man's actions.

"He's just...Well, he just wants to have all the answers, which in turn will help everyone he loves, and cares about, and that is including you." She spoke, and during the last bit, Josuke scoffed.

" He can't stand me!" he said with certainty, " But it's not like I care !" He quickly added. "'Cause it's not like I like the guy either, So it doesn't bother me one bit, " he added with a huff, crossing his arms while trying to seem indifferent.

"You've gotten the best out of him." she started, " - More than once," She then added with sagging shoulders.

"To him, you're a rival. No matter what he says, you're on par with him. And the small admiration he has for you is flushed within that stupid arrogance of his." she sighed, wishing it wasn't so.

"He's just such a sore loser, and what's much worse, he hates having depts., because it means that he's somehow failed," she added, falling into the root of the problem.

"He might seem like he hates you, but if anything were to happen to you, he'd be concerned, " She revealed. "Because, Morioh is his home, and he knows that if anyone is capable of protecting it, it's you," she said while gazing at him with trust, setting the same trust on the youth.

"He wants to be the one to do it...and in his own way he does, but he's well aware that when it comes down to it, you have the strength he lacks," (f/n) continued on.

"He detests it...but at the same time... he's so grateful." She said with amusement, remembering that the only reason she'd come to the conclusion was because Rohan had let just a bit too much of the truth slip out during their talks.

"He seems difficult to understand, but, that's just because you think about it too much. He's not so complex. He's just a bit eccentric and weird, " She said with assurance.

"And weaved within all that strange nature is a good person." She added with a grand smile.

"You could write a whole book on him, huh?" Josuke teased, and she took it in with a bright glow, hanging her head afterward,

"It'd just be a long love letter," She said while grinning stupidly, it being something Josuke threw his head back at.

He laughed, openly teasing her, but silently admiring her at the same time.

'That's what I want,' he then mused.

'Someone like that.

Someone that dedicated.

Someone that's willing to understand me,' He thought while praising the young woman, hoping he'll be lucky enough to have someone as comprehensive and sweet as her one day.

In a sense, it reminded him of his mother and the sweet way she always expressed herself about Joseph Joestar. Granted, the situation hadn't been ideal, but he always smiled when his mom showed her tender side as she recalled the love she still held onto.

Josuke was well aware of how much she'd suffered, but when he'd asked her if she could change it all, she never changed her answer.

She always chose to relive it all, and Josuke accepted it, compromising with himself that even if it ended up in suffrage, he'd be willing to cherish every moment he had with the one person that could give him that same love and understanding.

' That idiot...' Josuke thought to himself, unable to understand how Rohan couldn't see the way her eyes glowed when she looked at him.

'That giant idiot,' He added, feeling insulted on the young woman's behalf whenever the other man showed jealousy towards their friendship, one that he never had any intention to morph into anything else, because it wasn't necessary.

And (f/n) would never dream of it either.

' Isn't it obvious?' He wondered, '(f/n) doesn't see anyone but you, just like, sometimes, you can't see a damn thing besides her,' He added.

For just a split second the two men aligned their eyes together, yet again lively green and bright blue met, though, with a different message sent in between, and it was almost amiable.

The artist's hand held the young woman's, tightly grasping it as he pulled her along before they both stood before the teen.

"Josuke...Higashikata," Rohan said lowly, uttering the name with the same disdain as always,

"You won't hear this from me ever again, " he started before quickly looking back at the darling woman for a quick charge up in inspiration.

"But..." He started, all while still eyeing (f/n), " Thank you." he breathed, trying to keep his face stern, though faltering as he remembered the pitiful state the female had been in moments ago.

"Thank you for healing her," He said with true gratefulness before looking back at the other male.

At a loss for words, Josuke stayed silent before nodding quickly,

'Sure, ' he silently added because he was left blubbering and flustered, having no chance for recovery before Rohan retreated, leaving with the young woman close behind him.

She looked back at him with a halfhearted smile, partially apologizing for not staying any longer, and somewhat sheepish for simply walking away with the other man while Josuke was still injured himself.

But, the Joestar descendent didn’t mind in the least bit.

Granted, Rohan Kishibe wasn't his favorite person in the world, but he made his friend happy, and after the shitty day they'd had, Jojo wasn't going to insist to have her stay with him instead for what was just a couple of stitches he needed.

He then walked over the sidewalk, moving towards a more comfortable spot on the grass to lay on as he heard the blaring sirens ring louder.

With a smile, he looked up at the Morioh sky, and he smiled, grateful that the bizarre summer of 1999 was finally over with.

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cinnamonest · 3 years

Text

I’m pushing out another one of my long-since-drafted things to the queue bc I’m trying to start keeping the queue active 24/7 and fill more asks but have this in the meantime

//dark shit, like the blood gore violence kind of yandere not the hot kind, brief animal death, gruesome slow npc death, gore, violence, blood, decaying/putrefaction mention

I'm really bad at judging what's mild versus severe when it comes to gore/blood bc I tend to underestimate, I think this is kinda severe? Let me know which it is actually pls so I have a better idea for the future ---------------------------------------- I mentioned a while back in the corpse disposal post and murder methods post that Razor can be... Brutal to say the least, but to expand more on the concept I feel like there's a big potential for a sort of gap moe with him, a duality that seems to contradict itself. Because in many ways he's a sweetheart, always trying to find things to make you happy, often smiling with those wide, excited eyes, physically affectionate with nuzzles and the like. But the other side of that, he's not actually aware of how... desensitized he is. You notice it early on and it catches you off guard a bit the first time it happens. Some poor little animal you two see struggling, like a bird stuck in a tree, and you urge him to go get it and he nods and says ok. Grabs it, and just as you're about to thank him and let it go you hear its little bones snap under the crush of his grip with a final pained chirp. There, he got it, see? Now you two can eat it together. That was why you wanted him to grab it right? To kill it? Why else? He looks down and realizes oh, it's still twitching, so he reached a hand up and twists its neck. There, now it's dead, he says with a beaming smile. But it falls and he tilts his head when he sees the shocked look on your face. What's wrong? Why are you so upset? You soon learn a lot of the animals don't... die immediately. The little things the wolves drag back are still kicking and struggling, still making noises as they tear into them to devour. It makes you sick to your stomach when you witness it, tears come to your eyes. He knows you don't like it and warns you, but... he doesn't understand why? Why does it upset you like that? He doesn't get it. It's a gnawing awareness in the back of your mind. You start to pick up on his... lack of reactions to certain things. You were once in the church getting healing for a minor wound of his when another group of adventurers came rushing through the doors, desperately begging for help for their friend they were carrying... some guy seriously injured, gored by a boar. The sight is burned in your mind forever, the organs spilling out of his split gut, the shivering and wide, bloodshot eyes, the blood bubbling out of his mouth with choked horrific groans and the way his body convulsed involuntarily. The most horrid thing you'd ever seen. And you were pretty certain it was that way for everyone. Everyone in the church was gasping, some people were retching and trying to hold back sickness, people ran out of the room as they were unable to handle the scene, tears were in everyone's eyes, and as the man wailed in agony from them setting his dislocated bones, you watched the bystanders cringe and wince. Every person in the vicinity was visibly horrified.... except for one. Razor's face was neutral. Curious. He leaned in closer to get a better look, eyebrows raised. He doesn't flinch at the sight of organs spilling onto the ground and the man starting to convulse and foam at the mouth as his eyes roll back into his head. And then, after a moment, he asks if you're ready to leave, says he feels better now and that man is really loud, he doesn't like it. His voice doesn't even have the slightest hint of a wavering or discomfort. When you come across a man in the woods caught in a bear trap, you can barely stand to look at it. Just hearing the cries for help had you shivering, and the sight of the pooling blood and utter agony on the man's face had you gasping, hand over your mouth as you tried to look away. ...Razor didn't seem to mind, though. He just undoes the trap and, without giving the man any warning, yanks it apart, pulling the spikes from his legs. As he does, blood shoots out and splatters on his face. He doesn't flinch, nor when the man screams. He does finally seem to react to the pained groans the man makes. But... It's not like your reactions. He's not flinching and grimacing, drawing in sharp breaths and tensing up, eyes watering in pity and shock like you. Instead, his eyes narrow and he puts his hands over his ears as you stoop down to help the poor man. His eyebrows furrow. He almost looks... Annoyed. He draws his foot back as if he's about to kick him, but freezes with realization when he looks at you, as if he forgot you were standing there, and puts his foot back down. You're certain he wasn't actually going to do that, of course. You're not sure why he did that, but... He wouldn't do something like that, even in a moment of dissociation from his human awareness. He does volunteer to be the one to go get help, though, getting away fast, but for some reason you sense it was more out of irritation at the noise rather than horror at the whole thing. Perhaps the worst was the decomposing body, that day you took a walk in the woods together. He smelled it first, nose wrinkling up in disgust at the putrid smell. But it was strong enough that you smelled it soon after. He says having dead animals this close to the residence of the pack is not good, they all hate the smell, so he can try to move the carcass of whatever animal it is... but it's not an animal, it turns out, once you finally find the source, collapsed at the bottom of a cliff from where they most likely fell to their death. Well, it's kind of a stretch to say it still resembles a human either, but you can tell from the general shape. It's more just like a glob, putrefied and rotting flesh falling off the bones. It shocks you so much you fall backwards, but he just moves closer. Ugh, too far rotted to move, he can't do anything about it, he realizes as he gives the decaying mass a kick and watches the blackened flesh slide off the bones. Oh well. ...In your shock, it takes you a moment to realize how... unbothered he seems. Mildly annoyed by the smell, but his expression is neutral as he looks at one of the most horrifying sights you've ever seen, he just yawns as he walks away from it and says you two should get away from the smell, it makes his head hurt.

The events all linger in the back of your head. A growing sense of wrongness, a dark, cold dread that settles in your stomach as the occurrences slowly grow in number, one after the other, each time you notice the complete lack of any sign of disturbance on his face, in his voice or body language. You ask him once, one time when you get the courage to ask such a... potentially offensive question. Don't you... feel anything when you see things dying? When they're in pain? He nods. He gets what you mean. The feeling when you watch something die. Hungry, right? Oh, no? Maybe you mean the irritation, a kind of angry feeling, what's the word... impatient...? Because the thing is taking too long to die and he wants it to go ahead and die already. Or maybe you mean like when that man was injured? When something is dying but it's not something you wanna eat? Yeah, he has a feeling then too. Um... kind of like anger... you taught him the word once... annoyed? They make so much noise, and he doesn't like loud things. When that man came into the church... he didn't like how loud it was. Why didn't they just kill him, since he was making so much noise...? He doesn't get it. When things annoy him, he kills them, like loud birds and biting bugs. He kinda had an urge to just... reach out and make the man stop screaming, just twist his neck like he does small animals when they make too much noise. But he's smart, he says, he knows the other people might get mad. Yes, he uses the word "might," not "would," as if it was a mere possibility. So it doesn't really come as a surprise when the same attitude applies to the people at his own mercy, the people that get too close to you and end up dragged out to the woods. It's that same knowing dread in your gut, and while it horrifies you as much as it always has, you wouldn't have expected anything else. Maybe some people would feel bad about what they're doing, they would want to go ahead and get it over with, they couldn't take the begging and agony the other party is in... but not only is he totally unbothered, but if he kills him now, he says, the blood will go all over the ground, and that's bad, his lupical like eating the blood in things. So he just snaps the man's bones, that way he won't run away. It's hard to describe the excruciated noises that come out of the other's throat when he does. It's unlike any noise you've ever heard a human make, that kind of pain. The sweat that pours from the other's skin from the agony, the way his mouth hangs open even when he can't scream anymore, the trembling and muffled begging as he moves to the next limb. You tremble and cry. You shiver uncontrollably, you whimper for him to stop. Your eyes widen when he grabs each limb and you close your eyes and sob and grimace and cringe with the snapping sound. Razor, on the other hand, stays just as neutral as before. Face blank and empty, as if performing any other mundane task. He doesn't flinch at the snapping. His expression is unchanging at the sound of screams and the groans as he drags the still-living figure behind him by his shattered ankle all the way back home. When he finally goes to look back at you, he tilts his head at the look on your face. Why do you still look upset? There's no blood yet... isn't it blood that makes you upset? Maybe not? Maybe it's the sound that bothers you? Yeah, you flinch whenever the man groans in pain, so it must be the sounds of the dying things that you don't like, it annoys him too really. Ok, that can be fixed... sound comes from the throat right? Well, he left his claymore a ways away so, it'll just take a second, the guy is thrashing a bit but eventually he holds him still enough to get his teeth latched around his throat and just... bites down. The sound is a squelching, crunching sound, one that you'll never forget, it makes every hair on your body stand on end and your skin crawl. He pulls back with the mass of bleeding flesh and tracheal tissue in his jaws and spits it out on the ground. There, see...? You can see the blood on his teeth reflecting the light as he smiles. He's not making noises anymore, so... why do you still have that look on your face? Is it because the body on the ground is all... spasming and convulsing like that? Well, uh... that'll stop soon, probably. At least it's nice and quiet now. He gets it, really, he doesn't like loud noises either.

