#its been 3 goddamn years already | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alwaysmicado · 1 year ago

Text

Trouble

5.3k | 18+ MDNI | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 5

Warnings: no outbreak AU, implied age gap, D/s dynamic, rough oral (m receiving), spitting, cum eating, leg humping, degradation/praise, humiliation kink, pet names, aftercare, feelings Summary: After you’ve distracted Joel from work with your explicit texts all day, he decides to teach you a lesson. A/N: Consensual degradation & humiliation – my beloved. This one's for you if you're into unadulterated filth with feelings sprinkled on top hehe. Let me know what you think, I love hearing your thots! 🤍

pt. 1 ・ pt. 2 ・ pt. 3 ・ pt. 4 ・ series masterlist

“You sure you got nothing else to say to me?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“No,” he tilts his head and you see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But you will be when I’m done with you.”

---

“Sneaking out for a hot date?”

Busted.

You sigh and turn around to face Kristen’s triumphant grin. Beautiful Kristen. The only person at your job with a bearable personality.

If you only had Janice from accounting and her incessant yapping about her feral kids, or John from HR and his never-ending tirades against “modern women”, you probably would have burnt down the building already.

Kristen’s been your lifeline over the past two years at this job. She’s upbeat, fun, a gifted painter and the closest thing to a female friend you have.

Her only flaw: she’s so nosy it’s not even funny.

After your get-well-fuck with Joel three days ago where he left multiple marks on your neck, you not only plastered a bunch of foundation over the purple reminders of his fever-fueled nipping, you also wore a silk scarf which, in hindsight, was a dumb idea.

The first thing you were welcomed with when you came in that morning was an enthusiastic “You go, girl!” followed by giggling after Kristen saw your unimpressed face.

You shoot her a half-hearted smile and raise an eyebrow. “Who says it’s a date?”

Kristen’s grin widens. “Oh, come on! You think I don’t notice the way you giggle at your phone like a lovesick idiot?”

“Oh, shut up,” you protest in mock offense. What the hell is she talking about? You don’t do that. “I got a doctor’s appointment. Nothing hot about that,” you say nonchalantly.

Kristen leans in, lowering her voice dramatically. “A doctor, huh? Do you have an ache only he can cure with his special tool?”

“You’re a pervert, you know that?”

“Yeah, duh. That’s why you love me,” she chuckles, causing the corners of your own lips to twitch.

“Well,” she smirks, “I hope the doctor will take the best care of you.”

You roll your eyes at her teasing, grab your bag and blow her a kiss before heading out. You leave the office with a grin, reveling in the sunshine that greets you when you step out.

The warmth of the day feels refreshing against your skin as you stroll to the parking lot. Your dress, despite being a result of prolonged laundry procrastination, is surprisingly comfortable, allowing you to appreciate the light breeze that rustles its fabric.

The sun casts a golden hue on the cityscape and you can't help but smile at the small pleasures of life – the sun on your face, a staff meeting getting canceled earlier, finding twenty bucks in an old pair of jeans this morning.

Life is okay at the moment.

Despite work kicking your ass, your mother trying to guilt-trip you into coming “home” and the last hookup you had throwing you out in the middle of the goddamn night because his wife came home from her business trip early.

You’re feeling good.

One might even say you’re happy.

If only there wasn’t this nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders when you see your Uber pull up. Get yourself together.

The car winds through the city streets, and as you give Joel's address to the driver, you can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation. The engine hums softly as you navigate the familiar turns, presenting the perfect background to lose yourself in a daydream.

As you settle into the comfort of your bed, the world outside fades away. In the gentle embrace of your imagination, you feel a figure appear behind you. Their warmth is a soothing balm, and as they pull you close, a profound sense of security envelops you. The weight of the world, of your being lifts, replaced by the tender reassurance of this ethereal embrace.

In this imagined sanctuary, sleep finds you easily, cradled in the arms of solace. The whispered promise of warmth and safety lingers, allowing dreams to unfold like petals, undisturbed and serene in the soft glow of moonlight.

The notification sound of your phone pulls you back to reality. Glancing at the screen, you see Joel's name. You open the message and involuntarily press your thighs together, your pulse quickening instantly.

Door’s open. Get naked, then come upstairs.You’re in real trouble, angel.

---

The familiar scent of Joel’s home greets you when you step inside. It smells more like home than your apartment or any other place you’ve lived in since you were a child. Safe, warm, comforting – like its owner. And it’s a surprisingly well-decorated and welcoming home for a bachelor.

So much so that you asked him flat out if he had a wife on your first night together.

You take your shoes off and put your bag on the couch in the living room before heading to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands and quickly check if you look presentable. Your eyes are a bit swollen from lack of restful sleep, but other than that, you’re good to go.

As you take your dress, bra and panties off, you somewhat fondly remember the last time Joel ordered you to his home because you were sending him filthy texts and photos while you both were at work.

You spent thirty minutes sitting still on his lap while he worked on his computer, his throbbing cock buried deep inside you. Every time he would shift in his chair a little, you would whimper into the crook of his neck and he would whisper into your ear how well you were doing for him and draw soothing circles on your back with his palm.

You hated and loved every torturous second of it.

The office door is open when you come upstairs. Your eyes widen when you see Joel sitting at his desk. It’s incredible how handsome he looks. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, blue gym shorts and his glasses as he’s staring at the computer and typing something with his index fingers.

Your heart starts beating faster as you take him in, the domesticity of this scene giving you an unexpectedly warm feeling deep within you.

“You just gonna stand there and stare at me?” Joel asks with a swivel of his chair, his body now facing yours. He saw you out of the corner of his eye before but now that he’s getting a good look at you, his jaw almost hits the floor.

He will never get used to seeing you naked.

“God, you’re so much more beautiful in real life,” he murmurs, his pupils blown wide and the admiration in his voice unmistakable.

You give him a satisfied smile as you lean against the doorframe. “I sure hope so,” you tease.

“Do you know why you’re here, darlin’?” Joel asks with a tilt of his head, his brow slightly furrowed.

“I’m assuming it has something to do with the silly little texts and pics I sent you to brighten up your day,” you say, feigning innocence. “Did you like them?”

“You really think now’s the time to be a brat, huh?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Alright, then.” His eyes sparkle dangerously as he sits back in his chair and spreads his legs wider.

“You sure you got nothing else to say to me?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“No,” he tilts his head and you see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But you will be when I’m done with you.”

You bite your lip as your eyes focus on the visible bulge in Joel’s shorts, and try to suppress the huge grin that’s threatening to spread across your face. This is exactly what you wanted and you both know it.

“Hands and knees, baby,” Joel orders calmly and puts his hands on his thighs. “C’mere.”

You lower yourself on all fours without hesitation and crawl towards him slowly, making sure to sway your hips and never break eye contact. Joel’s the only person you’d put yourself in such a submissive position for and you revel in the exhilarating feeling it gives you.

Joel keeps his eyes trained on you, subtly rubbing his thighs as you come closer to where he’s needed you all day. His eyes are dark and full of need as he licks his lips and follows the mesmerizing movement of your body. He likes how you, despite your brattiness, know perfectly well where your place is.

“Look at what you did,” he says, once you’re kneeling on all fours between his spread legs. He palms his throbbing cock over the fabric and your eyes widen a little, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“That's right, baby, you did this. And now you need to take responsibility for your actions.” He gently caresses your cheek, tracing your lips with his thumb.

When he presses on your lower lip, you instinctively open your mouth enough for his finger to slip inside. He presses on your tongue, admiring the feeling and your willingness to submit.

“Look at you,” he chuckles, gently rubbing his cock. “Such a little slut, always wants something in her mouth.”

He moves his thumb further along your tongue, causing you to furrow your brow and gag a little. “You couldn't help yourself, huh, just had to put on a show all day like the needy whore you are.”

He takes his thumb out of your mouth and pulls his shorts all the way down, letting them fall on the floor next to his chair. His heavy cock flops against his lower belly, causing you to swallow and part your lips instinctively. Joel smirks at your reaction, enjoying the raw need sparkling in your eyes as he strokes himself slowly.

You start squirming, pressing your thighs together to alleviate at least some of the uncomfortable ache between your legs, and let out an almost inaudible whine as Joel continuously strokes up and down his length while looking at you curiously.

He leans in and tilts your chin up, his dark eyes boring into you.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He asks softly, feigning concern. He looks from you to his cock and back, raising an eyebrow. “All of this just because you’re a pathetic little cockslut with nothing else in her dumb little head than my cock. Isn’t that right, angel?”

You nod slowly, your lips slightly parted, hypnotized by Joel’s big eyes and filthy words.

“Use your words, slut,” he growls, gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head up even more.

“I just—wanted you so bad, I–”

“Aww, of course you did,” he teases you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me your safeword, angel.”

He looks into your eyes intently as you say it out loud, then puts a soft kiss on your lips. You whimper when he withdraws, the feeling of his warm lips lingering.

“Open up,” he orders with a tap of his fingers to your bottom lip. “Stick your tongue out for me.”

You obey and do as he says, looking into his eyes expectantly. You watch in awe and pure need as the thick glob of saliva makes its way down from Joel’s mouth and lands on the back of your tongue. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel it run down your throat.

“Swallow.” He gently puts a strand of hair behind your ear as you show him your empty mouth. “Good girl.”

You moan softly at his praise and furrow your brow when your eyes find his cock again.

“You really want it, huh,” Joel purrs, trailing your neck and chest gently with his hands. When he brushes your nipples, you wince a little, eliciting a low chuckle from him. “Spread your legs, baby. Let me see your little pussy.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, his cock twitching impatiently when you sit back on your heels and present your glistening folds.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs, tracing your belly all the way down to your mound and stopping right before touching your clit. “Must’ve been uncomfortable to sit in that all day, hm?”

He gently pulls your lips apart with his thumbs and index fingers, inspecting you closely. “Your little clit is so swollen, baby, does it hurt?”

“Mhm,” you whine, his touch so close to your neglected bundle of nerves torturing you beyond belief. “It–it hurts so bad, Sir.”

“Hmm,” he searches your eyes, “and that’s why you thought it was a good idea to send me all those naughty messages?” He spreads your lips apart further, eliciting a long moan from you. “You thought I’d fuck you if you did?”

“Y–yes,” you stammer, your legs trembling, “I’m sor–”

You’re cut off when Joel lets go of your lips and swipes his fingers through your dripping wet folds agonizingly slowly, once, twice, three times, barely brushing your pulsating clit.

Listening to the noises you make and feeling your hot cunt on his hand is enough to make him almost come, despite his cock not having any contact at the moment. His eyes never leave yours as you whimper desperately, his barely there touch enough to build your long overdue orgasm.

“Go on, angel,” he withdraws his hand and holds his hand up to your lips, “clean up the mess you made.”

He pushes his wet fingers into your mouth, forcing you to suck your own juices off of him. You do so eagerly, sucking and licking his fingers, moaning around them.

“You would’ve sucked my cock in front of everyone if I had let you, huh.” You let out a desperate moan, feeling your pussy get wetter at the thought. “That’s right, baby,” Joel chuckles. “Show everyone you’re my little cockslut.”

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, satisfied with the job you did, then grabs your chin hard, his wet fingers pressing into your hot cheeks.

“You want it so bad, baby? Then beg for it.”

“Please,” you whine. “Please let me suck your cock, please, I–I want your cock so bad—”

“All yours, baby.”

He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, looking at you through lidded eyes.

“Fuuuck, that’s it,” Joel groans as you start licking and sucking at his balls, then lightly trace the veins of his cock with your warm tongue, swirling it around the tip, licking up the salty precum. You look at him expectantly as you lick up and down his length, fondling his balls with your hand.

He smiles at the needy look in your eyes, finding it unbelievably hot that you want to, need to hear his praise so badly even though it’s obvious that everything you do to him is and feels beyond perfect.

“Good girl,” he says softly, eliciting a little whimper from you. “Now stop teasing and take it.”

You immediately hold him up by the base and take the tip into your mouth, sucking on it eagerly. You take him further, inch by inch, bobbing your head up and down his shaft until he’s nudging the back of your throat. Your eyes well over with tears as you gag around his cock. Joel groans in response, his whole body tensing as he tangles his hands in your hair.

You make a surprised sound when he leans over you and pushes your head down until your nose is rubbing his pubic hair, giving you no chance to move your head. He keeps his length buried deep inside you for a few seconds before pulling you up, a thick string of saliva mixed with precum connecting you two, only to push you right back down.

“Fuck, I love the sounds you make,” Joel pants as you choke and whine loudly.

He pulls your head back up to let you catch your breath and make sure you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. He knows from the look in your eyes that you are, but he wants to make sure before you continue.

“What’s your color, angel?”

You look at him with bleary eyes, but give him a dazed smile and whisper, “Green.”

Joel nods and caresses your wet cheeks, wiping away some of your tears with his thumbs.

He traces your swollen lips with the head of his cock, loving the way his precum sticks to them.

“Breathe through your nose, baby,” he pants. “Can’t have you passing out on me.”

You wrap your lips around his head, swirl your tongue around it, then bob your head again – messily, sloppily, just the way he likes it.

“Good girl,” he breathes, thrusting his hips to slide in and out of your mouth, smiling at you and petting your hair. “Such a perfect little fleshlight.”

You tremble and moan around him, not entirely sure if his filthy mouth, his groaning, or the fact that he’s using you for his pleasure is turning you on the most. You just know you love it when he holds your head steady and fucks your mouth roughly, taking what he wants from you, making you gag and choke, saliva and tears running down your cheeks, chin, neck, and body.

You look like a masterpiece.

“I’m close, baby,” Joel pants, your perfect, wet mouth and the admiration he sees in your big, wet eyes making him tremble every time he thrusts his hips into you. You push him right over the edge when you squeeze his balls hard.

He comes with a strangled groan, shooting rope after rope of warm cum down your throat and onto your tongue. You welcome it with eager moans, so far gone that you don’t realize what you’re doing until after it’s too late — you swallow it all without his permission.

Fatal mistake.

Joel grabs you by your hair, pulling you off his pulsating cock, still breathing heavily.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?”

Your eyes widen in shock, your lip quivering. “I–I'm sorry, I–I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Joel sighs and raises his eyebrows. He loosens his grip in your hair and looks at your eyes welling up with tears. You stumble over your words as you keep apologizing over and over again. You’re so perfect like this.

“What’s your color, baby?”

“Green, Sir,” you sniffle. “It’s green.”

“Now what am I supposed to do with a fleshlight that doesn’t work right, hm?” He tilts your chin up and rubs it softly with his thumb. “Do you think you deserve to get fucked?”

“I’m—please, I'll be good, I promise,” you choke out through tears and hiccups. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, just please—”

Joel smirks and leans back in his chair. “No need to tell me that, angel. I know you’ll do anything.” He lifts his foot between your thighs, eliciting a small, needy noise from you when he presses it against your swollen cunt.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby. All from being used, hm?”

“Yes, Sir,” you whine, wiping your cheeks and trying your hardest to stay still. “Thank you.”

“Such a pathetic little slut.” He rubs his foot against your folds, and you moan, closing your eyes, your lips trembling, your face hot from embarrassment and arousal. Joel presses harder and you cry out, your hips jerking instinctively.

“Pathetic enough to hump my leg?”

He snorts when he sees the stunned look on your face. You are definitely startled, but you don't protest. Joel can see a mix of hesitation and need in your eyes, and he understands that he needs to push you.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says, gently petting your hair, “so you better thank me for letting you come at all.”

He sighs and pulls your head back by your hair when you don’t answer fast enough.

“Use your words, slut.”

“Th–thank you,” you whimper. “I–I just–” You trail off, too shocked and embarrassed to finish your sentence, your voice trembling as you babble unintelligibly.

You hear Joel say your name and feel him cup your cheeks. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You sniffle and try to focus on his eyes. “Tell me your color,” he says gently, his deep voice soothing your nerves.

“Still green,” you breathe, swallowing hard.

He searches your eyes and nods before sitting back up and extending his leg a little.

“Go on, then.”

You look at the satisfied smirk on his face before taking a deep breath and scooting forward, adjusting yourself against Joel’s leg. Gripping Joel’s thigh for balance, you tilt your hips forward until your clit makes contact with his hairy leg. You shudder at the feeling, a needy little moan escaping your lips.

Joel’s pupils are so blown, his eyes are completely black now.

You slowly drag your hips upward and duck your head, embarrassed that you’re actually enjoying this – and that you’re this wet. After slowly rocking your hips up and down a few times, you can’t keep yourself from moaning anymore. It feels to fucking good.