#tw: violence #.rz #q

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storyoffracturedstars · 3 years

Text

Companion? (IDV Naib Subedar)

The loud sound of the dogs barking filled your ears as you passed by their vicinity, the cold night air harshly hitting your face. You shivered as you tried to grow accustomed to cold but with your current condition, you find that you could not. The dark of the night was the only thing you could see as you limped, making sure to put less pressure on your injured foot. You clutched your stomach trying your best to stay conscious. You knew exactly what got you into this mess but you didn't know why they were after you. You were sure that you had cut off connections with them so why were these men following you?

Your vision was slowly blurring but you tried your best to keep your consciousness with you. 'I can't pass out, they're still behind me.' You looked behind you to see them get further and further away from you. Clenching your teeth, you took a turn on the alley, running towards the house of the only person you could trust. Reaching the said house, you knocked as loud as you could, "Naib!" You clench your jaw as you looked around, wary of your surroundings. "Please... open up..."

It wasn't long before the door opened, revealing the very person you were calling for. He glanced at you, his eyebrows furrowed. "What do you..." He trailed off as he saw your state, eyes widening in shock.

"Where is she?!" You wasted no time to head inside, closing the door behind you as you panted. You wiped the cold sweat on your forehead, shivering at the sudden cold you felt. You glanced at him, offering a shaky smile as well as a nervous laugh. "Sorry you had to see me like this." You muttered out weakly, "I'll leave tomorrow morn--" As you took a step forward, your vision blurred and you felt your body weaken. You fell forward, eyes fluttering to a close due to the lack of strength. All you could remember was his arms catching you, his panicked voice calling out your name before fully succumbing to the darkness.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you came to, you found yourself in an unfamiliar bedroom, the sun's rays peeking through the curtains. You slowly sat up, wincing when you felt pain in your abdomen and feet. You removed the blanket that hid your form, seeing that you were all bandaged up. You scanned the bandages and saw that they were new, as if someone had just changed them. You then looked around, seeing that there was almost nothing in this house, only a large bag that probably contained all of his belongings.

You heard a knock on the door, your eyes shifting towards the sound. The door slowly opened, revealing Naib, dressed in his usual clothing with a tray of food in his hands. You saw his eyes glance at you before looking away, his cheeks flushing. You looked at him curiously, wondering why he was reacting that way. You then remembered that you were only in your underclothes, your face heating up at the thought. You hid your body on the blanket, 'I almost forgot that I'm in his house.'

He let out a cough, hoping to ease up the tension. He returned his attention towards you, placing the tray on top of the table placed beside his bed. "You're finally awake."

You nodded, unable to look him in the eyes. "I am. How long was I asleep for?"

"Three days. Lost a lot of blood. You're lucky I know how to treat those kinds of injuries."

"I know you do, seeing as our line of work is similar." You glance at him to see that he was looking at you. He gestured towards the table, "Eat. You need energy if you want to go. Clothes are over there as well."

You let out a grateful smile, "Thank you."

He waved you off, turning around to leave the room. "No problem." He closed the door behind him, leaving you alone in his room. You glanced at the food he left, seeing that there was still a bit of smoke coming from it. You smiled, standing up to get the clothes that he left you. Your eyes widened when you saw that it was almost the same as his. You shook your head as you put on the clothes, soon realizing why he likes it so much. It was quite comfortable to be in, easy to move in, and quite light on the body. You took a seat on the bed, grabbing the food that he had left you. You smiled as you ate, grateful that you had a friend like him in your field of work.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Naib woke up to the smell of something cooking in his kitchen, a scent that he wasn't quite used to smell. He abruptly sat up, alarmed by the different scent. He looked around, cautious of his surroundings. He took the dagger that he had hidden under his cloak, standing up and walking towards the sense of smell. As quietly as he could, he heads to the kitchen, peeking to see who it was that was cooking there.

Once he realized it was you, he sighed and returned the dagger to its original place. He walked inside of the kitchen, grabbing a chair and taking a seat. Noticing his presence, you turned around, smiling once you realize that Naib was awake. "Good morning!"

"Morning." He glanced at your injuries, "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I think I should be but I figured I should at least do something to thank you."

"I told you it's fine."

You chuckled as you ignored him, continuing on with your duties. Naib placed his elbows on the table, his head resting on his hands. He stared as you cooked, listening to your melodious voice. While he didn't want to admit it, you had a voice that he'd willingly listen to all day. He then proceeded to sigh, shaking his head to remove these thoughts from his head.

He was a mercenary, someone that shouldn't be too attached to the people around him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

'Do your job Naib. She has left the life of a mercenary and we want you to kill her. She knows too much to be left alone.'

He sighed as he remembered what he had read. In front of him was the person he needed to kill, the person that he was tasked to kill and yet, he had no desire to do so. He watched as you slept peacefully in his bed, your chest rising and falling. He huffed before looking away, his arms crossed as he gazed at the letter on his table.

He had received it the day you asked him for help. He had read the contents and found that it was something he wanted to do, hoping that it would give him the same feeling of the battlefield. While he enjoyed the life of a mercenary, it couldn't quite give him the same feeling. He sighed before standing up, opening the desk drawer to reveal his final mission. It showed your picture, along with the bounty that would be given to him if he were to kill you.

He glanced at you once more before looking at the picture that stared at him, his resolve wavering the more he stared at it. He didn't want to admit it but he quite enjoyed your company, your personality filling up his entire home. He had found his house lifeless, dull, lonely but when you came to his door one night, you had somehow changed it. At first, he didn't want to heal you, to tend to your injuries, seeing that he found it bothersome but he remembered the times you had with him.

'You're the only one I can trust in our line of job.'

You had told him one time, eyes staring into his as you smiled. He saw how genuine you were when you had told him. He scoffed as he glanced at you, heart growing warm the longer he stared. He found himself smiling when you laugh, wincing when you feel pain, and listening to your talks. It sucked really, how he had grew attached to you as you recovered but now that your injuries were healed, he can now go to the place in the letter.

'I can't stay.'

He allowed the job request to hover above the candle, the fire touching the edge of the paper. He watched as the paper slowly burned, the black on his eyes reflecting the fire that he saw. Soon, the paper was long gone, leaving only its traces. He walked towards the edge of the room, grabbing the bag and heading towards the door. He looked at you one last time before sighing as he placed the hood over his head.

'Take care, (Y/n).'

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You woke up the next day to see him gone, each and every single one of his belonging taken with him. "Naib?" You looked around the house, wondering where the man who you were with was. When you saw that he was nowhere to be seen, you frowned, "Must be on another task." You sighed before heading to the couch, plopping yourself right in the middle. You then noticed a piece of paper on the table, grabbing it before reading.

You should be more careful about who you trust.

You didn't know what he meant by that, seeing as Naib was a hard person to read. You didn't know what to think about this, what he wanted to tell you.

"Did he leave?" You told no one in particular, eyes reading his statement once more, eyebrows furrowing the more you tried to analyze it. You sighed before looking staring blankly at the ceiling, the house feeling emptier than it should be.

'What do you mean, Naib?'

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Your hands clutched the letter that rested in your hands, eyes glancing at the letter to check if you got the location correct. When you saw that you did, you walked towards the front door, knocking to see if there was anyone inside. A few minutes had passed and there was no one that answered you so you opened the door, a barely lit interior greeting you. You squint your eyes, making sure that you saw at least something.

"Hello?" You yelled out, hoping to at least catch somebody's attention. You walked around once more, the light slowly increasing the more you headed inside. You stumbled upon a staircase, soon finding yourself heading up the second floor. When you reached the second floor of the house, you saw a figure from the distance. You approached them, hoping that they know their way around the manor. The nearer you were to them, the more they seemed familiar.

"Hello?" You called out, the stranger soon turning around. You stopped in your tracks the moment you saw him, your mind processing the person you saw. "Naib?"

Naib's expression mirrored yours however, he was able to get out of the shock faster than you could. He approached you, hands clutching your shirt the moment he did. He brought his face near yours, his body trembling in anger. "What are you doing here?! Do you really want to die?!" You gave him a tight-lipped smile, gently moving away from his hold.

"I came here to find you." He glared at you, eyes scanning your form before looking down and muttering under his breath.

"You shouldn't have come here." He huffed as he turned around, leaving you there with your eyes staring at his form, a small part of you hoping that he'd look back.

#identity v #idv #identity v x reader #idv x reader #idv imagines #imagine #idv naib #idv mercenary #identity v naib #identity v mercenary #naib x reader #naib subedar #reader insert #x reader #slight angst #idv drabble #identity v mercenary x reader #mercenary x reader

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grayintogreen · 3 years

Text

Critical Role Fic Masterlist [August 1st-August 31st]

WOOF. What a month. Not an exceptionally great one for Ye Olde Depression, but I guess I went the Hemmingway in dealing with it. I found a neat word tracking app, but I only started it midway through the month, but just from HALF the month, I racked up 50k+ words. ...Yeah.

Anyway! For the record, I’m separating out the flashfic featured in paper moon and tinsel stars here on my masterlist for ease of access for people who might only want to read specific ships/characters, since the anthology is, uh, poorly organized. I like titles. It’s a thing.

This was also the month of the Tombtaker Hostage Situation and 90% of my bad things happen bingo prompts. I’m doing Whumptober next month so maybe I’ll cool it on the dark stuff in September (probably not).

LET’S GET TO IT, SHALL WE?

SHIPPY FICS

Creecien (Cree/Lucien)

and the heat only goes where you tell it to go. (E, MIND THE TAGS, 4955 words). The Mighty Nein fail to beat the Tombtakers to Cognouza. It still doesn’t really go well for them. Also monsterfucking. But seriously, mind the tags. It’s dark.

he’ll never know how much you’ve done. (T, 2896 words). Cree and Lucien, pre-canon. Getting your wounds tended because you used Life Transference on your stupid asshole crush and he is an oblivious dick.

this story’s yours and this story’s mine. (G, 2679 words). Tinytakers!! Baby Cree has some deep-rooted psychological issues. Lucien is Lucien even at thirteen.

and i shall give you sparks that blaze as hot as any fire. (E, 3686 words) ‘Tis the month of Creecien smut. (No really). Cree’s wavering in the wake of the other Tombtakers’ deaths so Lucien bangs her in front of the Immensus Gate. WITH RELIGIOUS SYMBOLISM.

i need to touch a holy place. (E, 3546 words). I TOLD YOU. This is the missing sex scene from this church takes no conversions. I don’t know who the target audience for this is. I guess it’s me.

Widomauk (Mollymauk/Caleb)

i have been the source of all the troubles we have known. (T, 3508 words). Molly comes back after the fight with Lucien and he’s not okay. At all.

and he’ll laugh when your troubles are gone. (G, 2613 words). Caleb and Molly go to a flea market. IT’S JUST SHAMELESS FLUFF. I CAN WRITE THAT SOMETIMES.

Lucigast (Lucien/Caleb)

guard your eggshell heart. (T, 1910 words). Part of the Earthquake Weather series. Scourgers get the jump on the Tombtakers and Lucien is none too pleased about it.

in the dreaming trees. (T, 2469 words) Part of the Earthquake Weather series. Caleb accidentally dreamshares in the Tombtaker Discord Chat and things escalate. You may see this one again, because I promised the porn continuation at some point. And I keep my promises.

the scourge of cabin boys and kings. (T, 2856 words) Part of the Earthquake Weather series. Caleb and Lucien discuss scars. And Lucien cannot get this damn wizard under his thumb.