You shift a little and allow yourself to set a pace that will make you come. You nuzzle your face against Joel’s thigh and don’t hold back anymore, rutting against his leg with abandon, chasing your release.

“That’s it, angel,” Joel purrs, gently brushing a wet strand of hair out of your face. “You’re doing so well for me.”

You rock your hips against his leg over and over again, your brows furrowed, whimpering desperately as you grind your wet folds against Joel’s leg, the friction causing your whole body to shudder.

Joel fucking loves seeing you like this; pliant, obedient, wanting to be good so badly that you’d do anything to please him. Most of all, though, he loves how much you trust him.

“You’re such a good girl,” he praises, tilting your chin up to look into your glazed over eyes. “My good girl.”

You moan at his words, your fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, your hips jerking frantically, desperate for release. Joel smiles softly at your reaction, reveling in the fact that he's ruining you for anyone else.

He fucking delights in it.

“That’s right, angel. Keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes.”

You barely hear what he says as your breathing comes out in noisy, deep gasps, too far gone, too overwhelmed to feel embarrassed at fucking yourself on Joel’s leg. There are no thoughts left in your brain, your only focus now is chasing your climax.

“Feels good, huh? Such a spoiled brat, aren’t you,” he taunts, marveling at your blissed out expression and the sheen of sweat glistening on your naked body.

“You think you deserve to come, hm? Even though you’re just a dumb little whore, only good for taking my cock in all her holes?”

That’s almost enough right there to tip you over the edge.

“Tell me what you are.”

You let out a choked sob, fresh tears making their way down your cheeks. Joel wipes them away with his thumbs as you stutter, “I’m–I’m your dumb little whore, Sir. I’m all yours — please, please–”

He gives you a warm smile as his dark eyes bore into. “Come for me, angel.”

You press your throbbing clit hard against him, humping his leg feverishly until the tension finally snaps and shockwaves grip your whole body, your legs trembling as you moan uncontrollably. Your walls contract around nothing as you collapse onto Joel’s thigh and start sobbing.

It’s all too much right now.

He immediately draws you into his strong arms, lifting you up and cradling you. “Shh, sweetheart,” he purrs, holding you tight and stroking your hair, “you did so well. Are you alright, hm? You want me to go get you a towel?”

Your eyes widen at the suggestion of him leaving you, causing you to shake your head fervently, your tears flowing freely now as you gradually come down from your high.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby” he coos, putting soft kisses on the top of your head and rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You're still naked and Joel wants you to feel comfortable and warm, so he swivels you two towards the couch to snag the blanket and drape it over you. He holds you close, whispering into your hair how well you did and how good you are, intermittently pressing soft kisses on your wet face.

You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath, a comforting rhythm that wraps around you like a protective cocoon. The warmth emanating from his body seeps into yours, making you feel calm and protected.

Joel’s not surprised that you need physical affection and closeness right now, knowing that humiliation is one of the most effective ways to make you fly – and crash.

Falling apart in front of somebody, allowing them to see you in such a raw, uninhibited state, is an incredibly vulnerable act.

Joel is not taking your trust lightly.

When he sees you wipe your nose with your arm, he swivels you back to his desk and opens the drawer to get you some tissues. Your heart skips a beat when you see what else is inside, but you keep quiet.

“Was I really good?” You mumble after listening to Joel’s calming heartbeat for a few minutes.

“You were perfect, baby,” he says softly, pressing a tender kiss on the crown of your head.

“So, can you fuck me now?”

The vibrations of Joel’s chuckles reverberate beneath you, making you laugh yourself.

“How about we make sure you drink enough and eat something first, hm?”

“Just say that your refractory period is getting longer, old man.”

“Why, hello,” he laughs and pinches your sides, making you squeal, “the princess is back.” You lift your head to look into his eyes. His beautiful, warm eyes. “You think I’ll fuck you if you keep being a brat, hm?”

“That’s exactly what I think. Because you always do. Because you love it.”

“Wow,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “All this just now and you’re still sassing me?”

“Just admit you fucking love it, so we can move on and decide what we wanna have for dinner,” you murmur.

Joel can’t hold back the beaming smile that’s spreading across his face.

Save for last time, you usually leave shortly after you’ve come down. He’ll sometimes ask if you want to stay a bit, but will never pressure you into doing so – even if it hurts him.

And it does, sometimes, if he’s being honest.

“Alright, alright,” he sighs deeply, his smile betraying his mocking tone. “I fucking love it when you’re a little brat and torture me all fucking day, making me sit in a fucking meeting for hours on end with a hard cock, listening to some rich fucks who want me to build some bullshit building for them.”

You giggle at the description of his day and kiss his dimple. “I really am sorry, you know.”

“No you’re not,” he shakes his head. “Now, what are you in the mood for?”

“Can we, um, can we go eat the fattiest, unhealthiest junk food ever and then wash it down with huge cups of pure sugar, so we’re both gonna have a stomach ache for the next three days?”

“Have I ever told you you’re perfect before?”

---

You step out of the shower, dry off, wash your face with Joel’s face wash and drink a glass of water. Joel put your bag outside the door when you were in the shower, giving you space to do your thing and going downstairs to take a shower there himself.

You’re kind of tired now, feeling a little burnt out.

You put on your panties and retrieve the comfy gym shorts you were smart enough to bring with you from your bag. They’re the only other clean piece of clothing besides the dress you could find in your drawer this morning.

“Joel?” You shout from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow a t-shirt?”

“Sure, darlin’. Just grab one you like.”

“Thank you.”

You smile and make your way to Joel’s bedroom. Opening the drawer, your eyes fall on a white shirt you’ve seen him wear many times. Don’t do it. You sigh defeatedly and lift the shirt up to your face, inhaling the unmistakable scent.

Then you suddenly remember it. Fuck. You need to make sure.

You put on the shirt and quickly walk to the office. Taking a deep breath and making sure Joel’s not watching you snoop through his things, you open the drawer.

The polaroid feels strange in your hand as you lift it to take a closer look.

It’s one of Tommy, you and Joel in it, from the night Tommy introduced you two. You don’t even remember taking this one, but now that you’re looking at it, you see something. It’s the way you’re smiling.

You turn the photo and read the handwritten note that catches your eye.

when I met her

You swallow hard and put it back. It doesn’t mean anything. You hung the other polaroid, the one of only you and Joel, up in your apartment and that doesn’t mean anything either—right?

“Babe?” Joel’s voice pulls you back.

You turn around and look at him, startled. “I, uh, was just looking for some batteries. Couldn’t find any though.”

“I got plenty downstairs,” he says with a tilt of his head. “Come on, let’s go.”

---

You’re sitting in a booth, munching on your burger, intermittently sipping your soda. You don’t even realize you haven’t answered Joel for the third time.

“Are you sure everything’s okay, sweetheart?” Joel touches your arm, his brow furrowed. You look at his concerned face, his cute little frown, before putting down your burger with a sigh.

“I, uh,” you start but can’t think of the right words. “I’m just feeling a little off these days, I guess. Work’s been stressful and, um, you–you’re gonna think I’m weird,” you murmur while picking at the fries on your plate.

“Darlin’,” Joel sighs, taking your hand into his, “you’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met.” He chuckles when he sees your offended face. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He rubs the back of your hand softly and searches your eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“It’s, um,” you clear your throat. “Do you ever get this feeling that there’s something looming?”

He tilts his head and looks at you curiously. “I’m not sure I follow, darlin’?”

“Like if you’re happy, do you ever feel like it’s not real, it can’t be real, and there’s something looming? Like there’s something just waiting to fuck everything up?”

When he doesn’t answer, you avert your gaze and try to withdraw your hand. “I’m sorry, I’m killing the vi–”

“No, sweetheart. Hey, c’mere.” He extends both of his hands to you on the table and you give him yours to hold. “I’m sorry, darlin’,” he murmurs, “your question just caught me off guard a little.”

You softly rub his hand with your right thumb and study his features. He looks gorgeous with his tousled hair and his big cow eyes.

“Look, I know that happiness is hard to accept sometimes because we’re afraid of it not lasting. It may even seem easier to sabotage it preemptively, so we’re not disappointed or don’t get hurt when something bad does happen. And I also know that we sometimes don’t think we even deserve to be happy.”

Bingo.

“But sweetheart, I need you to understand something,” he squeezes your hands gently, his sincere eyes boring into you.

“If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”

You try your best to blink away the tears that are forming in your eyes.

---

Thank you for reading! 🤍 part 4 || part 6 || series masterlist

464 notes · View notes

vonabel · 4 months ago

Text

beautiful and amazing and wonderful banner by @jisokai

floral heartache (izuku midoriya/reader)

tags

hanahaki disease, aged up characters, Pro Hero! Deku, implied smut, not actually unrequited love, angst, canon-typical violence, gore in the form of bloody flower puke and broken bones, past Hitoshi Shinsou/Reader, background BakuShin and EraserMic, parental Aizawa, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader has a mutation quirk (wings)

summary

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb. You wish you could hate him. But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy. And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

21.1k words | complete

notes: on ao3 this is 3 chapters, here it'll just be one part

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. It had been like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. And after the feelings were known, it had been as easy and automatic as breathing and blinking and being. Even if you didn't know what to do with all the new things that came with falling in love with someone who didn't love you back. Falling in love with someone who loved the whole world too much meant there was little space for you.

(He is someone that many people could fall in love with – probably have fallen in love with. You can see the way other friends of his toe the line of platonic. Ochako, Shouto – all of them, any of them.

And you pointedly ignore the way it makes rage and jealousy spread through your chest and down to your toes like molten lava.

He is not yours to claim, to take, or to love. He is not yours.)

You sat with those feelings for years, debating and thinking too hard about it for too long, before eventually deciding that his friendship was too important. Telling him how you felt would just ruin it, and you weren't willing to risk that. Your feelings for him were something that you would never tell him about. Even if they never went away, even if you ended up old and wrinkly and alone because of it – that would be fine. Because you would still be his friend, and that's all you needed anyway. There's no room between you and him and the world for a silly, little thing like love.

Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb.

It makes you mad, how easy it is to love him; how hard he thinks it is to be loved, despite being the first to openly love anyone at any time. You wonder if he knows already, that your heart has moved on its own to make space for his beside it. That there's a hole carved in your chest just for him. If only he knew – if only you could tell him that you want to pour your soul into his hands. That you want him to let it seep through his fingers to the dirt, just so you could finally get relief in knowing he doesn't want it. You wish you could tell him so he could be too sweet and too kind when he says no, he doesn't love you back. Even if only to allow you a goddamn moment of clarity, so you could mourn a relationship that was never going to happen anyways.

With some weird, misplaced guilt in your chest, you wish you could fall out of love with him. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. He's a good friend, a good man, and a great Hero. You couldn't hate him, even if you tried. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy and hoping that maybe one day he'll confirm all those tabloids about him and Ochako.

And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

The villain hadn’t even been the one to hit you. It had been some toddler caught in the middle of the fight. He’d been scared, said so himself through his snot and tears when you leapt down to grab him, wings spread like a shield to protect him from rubble and debris. You remember him crying, asking for his mom, and pressing his hands to your chest. Too young to have control, his panic had his quirk going haywire. And then you were falling, tumbling down towards the concrete and choking on pretty, pink petals.

Everything had ended up fine, all things considered. Hitoshi had swung down and caught you and the boy. And you’d been practically shoved into an ambulance and taken away. And now you’re here, sitting in a private hospital room after being poked and prodded for over an hour. And all anyone can tell you is that you have a garden growing in your chest, and it's all for a man you know you have no chance with. They'll wither, you know, and you'll probably wither with them.

“The quirk in your system is similar to the hanahaki disease. I'm sure the quirk analyst has already explained it to you. Unfortunately, any romantic feelings you may be experiencing won't aid in your situation,” Doctor Kimura is kind when he speaks, eyes maybe too soft. “The flowers have already begun blooming, and you're likely to start coughing and vomiting within the next twenty four hours. Maybe sooner.”

“‘m not in love with anyone. There are no feelings to be unrequited,” you mutter, watching the way the doctor frets with his stethoscope. Your wings twitch behind you, heavy and hurt and begging to curl around you. The lie slips between your teeth easily, coated in pain and an aching tiredness. It's stupid, and you don't know why you do it. The quirk manifesting in your chest is proof enough of your feelings. Maybe it's humiliation. Maybe it's because saying it will make this all a little too real. Maybe you're just a coward.

Doctor Kimura hums, ignorant to your inner turmoil, and his fingers pause around his stethoscope before smoothing down over his crisp, white lab coat. You're reminded of your own clothes and hold back a wince at the sight of your torn and tattered hero suit. It feels out of place in a hospital; too dirty for such a sterile environment.

The heart monitor behind you mocks you, spiking with your pulse the very moment green eyes and green curls appear in your mind.

“The flowers in your lungs say otherwise,” he says, leaning just past you to click off the screen that shows your heart rate, “I won't force you to tell me who it is, that's none of my business. But, your health is and I seriously urge you to… resolve the issue. The quirk itself won't kill you, but the long-lasting effects can.”

“And if I don't confess? What happens then?”

“Unfortunately, due to lack of knowledge on the quirk, we don't know. The boy is still being checked out for any traumas, so we've decided to wait before asking his mother any questions regarding his quirk,” he clears his throat, turning to point at the screen of your scan results, “We did determine that the flowers growing inside your lungs are anemone, also known as windflowers.”

“Does that mean something?” your throat is sore already, and your voice catches as you speak. Doctor Kimura eyes you warily, and offers you a cup of water. After you've downed it, he sits down on the stool behind him.

“Typically, yes, but we can't be sure if it means anything under the influence of a quirk,” he says, “We can start you on some medication, they’ll help with the coughing and vomiting for now. But they won't work forever. Your best bet is to confess these feelings and get an answer back. We recommend you have a solid support system for something like this, is there anyone I can call?”

“No, I'm fine. Thanks,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi makes you take the next week off. And from the way he offers you a weak grin, you know Aizawa is really the one behind the decision. You accept, only because you know if you don’t someone will call Katsuki. Or, worse, Izuku. And having either of those men show up at your doorstep is literal nightmare fuel right now.

The time off is needed, though, may even be appreciated (if he hadn't forced it on you), because twenty-four hours after your hospital visit, nearly on the dot, you puke. Your cat yowls when you jerk up from your bed, gagging so violently your body shakes and your wings tremble. Petals are behind your teeth in seconds, and you, much like a child who's had too many sweets, puke into your hands. You gag again as it spills between your fingers and on to your comforter. This is a new low, even for you. Globs of bloody, mucus covered petals burn their way up your throat, and you can’t do much other than sit up fully and let it happen. Your cat had jumped away in time to be unscathed, and you thank whatever god will listen for not letting you puke on your fucking cat. The thanks is followed up with a big, fat fuck you for making you puke in the first place, though. Which evens you out, you think. Keeps you in a nice gray area.

The petals are soft in your palm, pretty even, despite the blood, and clearly from a fully bloomed flower. Your nose wrinkles. At the mess of petals and broken stems, and the weird, floral scent, heavy with copper low notes. Someone would buy this in a perfume, you’re sure. Some freak – probably a villain.

You gag once, twice. And after five full minutes of deep, painful breaths, you get up to clean. The blanket is ruined – a shame really. It had been expensive, and the very first thing you bought yourself when you got this apartment. A thick, down comforter, soft on your wings and a pretty shade of green.

(The comforter Izuku had helped you pick out, grinning as he said it matched his hair. But that was definitely not the reason you caved and bought it. And you do not cry as you stuff it into a trash bag.)

(You do cry. You cry and try to scrub the blood soaked stain from the fabric, and cry some more when you finally give up.)

The shower you take after is rewarding in a way, washing away tears from your cheeks and blood from your chin. You stay in long enough for the water to run cold, and then another ten minutes after that, until your fingers are weird and pruned. And when you get out, you sit in nothing but your towel, on your blanket-less bed. Your hair is still soaked, dripping cold water down your neck and on your shoulders, but you make no move to dry it. The wall is suddenly the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen, and you cannot pull your eyes from where your paint is peeling. Somewhere behind you, your phone buzzes with a call, and you pointedly do not move to answer it. The buzzing stops. You blink, sigh, sniff. The buzzing starts again. Out of irritation, your wings search the bed for your phone and scoot it across the sheets to your hand. Without looking, you answer.

“What,”

Izuku breathes your name, and you feel your stomach drop and your wings go poofy the way they always do when you hear his voice, “Hitoshi told me you were on leave for the next week. Is everything okay? Is it because of the quirk you were hit with last night? I can–”

“Who told you that?”

“Uh,” Izuku makes a long, slow, squeaking noise. “No one?”