Other Ships

spread your wings and show me quick. (G, 744 words) Astrid/Jester. Jester teaches Astrid how to ice skate.

mad science love song. (G, 808 words ) Yeza/Essek. Yeza asks for Essek’s help tinkering. Trust ensues.

GEN FICS

wounded in an accidental war. (T, 1348 words). Beau gets injured by Molly due to a wayward Charm Person. Bonding, guilt, and wound care ensues.

and the choir sings hallelujah to a god i will not observe. (T, 1999 words). Yasha gets left behind on Cognouza to deal with Lucien alone until the Mighty Nein can save her. Turns out she’s more than capable of ruining his day alone. (CW: Self-harm, ritual bloodletting)

by the flicker of their fire. (T, 1737 words) Another part of my TOTALLY ACCIDENTAL “Tombtaker Hostage Situation” series I ended up writing this month. Caleb gets left behind in 123. He’s a very disagreeable hostage.

what the promised land would promise me. (T, 3169 words). The Intuit Charge massacre from the Tombtakers’ perspective.

too rough for the soft way. (T, 2656 words). Beau and Lucien get snowed in and “bond.” Kinda.

but we’re so much more than that old, bitter law. (T, 1721 words). The Empire Siblings deal with the consequences of fighting power and oppression, but at least they have each other.

even the sky bleeds twilight. (T, 1927 words). In which Lucien murders Vess DeRogna. That’s it. That’s the fic.

against the devil’s own roulette. (T, 2860 words). Brand of Castigation is a bitch and now it’s Fjord’s turn for a Tombtaker Hostage Situation(TM). Good thing he’s good at honeypots. Kinda.

a generation sacrificed in self-defense. (T, 3230 words). Astrid asks Caleb and Beau to facilitate her taking back the night on Trent Ikithon without murdering him. Cue the torturerer getting a little bit of torture right back. And Astrid invents a new spell! Yay! (Yay?)

every moment changes lifetimes (even moments we regret). (T, 789 words). That moment at the T-Dock was not the first time Caleb had to make the same difficult choice.

this is a song of fingers pointing, casting shame. (T, 2827 words) Beau makes friends with Astrid and Eadwulf. They have a lot in common, after all.

the coyotes know her name. (T, 2561 words). Jester gets a successful divine intervention. Artagan uses it as an excuse to cause problems on purpose.

bind me, break me, can you take me (T, 2456 words). Beau gets left behind with the Tombtakers and discovers an unexpected ally.

you’re my canvas (better yet, dear, you’re my muse) (T, 1616 words) Beau and Molly get high in the Blooming Grove and Molly finds out about her tattoo.

trickster’s silken ribbon. (G, 901 words). Fearne meets Artagan as she enters the Material Plane for the first time.

we keep our tribal secrets and we recognize our own. (G, 922 words) Threeleaf AU. Caduceus observes a sibling brawl between the Threeleafs.

close your eyes and let me in. (G, 1194 words) Set in the Doppelganger’s Song universe. Molly convinces Lucien to let him braid his hair.

if you would curry my favor. (G, 735 words) Threeleaf AU. Molly and Kingsley attempt to get their brother a date because he is the worst.

so this is what i’ve known of love (G, 707 words) Caduceus embraces the chaos of his two families meeting... within reason.

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mnictasbcl · 3 years

Note

Hello! Sorry to hear your day isn't going well, I hope you feel better soon <3

For a fic what about a soft or hurt/comfort RK1K drabble using the prompt "Safe" 🥰

Thank you very much! :)

This fic was fun to write, thanks for the prompt!

Safe

Word count: 1407

Pairings: Connor/Markus (RK1K)

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Angst, Emotional hurt/comfort, talk of death, eventual fluff

Summary: The Revolution had succeeded. Everyone had played their part.But after finishing his speech, Markus can't find Connor anywhere. It will be his task to bring the android back home, where he belongs with his people.

Read it on ao3! Or, read it below the cut

Hundreds, thousands of androids saved from the sublevels of the Cyberlife Tower. Markus watched as they were led towards him by none other than Connor. Who had once been the famous ‘deviant hunter’; they’d met in Jericho, gun pointed to his head but he’d gotten through to the other android. You’re one of us.

Distrust had welled in his heart at first—that tended to come with a relationship that begun with a gun pointed at you. Especially as his first deviated words were telling him that they were going to attack Jericho.

But then Connor helped them. After Markus had detonated the explosive in the hold of the great freighter, North had been injured and Connor had helped take out the guards coming after them.

So when they got to the abandoned, dilapidated church, he trusted the android.

Then he thought he’d never see him again. A deviant going back to Cyberlife, trying to liberate their people? It was unheard of. It was a death mission.

Yet he let him go. Connor couldn’t be stopped. He could feel the guilt coming off the other android in waves. This was a way to make amends—but not just to Markus, to the people of Jericho—to all of his people.

When he came back, an army marching behind him, Markus beamed. Tried to pretend he hadn’t had a lingering worry in the back of his mind ever since the other android had left.

You did it.

The stage was set. Markus told their people of their freedom, the peaceful battle was won. Afterwards the crowd rose up into cheers, everyone breaking out into joy. It was over.

Well, he knew it wasn’t completely over. This was the first step to androids becoming an equal species in their own right. But it was the most important step. Practicalities and laws hung tentative in the air; but their victory shared none of this doubt.

They were free.

So he turned around to address his crew. North, Simon, Josh.

“We did it.” North smiled.

He held out his arms, and all earlier disputes between them were pushed aside. They hugged in the centre of the stage, the small circle of their union radiating warmth.

But as they pulled apart, Markus noticed someone was missing.

“Where’s Connor? He should be here too.”

Simon pointed into the crowds. “I noticed him slip off the stage after you finished your speech, but then he disappeared into the crowd.”

He frowned. “He should be with his people.”

“Relax, Markus,” Josh patted him on the shoulder, “he’s only just become a deviant. Give him time.”

“I understand what you mean, but…” he frowned, looking out at the space beyond the androids. The cold streets lined with snow, abandoned almost completely of humans.

“It’s not safe out there.” North finished for him. “It’s okay, Markus. We can hold things down here whilst you go and look for him.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’re with you.”

“Now go and look for that dumb android before he gets himself frozen out there.”

Markus didn’t need to be told twice. As he walked around the crowds, away from the cheering and shouting, he began to wonder why he cared so much. Well, he did care for all of his people—but the worry that had nestled snugly at the back of his mind was now consuming his thoughts. Connor had done great things for them. He shouldn’t feel bad, not right now, he had been a tool of Cyberlife, as they had all been.

He was glad for his coat providing warmth because the winds were bitter, nipping at his skin. They would need to find shelter for the androids soon, he understood their want for freedom but it wouldn’t do for everyone to catch a chill.

He hoped Connor was wearing something just as warming. He’d noticed he’d forgone his beanie and jacket for his old Cyberlife uniform, and it wasn’t as if Cyberlife designed those with comfort and practicality in mind.

His answer was finding the RK800 jacket strewn on the floor, buried under snow. Shaking it off, he shook his head. “You idiot.”

And said idiot he found a few paces away, hunched in on himself, shivering.

“Connor! What are you doing out here?”

But to his surprise, when Connor heard him, he tried to move away. His actions were stiff, and he instead fell onto his side, rather mechanically like an old computer being pushed over.

From working with deviants, he knew not to immediately rush to comfort. Instead, he crouched down a few paces away from him.

“It’s okay, I’m here now.”

“Go…away.”

Markus furrowed his brows in concern. “You don’t have to be alone, Connor.”

With a monumental effort the android got his bearings and pushed to his feet. Now with his face no longer obscured Markus could see the dampness of wet snow soaked into his clothes, could see the ice forming crystals on his skin.

“Please. Leave.”

“No.”

Connor shook his head. “You have to. It’s not safe.”

Markus looked around him. “What’s not safe is you sitting out here in the cold by yourself, Connor. Come back to Jericho.”

“Jericho is gone, Markus.”

“Maybe the place, but not the people.”

Connor stepped away from him. “You don’t have to make me feel better. I know that I got a lot of people killed. And I almost—” He stopped. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe to keep me around. So just go back, okay? They need you more.”

Markus took a step forward in turn. “And they need you too. You saved hundreds, thousands of them. You saved me, you saved North—”

“And I almost got you killed!”

“Which wasn’t your fault. What we did because of our programming isn’t our fault. Would you blame the others, if they did regrettable things before they deviated?”

Connor seemed to deflate at this. Hands relaxing at his sides, moving towards Markus—

Before jumping back again like a wounded animal.

“No. Just leave, Markus, please. Before you get hurt.”

“Is that a threat, Connor?”

“No! No, I don’t want to hurt you. I just… I… can’t stop it…”

“Can’t stop what?”

“Her! She tried to make me kill you.”

Markus held out his hand. “That was before, Connor. You weren’t a deviant.”

“Yes, I was.”

Now it was Markus’ turn to look confused.

“I was a deviant. On the stage, earlier, I almost shot you.” Now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I was a deviant but they could still make me do my mission. I thought I’d helped, I thought I’d helped the Revolution succeed but then the gun was in my hand, and it was cold, and I couldn’t move and—”

“What exactly happened, Connor? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Amanda.” He grit out the name. “My handler. An… AI, of sorts, in my Mind Palace. She tried to make me shoot you.”

“What?” His level tone wavered. “Connor—an AI in an android, a part of Cyberlife still there after you deviated… that’s not right.”

“I know,” Connor turned away, “I know. I’m dangerous. That’s why you need to go.”

“Well, is she still there?”

A pause.

“…I think she’s gone. I escaped with some sort of emergency exit that Kamski—”

“Then you’re not dangerous. Not to me, not to Jericho—not to you. Cyberlife is gone now, Connor.”

Connor blinked, taking this in. His LED spun from red to yellow.

“But I could have killed you, Markus. The Revolution would have been over. You would have been dead.”

“You didn’t. Because you’re strong, Connor. You were their greatest tool to stop our freedoms but even with that immense level of control over you, you resisted. You resisted so far as to save my life not once, but twice. As well as saving the lives of all of those androids. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

Connor reached out where his hand was waiting and brushed his fingers gently. Without meaning to, both of their skin peeled away at the contact, white chassis peeking through. Some sort of spark between them, blue and bright and beautiful—

And Markus took the opportunity, feeling Connor’s fear and doubt, and smothered it with his security, comfort, warmth.

With slow, fluid movements they moved closer together, brushed fingers becoming held hands, becoming a warm, tight embrace.

“You’re free, Connor. You’re safe.”

#dbh #detroit become human #rk1k #dbh rk1k #connor/markus #connor #markus #fanfic #dbh fanfic #feel free to send in any prompts!#this was very fun to write

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twstoric · 4 years

Text

this game of ours

𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅: Request: Fem!Dom reader// They notice Rook's been very... /attentive/ to them lately. When they realize he's been half stalking them in his infatuation, they turn the tables on him and suddenly, /he's/ the prey and doesn't realize until they have him /pinned/ against a tree, a good ways from the main building, teasing him into a begging mess for more with just their words and a few good touches. (teasing, begging, outdoor bangin)

𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅: Oh the requests are open 👀. Could I ask for some really rough nsfw w Mr Rook? It's consensual ofc, but like.. I wanna fuck this man so bad-

𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: rook hunt x f!reader

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: The prized hunter of a distant land is known to be quite eccentric in his methods when cornering prey but to the misfortune or perhaps fortune of so called hunter, his next target is you

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘(𝕤): KINGDOM AU KINGDOM AU KINGDOM AUー stalking (mentions), obsessive behaviours, servant!reader, hunter!rook, may-or-may-not be set in twst universe, dom!reader, use of weapons (self-defence), semi-public sex, riding, light hair-pulling, biting (minor)

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 2.9k

𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: i love rook very very very very vvvv much and these requests resonated with my soul unfortunately so here we are 😔

Over the peak of the highest snowy mountain, beware of a forest shrouded in white. The eerie silence may just freeze your lonely heart.

Up the river flowing with heavy streams, beware of the shards of crystals hanging from the trees. The air may waver your soul.

Close to the hill, far from the trees, layered under thick powder of snow, the Castle of Beauty greets but does not welcome.

In the territory of pure colour lingered with sinful desires, you may want to watch your back.

For you could be the next prey to fall in these lands.

ﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌ

Part of the first things you’ve found since working in the walls of decorated perfection, the outfits you’re equipped with is not helpful against the weather. It's a complicated piece with too many knots and loops to efficiently get into first thing before the sun rises but it’s a custom; the silent law when you work in the very palace you’re in.

The wind isn’t kind that morning. Carrying snow into your hair and each puff of breath you let out crystalizes in front of you. For such a land only painted with white as far as the eyes can see, the Queen is very strict when it comes to tending to the gardens.

Along with the few handful servants tending to the growing flowers, you busy yourself with cutting the stray leaves growing over the symmetrically cut bush. The freezing air threatens to freeze your lungs as you work steadily through each bush. Behind you, a servant lets out a loud gasp.

"M- Master Rook…”

You pause at the name, mind blanking for a moment before you snap back to the loud laughter of the infamous hunter behind you. “Such formalities you’re saying!” He hums and you continue cutting the leaves. “Is my Queen in the chambers?”

A chorus of flustered confirmation greets your ears as you blow the top of the bush. You hear another round of shy pleasantries from the other servants, the hunter among them amusing their chatters.

Feeling satisfied with your work, you wipe your hand down your dress, somehow clammy from the cold air. You straighten up, snow crunching under your shoe as you turn aroundー only to be met with the chest clad in dark fabric and you jerk your hand back in panic.

The pruner in your hands risks injuring the man in front of you before you back off in a hurry, hands held high to make sure you won’t swing it in another dangerous direction.

Your heart pounds in your chest from the near miss, blood running colder not from the temperature at the prospect of hurting someoneーlet alone a prized hunter of this kingdom. “M- Master Rook,” you call out timidly, the air stilling and nervous glances directed at you when you force yourself to look him in the eyes. “I apologise. I wasn’t.. I didn’t hear you come near me- My deepest apologies!” You hurry to bow your head but an amused chuckle greets your trepidation.

You feel fingers grasp your shoulder before trailing down your arm and the smooth glide of gloved fingers grasping your fingers, easing the tight hold you have on your gardening tool. Rook takes the small device away, clasping it between his hands and trailing a finger over the exposed blade with a sweet smile.

“You have very fast reflexes, madame.” He murmurs softly, voice carried by the wind only for you to hear. There’s a glint of something you’re not familiar with when Rook shifts his eyes to look at you, a smile twisting his lips. Just as the expression settles on his face, it’s instantly replaced with a bright smile. “Do be careful next time! It would be a shame if you were to hurt these beautiful hands.” He takes your hand as he speaks, placing the pruner back in your hands.

You’re unable to say anything as he takes a step back, lifting his hat and giving you a bow. “Then if you would excuse me.”

You don’t see him again for the rest of the day.

ﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌ

Seeing Rook Hunt is perhaps akin to observing the steady trickle of water into a pot. You’re fully aware the goal is to fill that small container but because of the irrational pace, it stays in the back of your mind until the water eventually overflows from being left alone too long.

You’re fully aware of his presence but waiting to see him is unnecessaryー nothing will change if you keep waiting but when you finally look for him again, his presence can be overwhelming.

The guilt is present in the back of your mind from the near accident; a proper apology feeling like the only remedy to your nagging feeling. But being the trusted aid to the Queen, he doesn’t hang around the castle for long; going in and out like the changing seasons. You find yourself always thinking about a way to properly apologise and… a little curious to the expression he was wearing.

You don;t think you’ve ever seen someone look so noticed with such a sharp object beforeーmaybe hunters think differently about weapons..?

At the start, your mind would only shift back to the blond whenever you weren’t busy but lately… you can’t seem to stop thinking about him. As if his mere existence has taken a spot inside your head and made itself comfortable to plague your dreams. What used to be the few fleeting thoughts turn to lingering ideas; somehow always imagining his presence near you.

It feels like you can’t see him when he’s there but you can’t exactly.. dictate yourself for being paranoid when the reason the garden accident happened was because you couldn’t feel him sneak up on you either.

You pause.

Thinking back on the matter, it feels as though… you really can’t tell his presence when he’s around. The garden wasn’t even the first time. Suddenly the thought of all the times he’s walked near you without you noticing race in your head like a poorly timed cut scene. A shiver runs down your spine.

No one knows when Rook will return from his hunts. He’ll leave when ordered but when he’ll return is always random.

Your hand tightens on the basket you’re holding. There’s the rush of fear in your chest when you hurry outside. You need to confirm something.

The outside isn’t as colder as it normally is (fortunately) and you hurry yourself towards the river a little further in the woods. The air thins the faster you go, basket feeling a lot heavier in your arms despite only filled with sheets. You can’t feel the twitch of your fingers, the only sound registering in your mind is the crunch of snow.

The familiar view of the old tree bark greets you and you’re running the best you could towards it.

The echo of footsteps follow you until your back presses against the tree and you throw the basket to the side. A small noise of surprise spurs you to round the other side of the tree until you see blond tufts of hair and you lunge at the perpetrator in time to grab the dagger sheathed to his side.

You breath heavily, trying to steady your breath as you hold onto the blade and point it in front of you. Unlike what you expected, you’re met with a look of confusion.

“Master Rook,” you breathe, unable to take the silence and lifting the weapon higher when he steps closer in return. Seeing the display, the blond chuckles before a full blown grin stretches his lips and he’s clapping his hand like a spectator watching a performance.

“Mh, you indeed have fast reflexes don’t you?” The question is phrased like a praising lord to his disciple and you feel unnerved at the smile on his face.

You step closer, tilting the tip of the blade to his chest. Rook doesn’t move. “Why were you following me?” He stays silent at your inquiry, head tilted as if he’s unaware of your accusations and you dig the tip of his blade to his chest, not enough to touch skin under the thick layer of his coat. “How long have you been following me?”

“Oh?” he inhales, hands held up in surrender but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “I see you’ve noticed. Tell me, since when have your suspicions aroused for you to think it was me?” Rook blinks slowly at you, lashes fluttering against his cheek and glinting with the very same look you’re unable to stop thinking about.

Your fingers tighten on the hilt of the blade, biting down on your bottom lip to hold in your confusion. You almost can’t fathom how this is happening. “Lucky guess,” you settle on instead and you feel your eyes widen when Rook takes your wrist and presses the weapon in your hands against his neck.

“Do you want revenge, ma chérie?”

As if incited by the look in his eyes, you feel a bubbling annoyance in your chest. He’s playing with you despite always unsettling you and he knows yet chose to turn a blind eye to your comfort. You grab the front of his attire, his eyes blinking in surprise before you’re yanking him roughly and using your weight to push him against the tree.

Rook’s lips part soundlessly and you don’t allow him to speak when you lean close, lips barely brushing against his. “It would only be fair, wouldn’t it?” Your voice rises in pitch, from excitement or something else you’re not sure but you dig his dagger on the tree against the side of his head with a hard stab. “It’s only fair if your head’s filled with me as much as mine is with you.”

Your lips crash against his afterwards, flinching at the cold touch of his skin but melting soon enough when Rook wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You make a sound of protest, unhooking his arms around you and roughly holding them up on the tree.

Rook eagerly chases after your lips when you pull away and narrow your eyes at him warningly. He’s smiling when he starts unbuttoning his coat, hands held up against the tree obediently as you work his clothes open. He shivers violently when you push his shirt open, exposing the hard muscle of his chest against winter air but Rook isn’t shivering from the coldーhis excitement for you makes a drunk smile appear on his face.

“I’ve been watching you for quite awhile,” he sighs blissfully and you hum, moving on to the knots on his pants. “There was.. something about you. I didn’t know what it was but the urge to know everything spurs me to action.” You listen to his confession, impatiently tugging at his pants as Rook leans his head back. “A beautiful flower among a garden of edith. It was almost extinct, ma chérie, to find everything about you.” His voice turns giddy and he bites his lips excitedly when you free his cock, already hard and twitching against cool air.

“You talk a lot, Mister Rook.” Your fingers wrap around the hard flesh, Rook whining at the freezing touch of your finger and you squeeze harder. The small gasp he lets out makes you warm. You steadily jerk his cock, smiling at the crumbling expression on the hunters face. “Mister Rook,” you whisper against his lips, catching his attention. “You’ll get tired from standing up too long. Why don’t you lay down?”

He visible tenses at that, lips pursed in a thin line but the blush on his face is still present when you give another encouraging squeeze. “You want to find everything about me, don’t you? I can be a little mean, you know?” The tone you use breathes an air of innocence and you feel the cock in your hands twitch. You smile. “Just kidding~ You should lay on the sheets in the basket. I’ll clean them up later.”

You’re thankful the sheets in question were your own.

Rook complies to your wishes easily, movements rushed when he pulls away from you and folds the sheets into a thick enough layer and pacing it on the ground. You pat his shoulder to get him to lay down and it’s enough for him to sit on, his back leaning against the tree.

There’s a fleeting look of discomfort on his face when he sits down but Rook is instantly reaching out to you. He breaths a string of sentences you don’t understand but it doesn’t seem to matter when you settle yourself on your knees, straddling his legs and Rook waits patiently.

“You’re very pretty Mister Rook,” you place your hand on the side of his neck, fingers pressing against the back of his ears and Rook leans into your touch. His hands hurriedly bunch your dress over your hips, exposing your legs but you don’t seem to shiver from the cold. Not when you’re focusing on your source of fire in front of you.

“Touch me,” he breaths, bucking his hips up and you see the flicker of frustrations in his eyes when you raise yourself higher. “Mon ange,” his eyes gloss over and you watch, unable to look away, as Rook circles his hips up in slow motion, bottom lip sucked into his mouth. “Won’t you bless me with your touch? I need you. Please, mon chérie.”

It snaps you out of the little game you’re playing and you’re angrily tugging at your undergarments, ripping the soft material but unable to care when you feel frustrated at the power this man holds over you. “You’re so pathetic,” you bite out in irritation, no bite in your words as you grab the base of his cock.

Rook gasps, knees trembling as you press yourself against him. He watches, careful, calculating, burning the image before him in his mind when the head of his dick breaches past your opening and you moan softly, sinking yourself on his cock.

The tight heat wrapping around him is delicious and Rook feels like crying out from joy. Your hands tangle in his hair, steadying yourself as Rook bottoms out and you take a moment to appreciate the stretch of his cock in your pussy.

Every little thought melts away in your head and all you can focus on is the press of each rigid vein against your walls rippling pleasure into your blood. You curse softly, finally finding the strength to move and the sound of harsh slap of skin against skin fills your ears when you set a fast pace.

Rooks fingers tighten around your waist, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy as you pleasure yourself on his cock. The tip of his hard length kissing your insides perfectly with each descent. You feel the spreading heat in your stomach, sharp gasps leaving your lips whenever Rook bucks his hips up to meet you.

His fingers grasp the snow besides him, skin protected by gloves but he can’t focus on the prickling coldness when you tighten around him. A sharp yank to his hair makes him gasp, a loud moan spilling from his lips and you slam your ass down timely, raking a shudder down his spine.

Rook chants your name like a devoted worshipper and feels the sudden urge to litter his skin with your mark. So you do; lips planting against smooth skin and you bite and suck at every inch you kiss, drawing out whines from the blond.

His thighs twitch uselessly, feeling the building heat close enough to burst. The small jerk of his head is enough to tell you of his impending orgasm and you grin, trailing your cold fingers on his chest and flicking a pert nipple. Rook’s breath hitches, eyes hazy as you bounce on his lap, movements becoming uncoordinated from your own approaching climax.

Your hand cups his face gently, contrasting your brutal desperation, and you smile at him as if revealing a glimpse of paradise. “Cum for me,” the whispered command is enough to make Rook tense and he’s cumming with a violent shiver, hips bucked up into you and his hand holds you down as he cums, shooting his seed deep inside you.

You gasp, coming soon after. Your thighs twitch and jerk, body reduced to a quivering mess as you hug Rook close to you. His face buries into your soft breasts, hands no longer bunching up your dress and letting the material fall over your legs. It almost seems like you’re only sitting on top of him like this. You can still feel his cock inside you.

“Good boy,” you praise and Rook nuzzles closer to you. As if natural, you stroke his head, looking around to see that his hat had fallen off somewhere along the journey of your wild cat and mouse game. “Should we get going, Rook?”

The blond suddenly snaps his head up, wide eyed and looking at you in awe. He mumbles something under his breath, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. Clear excitement with the building pitch in his tone when Rook holds you close, peering up at you with a glint in his eyes. “Mon amour, marry me?”

You blink, lips parting before a blush settles on your skin but rather than from embarrassment, you feel more confused. “Um. W- we’re sorta doing all the wrong steps here, aren’t we?”

He grins in response.

#rook hunt #pomefiore #rook x reader #twst x reader #twst n/sfw #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland #request #f!reader

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nitrochiralfan · 3 years

Text

The Day is Dawning [Tokiakari]

All credit to the transualtion of the novel chapter belongs to memera and their hard work don’t repost without crediting them.

That day it had rained since morning. That’s why for the entire day, the sky had been so dark you could not tell if it was noon or night. Right now the time was 2am. Akira breathed out a sigh as he gazed out the window. Occasionally, a straight line of light from the east flashed through the rain.

Isn’t he kind of late?

As Motomi worked as a journalist, it wasn’t surprising that he often came home after midnight, but today’s case was supposed to be a simple one.

Akira’s eyes darted over and over to the clock hanging on the wall.

So slow.

In this room lighted by only a small lamp, Akira had lost count of how many times he had sighed as he looked at the empty road outside through his own reflection on the window. They had moved here for only a month, but it wouldn’t be long before they moved again.

What’s the next case? Your work seems to be going smoothly.

At first Akira had simply been cluelessly following along, but he had quickly become a proper assistant. It had been years since the happenings in Toshima. It wasn’t always peaceful, but their life had never had any serious problems.

Travelling around with Motomi had been quite exciting and fun.At one point he even thought he could do this forever.However, sometimes the little flickers of doubt would cross his mind.

There’s no such thing as forever. Surely someday, something bad would happen.

Usually Akira could erase those thoughts quickly, but today, he couldn’t even push them away. The thoughts were quickly piling up instead.

I hate this feeling, but what if something bad had really happened?

Unable to suppress the bad feelings, Akira clenched his teeth as he stood in the dark watching the rain fall outside.

It was then that it happened. A faint sound came from the front door. Was it the sound of footsteps? It seemed too uneven and irregular for that. Just as Akira was cautiously approaching the door, an unnatural sound thumped against the door.

“….!”

Akira tensed up. He pinned his eyes at the door instinctively. The door stood in the dimly lit hall way, as the sound of someone shaking the door repeatedly could be heard.

Is it a robber or a thug?

Akira held his breath and watched silently as the door unlocked and slowly opened. Akira concentrated hard, his body ready to pounce.

The silhouette that the dim lights were showing was——

Akira breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that face.

It was Motomi.

Was that unsteady gait because he’s drunk?

Motomi’s brows were furrowed as he tried to call out Akira’s name.

Motomi did not seem to enter the room. His posture was unnatural, and he leaned heavily against the door. A droplet dripped down from his right side. At first Akira had thought it was a raindrop, but as soon as the light in the room hit Motomi, Akira knew he was wrong.

——It was blood.

“Old man…!?”

“Akira… sorry but… could you lend me a hand?”

Motomi’s voice was slow and unconcerned, a tone completely opposite to the severity of the situation. Akira immediately went up and put Motomi’s outstretched arm around his shoulder. The dark orange shirt he wore under his coat had a huge black stain on it. Just that alone drew Akira’s attention to the blood.

Motomi leaned against Akira and they moved slowly, his face frowning and his one eye squeezed shut in pain. Motomi gave a bitter laugh.

“Ow…ouch ouch. They really did me in this time.”

“What in the world happened?”

“Mm, well, you know…”

The talk can wait. Right now the important thing was to tend to these wounds. Carefully supporting this body so much bigger than his, Akira led Motomi to the bedroom.

“Man, I’m beat.”

Motomi breathed out a large puff of smoke from the cigarette he had taken a deep puff from, and fell onto the bed he was leaning on. Akira took out some bandages from the first aid kit and sighed as he closed the lid. They had prepared this kit in case of any injuries on their travels.

The hospital was closed at this hour of night, but thankfully his injuries were not too serious.

Rest for now, we can go see a doctor tomorrow.

Motomi’s right torso had been slashed with a knife.

Akira had since wrapped it in bandages cleanly. Motomi had been bleeding so bad before the bandages, yet now after it was so nicely wrapped up in white, it almost looked like there hadn’t been a wound at all. But one look at the blood-soaked towel used to clean the wounds, and you would know that wasn’t true.

“So?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me.”

Akira glared at Motomi, who was lying on the bed acting like there wasn’t a problem. Even without using words, it was obvious Akira had a billion questions he was demanding answers to. Akira haphazardly left the first aid kit on the side table and sat down lightly on the bed.

“Mmm? Well yeah…” Motomi scratched his nose with the hand holding his cigarette and replied lazily, “Maybe it was just a random attacker or somethin’. I dunno.”

——Something must’ve definitely happened, Akira thought.

If Motomi was brushing it off like that, it must’ve been something he found hard to talk about. But that was also why the silence that Akira returned was filled with serious anger. He wasn’t mad that Motomi was pretending to make light of the situation, he was mad that it was something so bad that would make Motomi clamp up in silence. Motomi peaked at Akira, saw his glare, and quickly looked away.

Silence.

Akira held his glare steady, never looking away. The smoke from Motomi’s cigarette filled the space between them.

Motomi emptied his cigarette ashes into an empty can on the side table. Even a movement as light as this, sounded extremely loud in their silence. It was a brief minute, but it felt like an endless moment of tension and nerves.

“Geez, I just don’t know what to do with you.”

Motomi let out a laugh of defeat as he put out his cigarette on the brim of the empty can. His brows were furrowed as he tried to get up.

“Does it hurt?”

“…Sort of. But I’m fine.”

Motomi supported himself up with an elbow on the edge of the bed, and leaned against the wall. He looked straight into Akira’s eyes. “Well, the situation was like this. I was attacked suddenly. There was a back alley, away from the main road. It was dark and narrow. They hit me from the back when I was passing through.”

“Did you see their face?”

“It was too dark and too sudden. I didn’t. …But well my guess is…”

Motomi stopped there, rubbing his chin like he was thinking of something.

“Your guess is…?”

“Nah, it just feels like it was a face I had seen before somewhere. …My guess is it’s someone from Rabbit, maybe.”

“Rabbit…”

——The pharmaceutical company, Rabbit. A big-named company that everyone knew. In reality, it was a coverup for the research institute ENED, that was the cause of all the tragedies in Toshima.

“But why would they do that to you, old man?”

“Well, I can think of a million reasons why. After all, I am a journalist of the truth, ya know?”

Saying that, Motomi shrugged his shoulders in a joking way.

I want to bring to light the truths that were twisted or silenced —— That motto of his was what led Motomi to do this line of work even to this day. Of course, he had also tried to reveal as much as he could about what had happened in Toshima, even though that had put his life at risk. It was also the reason why they never stayed put in one place too long. But because they had never actually gotten seriously injured before, Akira had grown complacent and ignored all the occasional little worries that would appear in his head.

If only we could just keep on living like this peacefully and carefree, he had thought.

But of course…

“Well, this could also be considered a scoop! ‘Employee of a seemingly-good company, attacks a civilian!’ or something like that.”

“Is it really the time to be joking?”

“Mm?”

The words that escaped Akira’s lips sounded calm, but inside he was mad at how Motomi always acted like everything was a joke and nothing was serious to him. Like his wound just now. Even though it wasn’t a deep injury, he had lost a lot of blood.

So much blood.

…Blood…

“…Hey. Akira?”

The sight of Motomi’s bandages was wavering in Akira’s vision.

Motomi was frowning as he peaked at Akira’s face.

Under all that white bandage, was all red. The white hides the red; the color of emptiness. Suddenly, Akira’s anger evaporated and he felt absolutely nothing. He felt separated from his vision and from his consciousness, as if he had gone into someone else’s body. An image appeared, overlapping with what his eyes were actually seeing before him. A world covered in red. A reality that felt so far away. The scene that was flashing before his eyes was not that of the room he was in.

It was dark, and dirty; a scene of Toshima.

“Oi! What’s wrong?!”

Motomi’s voice was far, far away. Akira felt like his consciousness was being swallowed up. A nausea started to bubble up in him. It felt intolerable.

“Akira? Akira!”

When Akira’s eyes opened, the first thing he saw was the beige ceiling, dimly lit by the room lamp.

—— This isn’t Toshima.

When Akira realized this, he slowly let out the breath he had been holding.

Akira had covered his eyes with an arm. When he blocked his sight this way, he could feel his heartbeat was pounding faster than usual. On that same arm, Akira felt something dry and warm touch him.

“…Are you alright?”

When Akira uncovered his eyes, he was looking right into Motomi’s gentle eyes above him.

“…Old man, what about your wound?”

“Idiot. Worry about yourself right now, not me.”

Even though Motomi’s words sounded surprised, it was dipped with concern. Motomi lifted the hand he was holding Akira’s arm with, and touched his forehead.

“You don’t seem to have a fever. How are you feeling?”

“I’m ok.”

“Do you want to eat something?”

“No.”

“But let me guess, you haven’t eaten a thing since morning right? The contents of the fridge and the food stocked up haven’t changed since I left.” Motomi looked so brusque, yet because of his work he had a surprising eye for detail.

Weirdly touched by this thought, Akira shook his head.

Although Akira had always been this way, always having little to no appetite, it was especially so when he was left alone. He just simply did not feel like eating when he was alone, and he often went the whole day without food.

Although he was usually alright without food, today he just felt rather out of it. He was starting to feel like he might have a fever.

“Even if it’s just a bite, you have to eat something. Hang on.”

This time Motomi really sounded teasing. He got up as if to go to the kitchen, but he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking surprised.

Confused, Akira followed Motomi’s eyes right down to…

Akira quickly let go of his hand.

Instinctively, he had grabbed Motomi’s shirt. Maybe it was the fever frying his brain, but he himself had not realized what he had done.

——He’s going to tease me…

Although Akira had braced himself, Motomi said nothing, but instead cracked a small smile. He lowered his big hand and patted Akira’s head.

“What’s wrong? Are you worried?”

“…….”

“Well we did have a smooth trip so far.”

Even though Akira did not say a word, Motomi probably knew what he was thinking. Motomi sat back down on the bed. The bed springs bounced lightly. Because he was wearing a shirt, the badges on his torso were not visible.

“Well, anyway, I kinda figured something like that would happen one day. …But really, relax! It’s nothing for you worry about at all!”

His rugged fingertips brushed against Akira’s cheek.

“I said I would bring you with me, even to my grave, right? A man never goes back on his words. Anyway you’re the dangerous one.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“It means I can’t leave you alone. You’re always so freaking stubborn, yet also surprisingly frail.”

Akira opened his mouth to argue, but he could not find the words, so he averted his eyes instead. He could not disagree. After all, he had just passed out for no reason.

“I won’t die that easily even if I’m killed.” Motomi laughed.

Akira glared at him. “Stop that.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t talk about dying and stuff.”

Motomi might have been trying to be funny, but Akira thought it was extremely unpleasant. It was not something Akira thought one should be joking about. Motomi looked surprised for one second, then he quickly resumed his smile.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Two thick arms slid around Akira, and carefully pulled him into a huge hug.

Akira instinctively wanted to struggle against it, but his body went limp as it was engulfed in Motomi’s.

I almost forgot he was injured. Better not struggle.

But even if Motomi had not been injured, Akira somehow guessed that he would probably not have struggled either. Akira rested his chin on the strong shoulders before him. Usually at this point, Motomi would be teasing Akira, but instead of doing that, he was quietly and gently patting Akira’s back.

“Ok, how about this. I won’t die. You won’t die either. Until the day you tell us to go and die, we will keep living on for a hundred, no, a thousand years. Yeah?”

“I don’t want to live for that long.”

“Haha, I see.”

Akira could feel Motomi’s warmth from the arm he was resting his cheek on. He was wrapped in Motomi’s smell.

To be honest, Akira was surprised at himself. Despite that bad memory that had flooded his head just as he was about to pass out, Akira suddenly felt like everything was ok now. He felt like he could “exist together” with this memory. But it was just too vivid to think that way. Without losing its color, the pain would slowly but gradually overflow.

But was that alright? Akira thought. No, more like, it is alright. These wounds embedded deeply in him from all that he had lost, Akira had decided to accept and live with them from the day he left Toshima.

And thus, this pain and this fear, they were necessary. He must never forget them. They were the undeniable proof that right now, he was breathing and living.