“Who called you, Midoriya?” you grumble, finally tearing your eyes from the wall to glare at your own reflection. You've looked better, and you've certainly looked worse. The skin under your eyes is shadowed and puffy, swollen with exhaustion and your pitiful bout of tears, and your raw, chapped lips look one smile away from bleeding. There's a bruise coloring your cheekbone, and a cut to go with it. And your poor wings, damp from the shower and missing a few too many feathers.

Your few fans would call this look sexy. Rugged, if you will. At this point in your career, looking rundown and beat to hell is your brand in the same way that being an emotionally constipated asshole was Katsuki's brand, and being perpetually exhausted was Hitoshi's. You tilt your head back, trying to understand how people find this attractive. Nothing stands out to you, you just look like the human equivalent of a soggy piece of bread.

But hero fans will be hero fans, and you learned the hard way that they find pretty much anything attractive so long as it's their favorite hero. The fanart is proof enough. And your handful of fans happen to be the weirdest brand of freak there is, unfortunately for you.

(According to Mineta, who apparently has a secret account he uses to look at fanart of not only himself, but the rest of former class 1-A students, your very few fans have an ongoing argument about your relationship with Hitoshi. Some call you sibling-coded, and others are insistent that you both have wild, nasty sex after a good villain take-down.

Why Mineta knows this, you don't know. And you are not about to ask him to go into any more detail about it than he already has.

And neither he, nor the fans, need to know that yeah, a couple years ago, maybe you did fuck Hitoshi every so often. It was nothing big, just a way to let off steam. Because you have that thing for Izuku Midoriya, and Hitoshi has that thing for Katsuki Bakugo. And you are both hopeless, sad fools who hold each other too close for fear of letting the chill of being unloved by those you crave seep through the cracks.)

“It wasn't Hitoshi!” Izuku says quickly. You can picture him waving his hands around frantically as he speaks – Jesus, you need to get it together.

“I know it wasn't. Who was it?”

“I’m listed as your emergency contact,” Izuku says, “They called me when you were admitted last night.”

“My emergency contact has been Aizawa for a year, you liar,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at your reflection. Izuku knows this, and even cried when you told him. But having the Number One Pro Hero as your emergency contact felt wrong. Selfish. So you had it switched, much to his dismay.

“It doesn't– you–” Izuku whines, and then quietly says, “Aizawa called me.”

“I'm gonna knock that old man's teeth out. The whole point of changing it was so you didn't get called,”

“He's just worried. We all are. The doctor said this could…” his voice tapers off, and you can feel the guilt eating away at you, “You could die?"

“I won't die,"

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Two days pass, and if you could eat, you'd be eating your words. You feel like you're already dead. The coughing and vomiting only get worse, as expected, and you are damn near glued to your toilet. The petals and stems come up all in one piece, full flowers that make macabre and deconstructed bouquets. You suck on ice chips to soothe your throat and drink water when you can, but haven't eaten solid food in so long you think your stomach is digesting itself. And your wings suffer too, weak and droopy and unable to do much other than drag behind you uselessly.

Katsuki, unsurprisingly, is the first to actually visit you during your ban from work. He does not call, or text, or even knock when he arrives. And you immediately regret ever giving him a key to your apartment. He hollers your name from the living room, and you manage a grunt back before turning to puke into your toilet. His palm startles you, warm between your wings, comforting and oddly kind.

“Bad time,” you wheeze between hacks and gags. The flowers floating in your toilet mock you, dancing between blood stained water and tears. You pluck a fully bloomed one from the bowl, holding it gently between your pointer and thumb and twisting it beneath the florescent lights of your bathroom.

“Nasty,” Katsuki grunts. His nose wrinkles, and you mirror the look as you slap your other hand up to flush. He leans back from you, balanced on his toes, “You look like shit. Is that a full fucking flower?”

“‘m fine. Why are you here?”

“Because you're obviously not fuckin’ fine, dumbass. This is you dying,”

“Can everybody knock it off with that shit? Fucking– I'm fine–” a gag, “So just–” a heave, “Go away .”

“This is disgusting,” Katsuku scoffs, completely ignoring you. He pulls the towel hanging over your shower rod and turns to wet it in your sink before lowering himself to a crouch beside you. With gentle hands, he tilts your face up and wipes at your lips and chin, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, “Are you about to cry?”

“Fuck no,” he grunts. The crack in his voice and the way his lip trembles betrays him. He sniffs, “The stench of your puke is stinging my eyes. You look like shit, by the way. What's wrong with your wings?”

“Yeah, you said that already, thanks,” you snort and spread a wing out, “They're fine, just weird right now because I'm sick. And I haven't been able to, like, preen or whatever.”

“Can you still fly?”

“Negative,”

Katsuki stares at your outstretched wing. Your bathroom is significantly smaller like this as it is, with your wing stuck out completely to touch the wall opposite of you. But you feel more than cramped when he sucks his teeth and stands to his full height, filling the space with his wide shoulders. He takes one long, deep breath before turning on his heel, “I'm calling Deku.”

“I'll kill you,” you gasp, nearly slipping on your bath mat as you scramble to your feet to follow him.

“Yeah?” he prompts. Sarcasm drips from his teeth when he turns to look at you, “I don't think you can do much of anything in this state. Look at you, can't even fucking fly.”

“Fuck you,”

“You're killing yourself,” he presses a finger to your forehead, “Do you fucking get that? You're killing yourself and, what, expecting us to just be fine with it? Him? All because you love him? This is killing you, and it'll kill him when you die.”

“I'm not about to be coerced into a goddamn love confession because of some stupid kid's quirk,”

“He feels bad,” he says.

“Yeah, Deku always feels bad,”

“No, idiot, the kid. Mindfuck said he and his mom stopped by the agency. He wanted to say sorry. Made a mess cryin’ all over the place,”

“Once I get my shit sorted I'll find him to tell him I'm fine,” you gnaw on your cheek, “He doesn't need to feel bad. He was scared. He could've died.”

“ You could die,”

“I know. It's kind of a sick quirk when you think about it,” you nod, eyeing the way Katsuki’s fingers fly across his phone screen. You scoff and point an accusatory finger at him, “Stop texting him.”

“Don't fucking tell me what to do. And don't point at me,” Katsuki pockets his phone anyways, offering you a scowl, “I was messaging Hitoshi.”

“Woah, first name basis. So you've fucked then, yeah? He's good with his hands,“ you grin and raise the rest of your fingers to wiggle at him suggestively, “Did he do the thing where he–”

“Jesus fucking– stop, what is wrong with you?” his annoyed huff sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Your grin softens around the edges and you stretch a wing out to tickle the tip of his nose at the same time that you poke a finger into his stomach.

“That wasn't a no,” your laugh is meant to lighten the mood, but it turns into a nasty, gurgling cough that immediately ruins it instead. You bat away Katsuki's hands when he raises them to hover around you, “I'm glad Hitoshi got his happy ending.”

Katsuki's face crumples and he turns away from you to try to hide it. You catch it though, the way heartbreak spills out from his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. You've felt it enough to know how it looks, and you feel sick knowing he looks like that because of you.

“You could have yours too, dumbass,” he lets out a rough breath that melts into a groan and tilts his head back to stare at your ceiling. “You know that right? You can't be that dense. Even– even if it isn't with Izuku. You can still be happy.”

“I know that. I'm perfectly happy the way everything is now,” you wave the flower dismissively at him and he reaches out to pluck it from your fingers.

“You're dying,” he says again, brows furrowing when he holds the flower up to look at it.

“Yeah, for the hundredth time since I was fourteen,” you shrug, shuffling past him towards your couch. “I'll be fine. I always am.”

Just as your ass lands on the plush cushion of your couch, a knock sounds on your door. You whip your head up to stare at Katsuki, who grimaces and tosses the flower down onto your coffee table, “I didn't think he'd get here so fast.”

“Who the fuck is here?” you hiss. He sucks his teeth when another knock echoes through the space between you. “Katsuki, if Deku is on the other side of that door–”

“It's the old man and mindfuck, relax,”

“ Two? You invited two people to my apartment? Should've fucking called Deku, Jesus , what the fuck?” you groan, slumping down into your couch as your front door opens.

“Consider it an intervention,” Aizawa drawls, pausing in your entryway with Hitoshi so they can each toe off their boots. “Since you're so set on letting yourself die.”