And right now, he had someone who could share his pain and support him. Just this alone filled Akira with joy.

If Motomi said he was ok, then Akira wanted to accept that and wanted to believe in him.

Akira found it funny and a little strange that he was now able to to think this way. The large hand that was patting Akira’s back, moved up to caress his cheek. The distance between them shortened.

Akira waited for Motomi’s gentle eyes to close, then he too, did the same.

“…nn…”

They touched. Their lips met again and again. Slowly Akira got used to the prodding tongue that carefully pushed into his mouth. Motomi’s rugged fingers treated Akira like he was glass, occasionally a bit rough, but always gentle. These fingers ran through Akira’s hair, clasping. The occasional wet sounds made Akira feel embarrassed, but their intertwining, fluttering tongues quickly made that embarrassment disappear.

“…I can’t get enough of you, seriously.”

The words that Motomi had blurted out in the heat of their kiss lit a fire in the pits of Akira’s belly.

He’s always like that. He always says things that he knew would embarrass Akira. And worse, he always knew the worst time to do it.

“…That’s enough.”

Akira had pushed his arms out, trying to get away, but even his entire resistance was swallowed up in an embrace.

“Let go.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m telling you to let go.”

“Well that’s going to be a problem. ‘Cause I’m mad…”

“…Mad about what?”

“This old man. Is mad. About you.”

“…….”

Clearly Akira’s words were not getting into Motomi’s head. He was starting to feel super annoyed, and he let out a loud sigh. As if to scoop up all of Akira’s sighs, Motomi broke into a small smile as he pressed their lips together again.

As Akira slowly gave in, he thought, I don’t exactly hate this.

When did I start to feel comfortable with this feeling of excitement?

When did I start to feel relief whenever Motomi’s hands touched me?

This is how two people shared their feelings and accepted one another.

Since when did I start to realize this?

After a long kiss, Akira felt the springs of the bed on his back. He took in a deep breath.

———

“You know, I’ve always thought this.”

“Thought what?”

“That your cooking is really bad, you know….?”

“……”

Akira pouted and muttered unhappily to himself.

“Well fine, then don’t eat it.” Akira said, as he slammed the table with one hand and stood up.

Who was it that said they were busy so they wanted me to cook?

When they had just come back from the hospital, a work call had come in. Akira had tried to tell Motomi he should rest instead, but it was a major client so Motomi could not refuse. Akira narrowed his eyes at the gentle sunshine coming in from the window. The sky was so clear today that the dark rain from yesterday felt like a lie. Ever since he started living with Motomi, he had tried to do housework. Maybe it was because Akira never had a homely lifestyle before, but no matter how he tried he just could not get better at it.

Especially when it came to food.

Akira had always felt he was ok even if he didn’t eat. Needless to say, he did not care about the taste either.

Motomi raised a brow and seemed to want to say something but he couldn’t decide how to put it.

“Well I mean……, the person who marries you is gonna suffer.”

“Not really. It’s not confirmed that I’ll be the one doing the cooking.”

“Hey you never know. Housework and child raising is too hard for only one party. It’s important to share the workload, you know?”

After swallowing the ‘thing’ on his spoon, Motomi made a weird face. He then pressed his index finger to his wrinkled brow in a deliberate manner. It got on Akira’s nerves the way Motomi was talking him to like he was arguing with a child.

“In the first place, who would I even marry?”

“Hmm, who knows?”

“……”

Hearing that answer, Akira grew increasingly irritated.

When he said they would be together to the grave, didn’t he mean they’d be together till death do us part? Wasn’t it Motomi who said that?

But despite that, it’s not like Akira had ever gave any thought about their relationship or anything like that. It’s not like Akira had ever expected ‘Forever’ or other words like that. He just thought he wanted them to be together, for as long as possible. That was all. However, hearing such words and their vague meaning wasn’t pleasant at all.

Was it ok for the two of them to be together? Or was it actually not ok, but they just kind of ended up together? Such thoughts started to flood Akira’s head. Leaning with one elbow on the table, Motomi looked up at Akira, grinning.

“Ohh what a poor thing! I feel so sorry for the poor person who has to marry you.”

Listening to what was Motomi’s obvious teasing, Akira’s irritation turned into anger.

I was an idiot to think about our relationship so seriously!

“Old man.”

“Hm?”

“Are you done?”

“With what?”

“…Are you DONE—“

With a swoop, Motomi had suddenly stood up and slipped his arm under Akira’s thigh and arm. Akira was so shocked he forgot what he was about to say, letting his guard down. In a scoop, Motomi picked Akira right up.

“……oof, you’re really heavy.”

“Yeah no shit. PUT ME DOWN!”

Motomi grimaced and gave a bitter laugh.

He was injured just yesterday. It wouldn’t be a surprise if doing this was painful. “Ow ow ow. Don’t struggle, it makes my wound hurt more. Well anyway, don’t you think there’s at least one of these poor sobs in the world who would? Huh Akira?”

“…What?”

“I mean if it was me I’d even cook delicious food.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Akira was so busy trying to figure out how to get down that he was not really getting what Motomi was talking about. In fact, Motomi’s words were going in his right ear and exiting right out the left.

Motomi happily squinted at Akira struggling in his arms and the corners of his mouth raised into a grin.

“In fact, how about we get married right now?”

“!?”

The words were so shocking that it snapped Akira right back into attention. He stared at Motomi’s face.

What the heck was this old man talking about?

…Was my cooking that bad that it had made him go strange?

While these thoughts were racing through Akira’s mind, Motomi’s grin got wider and wider. Akira suddenly got really mad, and ignoring Motomi’s injuries he struggled wildly to get out of Motomi’s grip.

Motomi watched Akira’s reaction but continue going on about how painful his wound was, as he quietly adjusted his balance and tightened his grip so that Akira could not get away.

“Idiot! Let go!”

“Hahaha!”

Motomi’s joyful laughter reverberated from the rampaging Akira under his chin, all the way out the open window, into the bright blue sky.

END

First Publication: Cool-B 2005 vol. 3 / 2005 August 4th

——

The Day is Dawning Explanation

This was a short story published in Cool-B. The theme was Motomi and Akira.

I was trying to write that Akira, who was completely indifferent to the warmth and connection to other people, gradually beginning to realize that it was ‘good thing” after being near Motomi. And once he slowly began to accept it, he would start to try approaching people on his own accord. Akira would also start to worry about how vague the future is, and I think this shows a change in how he thinks now.

I also did not plan for Motomi to say “Let’s get married” at all, but somehow Motomi just ended up saying it (LOL). When it comes to Motomi, he seems to write himself often, just like his “Bring you with me to the grave” words.

I chose this title (Tokiakari) after seeing the dictionary explanation: “As dawn breaks, the eastern sky becomes slightly brighter, or, when it’s raining, the clouds occasionally part, and the sky become brighter”.

—Fuchii Kabura

#togainu no chi #togainu no chi gaiden #togainu no chi novel #motomi tnc #akira tnc

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years

Text

you've got that young blood (set it free)

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason.

Of Roman, Virgil, scars, and self-worth.

(Virgil would prefer to have this conversation when Roman isn't bleeding all over the place, but beggars can't be choosers. Roman would prefer not to have this conversation at all.)

Content Warnings: blood, injury, scars, brief and non-graphic panic attack, briefly implied past self-harm

Word Count: 6,509

Pairing: Prinxiety

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

He doesn’t expect Virgil to be waiting for him.

Later, he tells himself that he would have done it differently if he knew, that he would have made an effort to stand upright, would have tried not to waver, would have downplayed his injuries as best he could. And he tells himself that he would have succeeded, too, that with his acting prowess, he would have easily been able to assure him that nothing was amiss, would have been able to allay suspicion and send him on his way if only he’d had time to prepare.

None of that matters, though, in the end. Because he doesn’t know that Virgil is there, doesn’t know that he is perched on the edge of his bed (and has been for hours, though he will only learn that later), and so when he finally stumbles through the wardrobe that connects his room to the Imagination, he allows his knees to give out, allows himself to collapse to the floor, arm pressed against the deep gash in his side. He lets a moan escape his lips, half pain and half relief, because he has made it back, has returned, if not safely, then at least in possession of all of his limbs and most of his faculties. And he is practiced in stitching his own wounds and emerging into the commons a few hours later, any pain hidden carefully behind a dazzling grin, a few more scars added to the collection he never lets anyone see.

There is no reason for this time to be any different. So at first, when he hears the choked gasp, he thinks that his mind is playing tricks on him, that the blood loss is more severe than he thought.

But then, his bedsprings creak, and there is a rush of movement, and there is someone kneeling in front of him, hands trembling, hovering over his body, afraid to touch. He blinks, forcing his vision into focus, and the black-purple blur resolves into a pale face, wide eyes, and a patched hoodie.

Virgil.

He is speaking, words flowing from his mouth like a heavy rainfall, and he tunes in with an effort.

“--ell me where it’s coming from,” he’s saying, voice rushed, frantic, scared. “Oh my fucking god that’s a lot of blood, you gotta tell me where you’re hurt so I can fix it. Can you even hear me right now? Roman? Roman, please, you gotta--”

“I hear you,” he whispers. Pushing the words past his lips at all is difficult; he doesn’t have the strength to be louder. Most of his brain has devoted itself to figuring this out, trying to solve the puzzle of why, exactly, Virgil is here, appearing in front of him like a vision from the gods. And why, exactly, his heart is beating so fast.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Virgil says, quite vehemently. “Can you-- god, can you move? Like, your arm? I need to see how bad it is. Holy shit, Roman, where did--” He cuts off, leaving Roman unsure of what he was about to ask. And he doesn’t know what to do with the rest of it, numbness creeping into his brain, so he just tries to do what Virgil has asked of him, tries to sit up straighter and remove his arm from his throbbing side. The motion sends pain bursting up through his torso, like tiny fireworks going off in his flesh, and he bites back a groan. His sleeve is slick with blood.

“Oh, god,” Virgil says. He sounds so distressed, so frightened, and Roman wants nothing more than to tell him that it’s alright, that it will be alright, that he’s taken far more damage than this and come out the other side. He just needs his first aid kit, and though he could get it himself if he concentrated, it would be easier to ask Virgil to fetch it for him before he leaves.

But the words won’t come. He stares as Virgil pulls lightly at the fabric sticking to his skin, inhaling sharply as the pain flares again. And then, Virgil looks up at him, staring into his eyes, and he wonders, were they that color before? He’s always thought that Virgil’s eyes were brown, like Thomas’ are, but this close he can tell that they’re not, that they’re a dark purple instead, and how he mistook that color for brown, he has no idea. But they’re beautiful, like fractals of thousands of the darkest amethysts, glimmering with reflected light.

Virgil reaches up, brushes some hair back from his face, his fingertips barely grazing his skin. It would be a strangely intimate gesture if not for the sharp sting it causes, and Roman remembers, ah, yes, he took a rather nasty knock on the head as well. And head wounds always seem worse than they are, he knows that, knows that the drying blood smeared across his face is not indicative of a truly serious problem. But from the way Virgil’s staring, he’s not sure that Virgil is aware of it.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, though the words come out sounding more like, “‘M ‘kay,” and the slurring likely doesn’t inspire any confidence. But he wants Virgil to realize that he’s fine, that he can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need to stick around and take care of him out of some misplaced worry or misguided obligation. He has treated injuries far worse than this and lived to tell the tale. Or rather, to keep the tale a secret.

Virgil laughs, short and humorless. Roman doesn’t like it; it’s too dry, too bitter. “Where’s your first aid kit?” he asks, and though the fear is not gone from his voice, it is contained in a trembling undertone. He sounds determined, resolute, and Roman’s not quite sure why. But he was going to ask Virgil to get the first aid kit anyway.

“Bathroom,” he manages. “Cabinet under the sink.”

Virgil nods, and for a few moments, disappears from his line of sight. He feels oddly bereft without him there, like he’s been left in the cold, which is truly ridiculous. Virgil’s about to leave anyway. Once he retrieves the first aid kit, there’s no reason for him to stay. Roman can handle this on his own, should handle this on his own, frankly, because he’s the one who got himself injured in the first place.

But then Virgil returns, crouching in front of him, and rather than dropping the kit off and making his exit, he opens it, laying out gauze and bandages and thread for stitches.