“I'm not–” you cough, turning away from them to hack into your elbow. A tickle in your throat makes you gag, and you slap a hand against Katsuki's hip, “I'm gonna puke– I'm– get me a–”

A trash can is shoved beneath your chin just as petals and stems crowd your tongue. You wheeze between each stretch of flowers crawling their way out, batting away the six hands reaching into your space. Hitoshi scoffs beside you, smacking your hand back. His fingers graze the back of your neck as he gathers your hair, sending a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, leaning forward more and he clicks his tongue, following you.

“Get off'a me,” you slur, slapping more at his hands.

“Let me hold your fucking hair, you heathen,” he grunts, pulling back the hair on your forehead, “You hair is so greasy, when's the last time you showered?”

You lean back into the cushion and his hands, humming out a rasping breath when he scratches at your scalp, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, you're welcome,”

“Freaks,” Katsuku rumbles, landing heavily beside you. When you hiccup, jostling with the movement, Aizawa shoots him a disapproving look that he withers under.

You snicker into your fingers while you wipe at your mouth, “Don't be jealous, Katsuki,”

“Fuck you,”

“Enough,” Aizawa sighs, balancing in a crouch on his toes in front of you. “Feeling better?”

“No,” you laugh, leaning around him to set the trash can down. “No, I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” he nods.

“Thanks, wow. I'm so glad you're all here to tell me how bad I look, I really love this,”

Hitoshi's hands leave your hair and you twist around to press your cheek to the back of the couch and watch him. He steps through your kitchen like it's his own, collecting a cup and turning to fill it with water. He smiles when you catch his eye, pushing his fingers through your hair when he's close enough to touch.

“Drink this and take your meds,” he forces the cup in your palm.

“Get them for me?” you ask sweetly, propping your chin in your hand and fluttering your lashes up at him.

“Where are they?” he laughs, pushing lightly at your forehead.

“In my room, by my phone,”

“I'll grab them,” Aizawa grunts as he stands, “When's the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” you guess, “Morning. I think. Couldn't keep it down though.”

“You need to eat,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing down your hallway, ��Make yourself useful, Katsuki, and make her something light.”

“I'm always fucking useful,” Katsuki scoffs, but he stands anyway, shouldering past Hitoshi in a way that makes you grin and Hitoshi flush. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I really won't be able to keep anything down,” you mutter, balancing the cup between your knees.

“You still have to try,” he grumbles, gesturing towards what Hitoshi it busy pulling out of your fridge and cupboards, “What the fuck is this shit for?”

“Oh, me,” he says, “I came straight from patrol, haven't eaten yet. You mind, birdie?”

“Please, eat it,” you grunt, hissing when you sit back on your wings wrong, “It’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

A comfortable silence settles over you. Aizawa returns quickly, popping the lid on your pill bottle to shake two into your waiting palm. After you’ve swallowed, he refills your glass and settles beside you. Hitoshi and Katsuki bicker quietly in your kitchen, heatless insults thrown and taken with ease. Your TV is turned on at some point and reruns of Sailor Moon drone on, filling the empty corners of your apartment.

“You like this show?” you ask, nudging your wing into Aizawa's arm. He rolls his eyes, lifting his arm so you can crowd his space, mindful of your wings.

“Eri and Hizashi watch it,” he shrugs, “I don't dislike it. But I've never paid enough attention to confidently say I'm a fan.”

“I think you could be if you gave it a chance,”

“I'll keep that in mind, kiddo,” he turns to press his lips to your brow, “We still have to talk about this.”

“I know,”

“Who is it?”

You go quiet, discomfort seeping into your muscles when Hitoshi and Katsuki join you both in the living room. Katsuki sets a plate of toast and a bowl of applesauce down in front of you as Hitoshi sets his own food down. His bowl of instant ramen looks suspiciously delicious, almost gourmet, and you have an inkling he had nothing to do with that. The boys settle shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the opposite side of your coffee table, long legs kicking out to tangle with your ankles.

It's humiliating, you think, having to bare your soul out to people because of a quirk accident. Even if it is your friends and chosen family, people you've known for years and trust with your life, it's still embarrassing. But you do it anyway, with cotton in your mouth and sweat on your palms.

“Izuku,” you say softly, leaning forward to snag a piece of toast. “It's always been Izuku.”

“Of course,” Aizawa huffs, scratching at his scruff.

“You know,” Hitoshi says between loud slurps, “I'm pretty sure he feels the same. What are you so afraid of?”

“Fuck off, I'm not afraid,” you scoff, tossing the last bite of your toast at him. It smacks his forehead and lands in his bowl with a cartoonish plunk! that makes him frown. “He's the number one hero in Japan. I'm not afraid that he doesn't feel the same because that doesn't matter. It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“This isn't a fucking therapy session,” you sway as you stand, chest tight and wings fluttering as if to catch you. Aizawa catches your elbow when you stumble over his feet. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,”

“I can handle it–”

“No. You can't. If you could, you would've by now,” Aizawa's tone is stern, cold, and you tilt your chin up to scowl at him when he stands. “I won't allow you to kill yourself over some boy .”

“Allow me?” you hiss, “Last I checked, I was a grown ass adult. And he's not ‘some boy’, he's my friend. Your former student, and the number one hero of Japan.”

“Right now, he is just some boy, and you are–”

“Your student. I'm not your daughter and you are not my fucking father, Shouta!”

“I know that,” he says slowly, “Do you?”

Behind you, your wings flutter, twitching with your irritation. Your lungs feel heavy, like they're full of lead, rumbling with every sharp, shaky intake of breath. Your facade of anger must crack, showing the hurt beneath it because Aizawa’s own frustration melts. The mean twist to his mouth straightens and his eyes go soft when he steps forward to catch your face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, “I know I'm not your father. But I also know I'm the closest thing that you have.”

“I'm sorry,” you curl a hand around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. You fold easily for him, too soft and gooey to be mad at him for too long, “You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“You're scared and angry. It's okay to feel that way, even as a hero,” he hums, pulling you into his chest. You go willingly, sighing when he curls a hand around your head to press you closer, “I know you feel like accepting or asking for help makes you weak. It doesn't, I promise it doesn't.”

“I don't want to die,” you whisper it like it's a secret. Like it's unexpected for a young woman, a human, to fear death. Like it makes you weak. “I'm scared, Shouta.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, heaving a deep breath that you feel against your cheek, “I know it's scary. Love always is.”

“Just– give me a few days,” you plead, voice trembling, “Please. Just a few more days. Then I'll call him. I'll tell him.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Unfortunately for you, things don't always go to plan. When the front wall of your apartment blows inward not even two hours after everyone leaves, you truly think God wants you dead. For which reason, you're unsure. There are many options, each full of their own potential as to why any higher being would maybe want your head.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to react, you don't even think you would've been able to react anyways in the state you're in.

You're dozing on your couch, half asleep and too lazy to get up and get into bed. Somewhere behind you the bell on your unnamed cat's collar jingles when he hops up onto your counter. And not even a second later, your shit gets absolutely rocked. The explosion sends you and the couch you're on backwards and you can hear your windows shatter. The collar jingles again.

Confusion clouds your senses, a million thoughts filter through your head. Is this a targeted attack, or was your apartment just a casualty? Are there already other Heroes on the scene, or are you gonna have to try to fight? How many of them are out there? What are their quirks? You can't fight like this, you know you can't. You probably can’t even move the couch that’s flipped on top of you, caging you in and pinning down your right wing. Through the chaos of sirens and settling debris, you hear Izuku shout your name and you can feel your panic wash from your skin at the same time that your lungs go heavy.

“Deku,” you wheeze, slapping a hand out from your hiding spot. Something wet drips from your hairline into your eyes, you don't bother wiping it away, “I'm– my wing is stuck. I–I can't–”

“Hold on,” he says gently, falling to his knees. Pressing his chest to your floor, he lowers himself flat to look at you. “It's more than just the couch on top of you, I've called for Red Riot to come help me dig you out.”

“Get my cat,” you rasp, ignoring how your head pounds, “Find him first.”

“Your–”

“My cat, Izuku, find my fucking cat,”

“I can't leave you here like this,” he frets, eyebrows pulling together. Your head hurts, it's all you can think about beside your cat and Izuku. On repeat in your mind, head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, really really hurts. Where the hell is my cat? My chest is killing me, Izuku won't stop staring. My cat is gonna get out. I think I'm gonna die. I think I'm dying.

You choose to ignore the last part your brain spits at you.