“Can you take off your shirt?” Virgil asks. “Or do you need me to do it?” He doesn’t look up as he says it, continuing to rummage around in the kit, which leaves Roman to gape at him, because what? His mind feels slow and muddled, but he thinks that even if it didn’t, something about that request doesn’t make any sense. He spends so long trying to work through it that Virgil pauses, glancing up at him, brow furrowed.

“Roman?” he asks, more urgently.

The thing that Roman doesn’t understand is that he hasn’t left yet. That he seems to be staying. That he looks for all the world like he’s about to take care of Roman’s wounds himself.

Why is he doing that? There’s no need. Perhaps he hasn’t made that clear enough.

“I can do it,” he says, and proceeds to struggle out of his shirt, and then his undershirt. Every movement sets his body alight, but he grits his teeth and pushes through it, dropping each piece of fabric on the ground in a heap. The bloodstains are never going to come out of those, and not for the first time, he regrets designing the Imagination so that its effects linger. It would feel like cheating to do it any other way, but it’s in times like these that he wouldn’t mind a bit of cheating.

What a noble sentiment. Some prince he is.

He wrests his mind away from that line of thinking, reaching for the antiseptic that Virgil has set out. His hand closes around the bottle, but then, Virgil’s fingers land on his, and he stops short. Virgil is glaring at him, and he forgets how to breathe.

“What are you doing?” Virgil asks.

He frowns. “I told you,” he says, putting extra effort into enunciating clearly. “I can do it myself.”

There is silence for a long moment. Virgil stares at him, not saying anything at all.

Then, he does.

“What,” he grits out, “the fuck. No you can’t.”

That irritates him a bit. Dimly, it occurs to him that this might not be the time or place to have an argument, but he ignores that thought. “Yes, I can,” he says. “I do it all the time.”

For some reason, Virgil goes very, very still. His eyes flicker from Roman’s face to his chest, tracing across his abdomen with startling intensity. Under any other circumstance, this might fluster him, but he has the sneaking suspicion that there is something he’s forgetting, that Virgil is examining something he doesn’t mean to reveal. And Virgil is angry about it, Roman can tell; his eyes flare and his breaths become slow and deliberate, the same pattern he uses to avoid a panic attack, or to stop himself from lashing out.

Roman doesn’t want him to be angry with him. But he doesn’t know how to make him not be. He and Virgil have come so far from the unwavering animosity that used to lie between them, but he is well aware that his own inclinations and desires tend to exacerbate Virgil’s worries, and he has never been able to work out how to avoid that.

And yet, when Virgil speaks again, his voice is low and gentle, like he’s addressing a startled animal, and Roman might be insulted by that if it weren’t so pleasant a voice to hear. Sometimes, when the world is calm and there is nothing pressing to accomplish, he thinks he could listen to Virgil speak for hours, listen to his low rasp and unique cadence, the teasing, sarcastic tone that does things to his heart.

“Well,” Virgil says, “you’re not going to this time, okay? Lie back for me.”

He pushes Roman’s shoulder, gently lowering him to lie flat against the floor, and Roman is so startled that he lets him. He doesn’t understand this sudden softness, doesn’t understand why Virgil is insistent on doing this when he could easily do it himself, doesn’t understand why Virgil was even here to begin with. And along with the pain, exhaustion is crashing over him in waves, the last dregs of his adrenaline finally fading away. So he watches with half-lidded eyes as Virgil moves to his side, carefully rubbing a dripping washcloth-- did he conjure that? When did that happen?-- across his chest, wiping away the crusted blood. His motions are deft and sure, even as he begins to clean the wound itself, exchanging water for alcohol. Roman arches his back against the pain, gasping as lightning bolts lance through his side, but otherwise keeps as still as he can.

“Sorry,” Virgil murmurs, but doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna stitch it up now.”

“‘Kay,” Roman says, and despite the haze that has overtaken him, a thought occurs to him, and he lacks just enough filter to ask. “How’re you so good at this?”

Because Virgil is good at this, is clearly practiced, has done this before. He wouldn’t have expected it from someone so anxious, would have expected shaking hands and crippling indecisiveness instead. But Virgil displays only a steady, uncharacteristic confidence, and Roman doesn’t know why.

For along minute, Virgil doesn’t answer. The bite of the needle as he begins to stitch the wound shut is almost unbearable, almost sends him squirming and panting for breath. He holds himself still, but something in his face must reveal the effort it takes him, because Virgil stops, staring at him.

“Shit,” he says suddenly, loudly, and Roman jolts as he dives for the first aid kit. “Shit, shit, shit! Painkillers, I didn’t even think to--! Fuck, I am so sorry, can you--?” He holds up the bottle of Tylenol, shaking a few out into his hands, and he looks so angry with himself, so worried, that Roman can’t help but try for a reassuring smile.

“I c’n take ‘em dry,” he confirms, and does so once Virgil hands them over. “‘S okay.”

But Virgil shakes his head. “It’s not,” he says, looking at him miserably. “God, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m just…” He trails off, taking a breath. “I used to do this for Remus, sometimes,” he confesses quietly. “When he’d come back from the Imagination beat to shit. Usually it was Janus, but sometimes it was me, when Jan couldn’t be there, and painkillers do fuck-all for him, so I completely fucking forgot.” He pauses, eyes trailing over his torso once again, something like sadness in the set of his mouth. “Remus does this a lot,” he says, so softly that Roman barely hears it. “I should’ve figured that you might, too. I should’ve--”

He cuts off, and Roman is glad of it, because he has no idea what to say.

He used to avoid thinking about Remus as much as he could. These days, he thinks about him too much. There is no middle ground, and this just feels like another nail in the coffin that marks their countless similarities, another entry in the ever-growing list of reminders that he is not nearly as different from his brother as he has always pretended to be, not nearly as heroic, as noble, as good as he wants everyone else to believe.

He’s spending so much time in the Imagination, lately, and in his heart of hearts, he knows he’s trying to escape himself. What are a few more scars, easily concealed, if it means he finds a little bit of balance, a little bit of peace?

Virgil waits a few minutes before starting his ministrations again, giving the painkillers time to kick in. The needle still stings, still makes him clench his fists and bite his lip as he longs for a distraction, but the pain is dulled, now, and Virgil moves quickly and efficiently.

“Okay,” he murmurs at length. “That’s as good as that’s gonna get. I’m gonna look at your head now.”

He shifts positions, and is suddenly very, very close, filling up Roman’s field of vision. He doesn’t seem to care much about where Roman’s gaze falls, which gives him free rein to stare at him, at the determination that sets his face and the way his eyeshadow brings out the color of his eyes.

They really are lovely eyes. How has he never noticed that before?

Virgil swipes the washcloth across his face, motions gentle and firm and soothing, and Roman feels his eyelids drooping. There is something in the way Virgil is looking at him, something that Roman would almost call tenderness if he wasn’t well aware of the fact that Virgil doesn’t do tenderness, tries not to do vulnerability at all. Roman can’t throw stones; he dislikes showing vulnerability too, dislikes presenting himself as anything less than strong and brave and put together. The fact that he is in this position, showing weakness, allowing himself to be cared for, is almost more than he can stand, and he’s sure that he would be far more upset about it if he were less tired, less in pain. If it were someone else here, if it weren’t Virgil.

He’s too exhausted to examine that right now.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Virgil chuckle, soft and far more genuine than before, and he pries them open again. Virgil’s face is blurry, hovering just above his.

“The head wound looks a lot worse than it is,” Virgil tells him, voice distant, and if he had the energy to do so, he would respond with something along the lines of, I could’ve told you that. Because he could have, if his words would cooperate with him. “You’re gonna be okay, Princey. You can go to sleep.”

Sleep. It sounds appealing. Isn’t there something else he should do, though, something else to say? Something to say to Virgil, specifically, Virgil, who is here, taking care of him, even when there was no need, when he would have been fine doing it himself just like always.

“‘Kay,” he whispers, his eyes sliding shut again. The world seems distant now, the pain barely a blip on his radar. “‘M sorry… you had to spend so much time…”

There is a conclusion to that sentence. But he can’t find it.

Dimly, he is aware of the washcloth’s motions pausing, resting warmly on his cheek. Virgil says something, then, something that travels down a long tunnel to reach him and that sounds something like, “You have nothing to apologize for,” but that can’t be right, because he knows that’s not true. And he thinks, too, that he feels a finger graze his face, tracing a line that Virgil cannot know, because Roman has always taken such great care to hide the markings that mar his skin.

But consciousness is slipping away, and he lets it go.

-----

Roman wakes, and immediately tries to move. This ends up being a mistake; pain shoots through him, originating from his side, and it rips a whimper from his lips. His head throbs, too, and reaching up with a shaky hand reveals that there is a bandage wrapped firmly around his forehead. Further investigation shows him that there are bandages around his abdomen, too, secure and restricting, and that his chest is otherwise bare.

“Oh my god, you dumbass,” someone says, and suddenly, Virgil is there, leaning over him, hair disheveled and eyeshadow deeper than usual, and Roman cannot help but stare. “What are you doing, you’re gonna tear something open. I’m not stitching you up again, genius.”

Oh. Right. He settles back against the pillows and does his best not to react externally as the memories come rushing back. Practically falling out of his own wardrobe, letting Virgil take care of him, making a fool of himself in general. Fantastic.

“Right,” he says, and winces at the hoarseness of his voice. “Sorry about that. How long have I been asleep?”

Virgil sighs, perching next to him on the edge of the bed. “Not too long,” he says. “A few hours. You could probably do with some more.”

Oh, absolutely not. A few hours is more than enough time to be well on the way to recovery, or at least, enough time to seem as if he is. Though, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Surely, the whole mindscape knows about this by now. Surely, Virgil’s told Patton and Logan, or at least answered their questions if they asked what he’s been doing. He’s surprised they’re not in here, Logan ready with a lecture and Patton full of guilt, guilt that is entirely undeserved, since all of this is Roman’s own fault.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Virgil shifts his weight, glancing away.

“I told the others that I was helping you with a project,” he says, casually, as if he’s not upending Roman’s entire worldview, as if Roman doesn’t know full well that Virgil absolutely hates lying. “I think they bought it, so, uh. Janus might know something’s up, but he probably knows anyway, since you’ve been lying to us about it for so long.”

Roman’s stomach drops into his shoes. There is no bite to Virgil’s words, but it must be there, because Virgil must be angry at the deception. He didn’t plan to ever reveal the truth; he didn’t want to worry them, and more than that, he didn’t want them to know how weak he truly is, how imperfect. Though that’s another thing that they’re surely well-versed in by now, so he’s not sure why he bothers.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Virgil frowns.

“I didn’t mean it like--” He stops, shaking his head, and takes a few steadying breaths. Four-seven-eight. “Okay. I’m kinda scared shitless of having this conversation, but it clearly needs to happen, so. How long has this been going on?”

He’d hoped that Virgil would let it go. That Virgil’s tendency toward conflict avoidance would guide him away from asking any of the difficult questions. He should have remembered that only half of Virgil is flight, that he is just as capable of fight, of raising his voice and demanding his answers, that Virgil’s brand of courage is odd but no less present for that.

“What do you mean?” he asks weakly, and even as he says the words, he knows that the avoidance tactic won’t work. Not here, not now, and wouldn’t have even if he didn’t sound like he’s on death’s door.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Virgil says. He gestures, and then crosses his arms. “You. This. Getting hurt, and not telling us about it. Not letting us help.”

He chews on that for a moment, on the idea that helping would be a thing that they would want to do. Surely, there are better uses for their time? This is another reason why he made sure to hide it; if they knew, they would feel obligated to come to his aid, just as Virgil has. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want them to help him because they’ve fooled themselves into thinking they have to.

He clears his throat. “Not terribly often,” he says, and hopes that the lie isn’t powerful enough, isn’t loud enough to draw Deceit’s attention. “And even when it does, it’s nothing I can’t handle, really. I’m quite capable of patching myself up, you know.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I roped you into doing it.”

Virgil exhales sharply. “Roped me-- okay. Alright, that’s bullshit. You didn’t rope me into taking care of you, I did it because I was fucking worried about you.”