“If you let my cat die or get out, I'll never forgive you,” you hiss, groaning when the weight of whatever is on you shifts, settling heavier over your wing. You can hear the crunch, can feel the pain melt across your shoulders and down to your toes. You grit your teeth, hold back a shout, and squeeze your eyes closed, swallowing the bile in your throat.

“I– okay, okay, I'll find him– you– and…”

You think he says more, you know he does, but your head is throbbing and your chest feels ready to explode. His words begin to mince, garble, like he's underwater. Or maybe you are. You can't tell. Everything is fuzzy, distorted. The last thing you see is someone's bare chest as they lean over you and the shock of red hair on his head, you'd recognize Eijiro anywhere, even half dead. The collar jingles, the warmth of another person curls around you. Someone is speaking, telling you to stay awake, keep your eyes open. But you’re so cold and so tired, and something like sleep takes over.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's all so humiliating. Falling in love, feeling that emotion so intensely. Being so mentally weak from being in love. Being so physically weak because of it, even if it is because of a quirk. You feel so young again, fragile and fifteen and scared to speak or even breathe too loud.

Everything is green. It's in his eyes, his hair. You feel it in your chest, in your heart, in your blood. Green is a good color, a good feeling. It's all you see, feel, taste.

It's his hair. It's his eyes. It's his hero suit. It's the blanket you bought because of him, and the green in your own hero suit. It's the grass you laid on back in high school with him. You've spent years subconsciously weaving bits and pieces of him into your life just so you can have something, anything.

You see him in it, you see it in you.

It's love. The green in your life is love, and you are so scared. Of dying because of it, of losing it.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You're fading in and out of consciousness. The sound of the city makes your head spin. Your sense of time is off, and it's unnerving, it’s scary . The first time you muster up the strength to blink open your eyes, you're mid-air, limp and jostling against Izuku's chest as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop. There's something sticky on your forehead, your hands, your spine. Blood, you can assume. And the fresh, warm liquid that drips onto your cheeks are tears, ones that aren't from you.

You only open your eyes two more times after that. Once when a doctor forces you to, so he can shine a light in your eyes. And the second when someone starts to reset the bones in your wing. For this, you do scream. The pain is the worst you've ever felt, and you can only weep and wail and flail until they hold you down and sedate you.

Behind the conglomeration of medical professionals, Izuku watches. He watches you twitch and tremble in pain. He listens to the way you wail, he sees the way your spine contorts and arches off the table in pain. He watches the controlled chaos the doctors maintain as they shout out directions and instructions to each other.

When the monitor they have hooked up to you starts beeping rapidly and then flatlining, Izuku thinks he may be sick. One doctor says you're coding, another says to push some epi and charge the defibrillator paddles. It’s all medical jargon Izuku doesn’t need to understand to know that you’re dying. Someone starts compressions and shouts to get him the hell out, and then a nurse is pressing at his shoulders and leading him out of the room and toward the waiting room. He collapses into a seat and hangs his head in his hands until Katsuki, Hitoshi and Aizawa find him.

“What the hell happened?” Hitoshi asks, full of fear and pain. And Izuku breaks. He cannot stop the waterfall of tears pouring from his eyes when he stands to greet them. He can't catch his breath. Katsuki catches him at the elbows when he sways in place.

“Deku, what is going on?”

“She– there was an attack. And she was caught under some debris. I don't–” he presses a hand over his chest, twisting the fabric there and curls in on himself while he weeps, “She coded and they kicked me out of the room. I don't know– I don't know if she's even alive. I don't– I love her so much and–”

Katsuki lets him press green curls into his chest. Thick, scarred fingers nearly tear his shirt with how tightly Izuku is holding onto him. The fear in his chest is all encompassing, the edges of his vision darken. And all he can do is cry into Katsuki’s chest.

Eventually, after some hours have passed and Izuku has cried himself into a migraine, a doctor steps into the waiting area. Hitoshi’s hand tightens over Katsuki's. Izuku keeps his head down with his hands pressed over his mouth. Aizawa stands to greet her.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Is she alive?” Katsuki breathes, voice cracking.

“It was very touch and go, but she's okay. She didn't need any surgery, but we did have to put her under to finish resetting the broken bones in her left wing, so she's intubated right now to help her breathe. The majority of her injuries were minor, most of which we fixed up with healing quirks. We have her on some medication for the hanahaki disease in her lungs. Once that's under control, we're expecting a near full recovery,” the doctor smiles softly, jerking her head back, “She's in the ICU now. Would you like to see her?”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

The next time you actually wake up is in a hospital bed. The sky is still dark, but you have a feeling it's been at least a day since the attack, maybe more. Your chest feels like it's been packed with cotton and all you can think about is your cat. Through the slim window on the door, you can see two men. Standing guard you think, they always do that no matter who the hurt hero is. You've been there before, played bodyguard for other heroes. Snuck them greasy food and sugary drinks when they complained about hospital food. Held their hands when they openly wept over lost lives and limbs, when they've been so hurt they're forced into retirement.

Based on what you can see of their uniforms, you can guess it's Katsuki and Hitoshi. You wonder how long you've been out, but can't find your voice to call for either of them.

“You're awake,” Izuku’s voice is groggy, shockingly loud in the eerie silence of your room despite not being more than a whisper. You jump, startled, and turn your head to look at him over the oxygen mask strapped to your face. You reach for the mask, weak fingers scrambling to remove it and he jumps up from his seat to curl his own over yours and pry them away, “Hey, hey, don't take that off. You're okay.”

“How long–”

“It's been two days,” he says slowly, “Your injuries from the attack were mostly minor. They used a healing quirk on most of them. But–”

“My lungs,” you rasp, “I'm here for my lungs.”

His fingers twitch around yours and you only then realize he never let go of your hand. You let yourself indulge, tightening your grip until you're sure it hurts. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept or showered in days. The shadows under his eyes rival yours and his curls are weighed down and flattened in some parts with grease and dirt. He must've stayed after the attack.

“My cat?” you change the subject. He lets you.

“I got him,” he tries for a smile and fails, “He's fine, not even a scratch. Present Mic came and picked him up, Eri has him right now.”

“She can have him forever,” you croak.

“Don't. Please don't say that,”

“Izuku–”

“Get some sleep,” he says, “We can talk more tomorrow.”

You do sleep. He's gone when you wake up again a few hours later, after the sun has begun to rise. Hopefully to shower and get some sleep of his own.

He doesn't come back.

The talk never comes.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You need to tell him,” Katsuki’s face is turned away from you, dark and shadowed. You think he may actually be crying this time, you can hear it when he says your name, the heartbreak and the fear. His voice breaks when he says, “You aren't gonna survive this.”

It's the fourth time he's said this since you woke up. And he hasn't actually looked at you once. You get it, you probably wouldn't be able to look either.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi doesn't leave. He's either at your side, attempting to sleep on the tiny couch across from your hospital bed, or standing guard outside your door. He looks bad, maybe just as bad as you're sure you do.

“Go home,” you wheeze, “Get some sleep, REM sleep, not those fake ass naps you take. Shower, eat. Take care of yourself.”

“No,” he's slouched in the chair beside your bed, feet propped up beside yours. The magazine over his face has Izuku on the cover.

You remember him talking about that shoot, how excited he was to be wrapped in all his friends' merch. He looks like a mess of color. He must've picked which pieces he wanted. Baby pink Uravity themed sweatpants with a white stripe along the side, mismatched red and blue Shouto themed shoes, an orange and army green Dynamight t-shirt. And maybe the ugliest shade of yellow you've ever seen on his Chargebolt sweatshirt, not that you'd ever say that to Denki. You’re shocked they let him wear that for the cover of such a popular magazine. But you can admit, he pulls it off in some weird, almost kitsch-y way.

(You remember fondly the way he had whined about your lack of merch. He'd gone on and on, begging you to make anything for him. A shirt, a hat, anything. He had merch from all his classmates, he said, he needed to finish the collection with something of yours.)

“Hitoshi,” you reach over to pull the magazine down and toss it to the tiled floor.

“I'm not leaving,” he grunts, rough but not irritated or upset. Just tired, scared. “I'm fine right here.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

No one else knows you're here except a select few. Aizawa told you it's a well kept secret, that you're listed under an alias. It makes you wonder if that villain attack really was personal. Someone who wants you dead must've heard you were almost there and too weak to fight. You want to ask him about it, ask for the case file. You want all the information.

You ask him about your lungs instead.