“I didn’t want to upset--”

“If you’re about to tell me you didn’t want to upset me, I swear to god, I will scream.” Roman dutifully shuts his mouth. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but you didn’t force me into helping you. I did that because I... I fucking care about you, alright? And I don’t want you to be hurt.” Throughout the speech, Virgil’s face grows steadily redder under his foundation, his knees beginning to bounce up and down like pogo sticks. He looks very much like he would like to run from the room, and perhaps it is a sign of how important he considers this to be that he doesn’t.

Roman stares, trying to process that. He has no idea how to respond.

Virgil takes another breath, visibly calming himself. “Look, I… this isn’t even what I wanted to talk about.” He meets Roman’s eyes, regarding him steadily. “I know you’re lying. About it not happening often. It happens a lot, doesn’t it?”

“How do you--” He breaks off, his mind racing in an effort to figure out how Virgil could possibly know that. This is the first time he’s been caught, after all, not just by Virgil but by anyone, and one time does not a pattern make. He shouldn’t be able to guess, shouldn’t be able to say it with such stark certainty, not unless he already had a low opinion of his fighting prowess, and that burns in a way he would like to not scrutinize too closely--

“Roman.”

Virgil’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, and he glances over. Virgil is staring at him, an odd expression on his face, somewhere between resignation and sorrow, and for a split second, Roman is almost overwhelmed by the urge to try to smooth that expression away, to do anything to put a smile on his face. Virgil’s smiles are rare, but that makes them all the more precious.

“You don’t even know that you’re doing it, do you,” Virgil says. “It comes naturally. You don’t even think about it.”

He blinks, because what? What is he talking about?

And then, Virgil reaches out to caress his face, and his brain bluescreens.

It’s a caress. There’s no other way to describe it, no other way to label the way his fingers lightly stroke his skin and hold his cheek. His face feels as though it has been set aflame, sparks going off wherever contact is made. He wants Virgil to stop. He wants to bury his face in his pillow for the rest of time and scream. He wants Virgil to keep holding him forever.

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason. He remembers it, then, remembers the way Virgil looked at his chest, at his face while he was treating him. He didn’t have the awareness to realize it then, but he does now, realizes exactly what Virgil saw, what he put together, and his breaths come short and quick as the implications catch up to him.

Virgil is right. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about the multitude of scars that cover his body, a patchwork of lines and grooves and valleys marring his skin, years and years of injuries piling up and tearing him apart, memories of blood and pain traced into him forever. He doesn’t think about it, because usually, they are out of sight, out of mind; from the moment he received his first, he began the habit of shapeshifting them away, showing off skin that is flawless, unblemished by his failures. He does it all the time, unceasing, because presentation is everything and he has never wanted the others to know, never wanted them to see him as he truly is. It is a constant expenditure of energy, but one well worth it, one that he barely notices after all these years.

Injured and weak as he was, the disguise must have slipped away. He must have fallen to his knees, scars on full display, in all their messy, ugly glory. And of course, Virgil saw.

And now, Virgil knows.

“Hey, hey,” Virgil says, and he can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “C’mon, Roman, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. Try to match my breathing, alright?”

And Virgil breathes, in and out, loud and intentional, and counts. Four-seven-eight. It takes a while for Roman to copy him, for his breathing to steady and his heart to slow, and once it does, he feels exhausted, wrung out, like bubblegum stretched too thin.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He can’t find it in himself to meet Virgil’s eyes.

“I told you, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Virgil says seriously. He pauses. “Except for scaring the shit out of me, but um. We can do that later, so just. Look, when you first got back, you were covered in them, and I wanted to ask then, but it wasn’t the time. And then you shifted them away literally while you were sleeping, which I didn’t even know was possible, but I guess you’re used to doing it? So I guess what I actually wanted to ask is, why’ve you been hiding them?”

He stiffens, and can’t stop the incredulous laugh from bursting from his lips, even as his mind reels with this new information. “Are you serious?” he asks, and forces himself to meet Virgil’s gaze, even though he would like nothing more than to hide his face, hide away under his covers until all of this goes away and he can pretend that things are normal again. “You can’t figure that out?”

But Virgil doesn’t react. “Pretend I’m stupid,” he offers, voice flat. “Walk me through it.”

“I--” He wishes he could gesture, redirect attention with waving arms and comical expressions. But every movement sends bolts of pain down his side, sets his head to throbbing again. “Really? You-- you saw them.” His voice cracks, and he tries not to let it get to him. What’s a little more humiliation at this point, right?

“So?” Virgil asks.

He can’t believe he’s going to have to explain this.

“So?” he repeats. “So? So they’re ugly! So they’re… they’re just reminders of every time I’ve failed, every time I’ve been dumb enough to let myself get hurt! So I don’t like them, and I don’t… I didn’t want--”

“You didn’t want us to see,” Virgil finishes, and really, he has no right being this astute, no right to see through him like this. His gaze is level, piercing, pinning him to the spot with its sheer intensity, and Roman feels entirely too exposed. “Well, I want to see.”

He becomes very aware that Virgil is still holding his face.

“You what?” he rasps.

“I want to see them,” Virgil repeats. “Will you let me see them?”

His first instinct is to deny him, to push him away and proceed to act like this conversation never occurred in the first place. He knows exactly how they look, knows exactly how unappealing they are; how long has he stood in front of the mirror, glaring at a reflection that is never up to his standards? And for some reason, the thought of Virgil of all people looking at them, judging them, judging him and finding him wanting, is absolutely unbearable. He thinks he would die if that happened, thinks he would shatter into a million pieces on the floor, break apart into so much dust.

But Virgil is asking. Asking, not demanding, and there is no disgust in his voice.

And he’s seen them. So really, what harm could be done that has not been done already?

Virgil is likely to keep pushing if he refuses. And Roman is so tired.

“Okay,” he says, and he shuts his eyes, and drops his shifted form. It feels like a layer of water sliding from his skin, or like an eggshell cracking open and revealing the messy yolk beneath. For a long moment, there is silence, heavy and oppressive, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes to look, doesn’t dare see the expression on Virgil’s face, the horror, the disdain, or worse, the pity.

And then, Virgil’s hand moves, lightly tracing across his face in patterns that are all too familiar. He can’t move, can’t breathe. He knows all too well the scars that he is counting: the slashes across his cheeks from too many careless swords, the line cutting through his lips from a harpy that tried to claw his face off, and the biggest of all, the slash from a dragon’s talons, a deep gash that begins on his forehead and trails across his nose, reaching all the way to his jawline, narrowly avoiding his eyes. Virgil’s fingers linger there longest of all.

And then, he pulls away. Roman braces himself.

“You think you’re the only one with scars?”

His eyes shoot open.

“What?”

Virgil is watching him, an odd light in his eyes. He’s rubbing his arm with one hand, up and down, a repetitive, subconscious motion.

“Look,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, just ever so slightly. “I get it. More than you might think. You have these scars, and you think they mean that you fucked up, or that you failed at something, and... Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know. But you know what else they are?”

Roman can’t speak. Virgil continues, not waiting for an answer.

“They mean that you’re still alive,” he says. “It means that you’re still here, that you survived, and that you kept going. That doesn’t make you a failure, it makes you strong. And I’m not gonna tell you that you have to think that they’re beautiful, or some shit like that, but they’re not ugly, they’re not gross, and they don’t make you worthless.”

His breath hitches. Tears pool in his eyes, and he is powerless to dispel them.

“It took me a really long time to learn that,” Virgil says. “They’re a part of you, and you don’t have to feel lesser for that. And you don’t have to hide them, not if you don’t want to. No one’s going to judge you for them.” He pauses, a strange look passing across his face. “And that’s coming from me, so, uh. You know. If the literal personification of anxiety is telling you that you don’t need to worry about it. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Roman laughs a little, despite himself, more out of disbelief than anything else.

“You really think it’s that simple?” he asks, and hopes that Virgil doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I know it’s not that simple,” Virgil returns. “I know how hard it is to change how you think about yourself. I mean, god, Roman, you know who you’re talking to, right? I’m kind of the king of negativity. But you’re not on your own on this.” He shifts, scooting a bit closer. “If you ask us for help, we’d do anything for you, but that’s not because we think we have to. It’s because we love you. And you deserve that love. Never think that you don’t. Scars or no scars.”

Roman shudders, emotions rolling through him with the force of a thousand rushing rivers.

“And I think, I mean--” Virgil stops. “Your-- fuck. Just, for the record, I--” He sucks in a breath, turning away sharply. “Fuck,” he says again, as if to himself, and then, in one smooth motion, he turns back to Roman, places both hands on the side of his face, and plants a kiss on his cheek, right over one of his scars. It’s like a thousand volts of energy, like a fire burning just beneath his skin, like a symphony crescendoing to its climax. Roman gasps, and Virgil pulls back, and Roman is absolutely certain that his face is melting off right now, that the warmth flooding his face and body is searing the flesh from his bones.

Virgil stares at him, face red. And then, to Roman’s shock, he does it again, on his nose, right where the biggest scar crosses his face. Slower, this time, his lips lingering for a heartbeat too long, giving Roman the chance to think about how soft they are, how much he would like them to be on his lips instead.

Well, that’s… huh. Part of him knew that already, has known for a very long time that he wants this, but the confirmation has his brain buzzing.

“I think they’re hot,” Virgil says, just above a mumble.

“You what?” Roman says, even though he’s fairly sure he didn’t mishear, even though hope, bright and warm and traitorous, is rising in his chest like a bird taking wing. He has never loved his scars, has never thought of them as attractive at all, and never so much as considered the possibility that someone else might disagree.

But Virgil doesn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie, not about this. It is a miracle that Virgil is acting this way at all, is behaving in a manner that clearly puts him far outside his comfort zone.

“Don’t make me say it again,” Virgil snaps, and there is the Virgil that Roman is most familiar with, hackles raised and spitting insults. Despite everything that’s happened, despite the fact that his mind is spinning and he still feels entirely too hot, he smiles. “Fuck, I’m just gonna go die in a hole now. See if I do anything for you ever again.”

He moves as if to stand from the bed, as if to leave, and though hours ago he wanted him to do that very thing, Roman feels a flash of panic at the prospect. Before he can think better of it, his hand snakes out and latches on to the sleeve of Virgil’s hoodie, stopping him in his tracks. For a moment, they stare at each other, both silent, almost expectant as Roman casts about for something to say, something to keep Virgil here.

“I have a scar on my lips,” he blurts out. “You, uh, wanna… do… something?”

He congratulates himself on his smoothness. He should give up being Thomas’ creativity and open up a smoothie place, that’s how smooth he is.

Virgil glares. “If you’re just gonna make fun of me, you can fuck right off and--”

“What? No,” he says. “I’m not-- what made you think I was making fun of you? I’m asking you to kiss me!”

Virgil stares, silent. He feels himself begin to waver.

“If… uh, just if you want to, I guess,” he says, voice weakening. “I just thought that maybe…”

“You’re an idiot,” Virgil declares, and captures his lips with his own.

A far as declarations of love go, it’s not the best Roman has ever heard. But as far as kisses, well.

“Don’t think this gets you out of talking about this,” Virgil murmurs, pulling back a centimeter or two. “I’m gonna sic Patton on you. You’re gonna get so much love and emotional support, and so many cookies, and you’re not gonna escape until we get it into your dumbass head that you’re worth so much more than you think you are.”

Even moments ago, the thought would have filled him with horror, horror at the prospect of anyone else knowing, anyone else seeing, anyone else wanting to talk to him about it. And maybe this is only a respite, a brief moment of insanity before that horror returns. And it’s not just the scars. Perhaps it’s never been about the scars, not really.

But right now, his head is buzzing with Virgil’s words, his lips still alight with the imprint of his kiss, and his scars are bared and Virgil likes them, thinks they make him strong, thinks that he’s not a failure at all. And most of him rejects that, suspects that in time, Virgil will come to see the ugly truth, and if that is the case, he should pull back now, save both of them the trouble.

Virgil won’t allow that, though; if he knows anything about Virgil, it is that he is stubborn, incredibly so, enough to be a match for him. And there is a voice, buried deep in his brain, telling him that he should listen, that Virgil is right, and that he deserves this. He doesn’t make a habit of listening to that voice.

But perhaps he should. And Virgil smiles at him, just slightly, and he thinks that perhaps he can.

“Cookies,” he repeats. “Sounds good.” And to his surprise, finds that he means it.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii

#sanders sides #ts sides #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #my fic #long post #roman (while bleeding out): haha don't worry i'll just patch myself up #virgil (softly but with great feeling): what the fuck

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