“The doctor has you on some medication for your lungs that's keeping the infection and flowers at bay,” he drawls. His fingers are curled around your ankle, feeling for the pulse point there.

“That's why I haven't puked,”

“Yes,” he nods, “As for your wing, you'll need to do some physical therapy. But they don't want you up and moving yet, not until your lungs have healed. Waiting too long can impact how well your wing heals, so–”

“I'm not telling him,” you huff, “You can't make me. Make sure Eri takes care of–”

“Absolutely not,” his fingers stop petting and squeeze instead, “Don't talk like you're dying. It's freaking the boys out. It's freaking me out. Stop.”

“Sorry,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Eri visits you. She's sweet, still soft spoken even as a teenager. You appreciate that about her, and wonder how she did it. How she kept all the soft and rounded edges after everything she's been through. You wish you could’ve done the same. Then again, you never really had soft edges to begin with.

Present Mic comes with her, grinning when they tell you they smuggled your cat in.

“Why haven't you named him yet?” Eri whispers, eyes wide and sparkling while she watches him knead at your thigh. You hum, rubbing a knuckle under his chin.

“Dunno,” you say back, just as quietly, “It's been a year but I still feel like I don't know him well enough to name him. Do you wanna?”

“Name him?”

“Yeah, go for it,”

Eri thinks for all of one second before she grins and says, “What about Hiro?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “Hiro. Cute. A bit on the nose though.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

On the sixth day of being stuck in your hospital bed, Izuku visits again. He's quiet, eyes glassy and red rimmed like he had cried the whole way here. After he left the first day you woke, he hadn't come back. Not while you were awake at least. Katsuki mentioned briefly that he's been back a few times, calling him a freak for watching you sleep like he hadn't been doing the exact same thing. You fiddle with the nasal oxygen tube you'd been downgraded to, readjusting how it sits behind your ears.

“Hitoshi told me,” is how he greets you. Panic rises like bile in your chest, you can't do much but stare. He speaks again, fills the silence, “It wasn't his place to do that, and I'm sorry. But he's scared, Kacchan too. Why didn't you tell me?”

You open your mouth and his phone rings. His shoulders go stiff, his fingers twitch. That is why. One of the reasons why, at least. You're selfish and if you let it happen, you'll want him all the time. Every time his phone rings, every time he goes on a week-long mission, you won’t be able to handle it. You barely handle it as it is.

“You should answer that,” you grunt in lieu of a real answer. It’s maybe a little passive aggressive too, but whatever.

“It's fine,” he whispers once the ringing stops.

“They need you, Deku,”

“There are plenty of other heroes,”

“None of them are you,”

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet you're surprised you catch it. It makes your lungs tight, your chest twist. Then, just barely louder, “I love you, let me love you. Let me help you.”

“I don't want to love you,” you sigh. The cheap, hospital grade blanket in your palm is close to tearing with how tightly you've got it in your grip, “I wish I didn't. I don't want you to love me.”

“Just,” he groans, laying the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in hard, “We don't have to– to get married, we don’t even have to date. It doesn't have to be a big thing. Just let me– it's my job. It's my job to save people. And I want to save you, maybe more than anyone else. Let me save you, even if you don't let me love you. Tell me what to do. I just– I don't– I can't just watch you die. Please. Please.”

“Nothing changes,” you insist, “We won't work.”

“Okay,” he looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to argue. He looks angry. But he just nods, gnaws at his bottom lip, and says again, “Okay.”

“I have to confess,” you turn your head away from him, press your cheek to the shitty pillow under your head, “And you have to confess back. Or reject me. The doctor says it'll clear up either way, that's how the quirk works. Please reject me.”

“No,”

You turn to stare at him, watch the way his curls move and bounce when he shakes his head, “What?”

“No, I'm not going to reject you. I'm not lying to make you feel better,” his hand is warm around your ankle, “I'll pretend it never happened after. But I'm not going to say I don't love you. I can't pretend I'm not in love with you. Of course I love you, how could I not? How could I spend years with you, learning you, watching you, and not love you? No. I won't reject you.”

“Okay,” you say, inhaling slowly.

“Okay,” he nods, “Ready?”

“I love you, Izuku,” you whisper, “I have loved you for years.”

“I love you,” he says back, stepping around your hospital bed to fall to his knees by your side. His lip trembles and you look away with the rush of air you get to your lungs. He presses his forehead to the blanket beside you and cries, and when he can't see you, you cry too. You curl your fingers into his hair and cry and mourn the relationship that will never happen.

The flowers come all at once. The doctor said this would happen, he called it the final purge. (And had not been impressed when you laughed and called it dramatic.) All the flowers have been uprooted and need to get out. You barely turn away from him in time, and you again find yourself thanking whatever god will listen for not letting you almost claim another victim with your weird lung-vomit. It comes and comes, tearing your throat up as it goes. And Izuku is there, pulling your hair away from your face and rubbing a warm hand between your wings.

He is so kind. He is everything you want and you find yourself almost immediately regretting everything you said. You love him so much, you want to let him love you. And you want to love him. You want that nasty, gooey type of love. The fluffy kind. The good morning and goodnight texts every single day. The I love you mores, the dancing in the kitchen and breakfast in bed type love. The kind where you're so comfortable, you don't close the door to pee. You want to kiss him first thing in the morning, morning breath and all. You want his face to be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to sleep.

You want Izuku more than you've ever wanted anything else in the world.

And you think you need him to want you too. You need him to love you. You always have and you were stupid for ever thinking otherwise.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku takes your boundaries too seriously. He leaves after you puke yourself into a near comatose state, and he doesn't come back during the two weeks you spend recuperating. Not to check on you, not to see you through your physical therapy. And he isn't there when you're told you can fly again, when you're discharged and told you're healthy again. You think your chest hurts more now than it did when it had a bed of flowers growing in it.

You don't reach out to him either. Katsuki lets it slip that he's angry, angrier with you than he's ever been because all he wants is to love you.

(“So tell her that,” Katsuki scoffs, sliding a bowl of katsudon across his counter. This is the fifth time in an hour he's had to listen to Izuku bitch and whine about how he feels. He's seriously considering manslaughter.

“I did,” Izuku spits, uncharacteristically short tempered and irritated, “I did tell her. And she said no. She told me she wished she didn't love me, and she didn't want me to love her. She is so goddamn stubborn.”

Katsuki is more annoyed than surprised, “I think she’s just scared.”

“She's stubborn–”

“Okay, I fucking get it! She's stubborn, and so are you! Pull your balls out of your back pocket and man the hell up, or shut the hell up!” Katsuki barks, slamming a sparking palm against the marble. Izuku's glare does not scare him. He takes a deep breath, remembers what his therapist taught him, and counts to three. He’s calmer when he says, “What does that say about you? She was so scared to tell you she loved you that she died. Fucking talk to her about it and quit whining. She's the one in the hospital, not you. Try thinking about it all from her perspective.”

“Kacchan–”

“Don't Kacchan me, you asshole,” Katsuki says, “You think you're the only one affected by all this? She's my friend too, and Hitoshi's, and we aren't sitting here all angry at her. This is your mess now, it's your responsibility to fucking fix it.”)

“Called you stubborn,” Katsuki snorts, feeling oddly fond, “Just call him, talk about it.”

“Thanks, jackass. I hadn't thought of that,” you scoff, leaning past him to slap the ground floor button on the elevator, “Of course I've called him. He isn't answering.”

“Just keep calling. He'll break eventually,”

“Dunno if I want him to. What the hell do I even say if he answers? That I'm an actual fucking idiot? That I changed my mind? I wouldn’t trust me, so I don’t see how he would,” you groan and lean back against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers change. “This is why I wasn't gonna say anything. Now it's all different and I may have lost my best friend.”

“Oh, he's your best friend? Go stay on his couch while your place is being rebuilt then,”

“Okay, are we in middle school? Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, bestie,”

“Call me that again and I'll rip your tongue from your throat,”

“You are so bipolar, good fucking lord. You wanna be my best friend, you have to live with the nicknames,” you laugh, “And, no offense but, Hitoshi is my actual best friend if we're gonna get technical. You didn't even speak to me until third year.”

“You weren't in the hero course until third year, that isn't fair!”

“I was still friends with your whole class! And I fought with you in the war. And Hitoshi has been inside of me,” you grin when Katsuki's cheeks go pink and he scowls at you, “Gave me some of the best orgasms in my life, so he gets extra brownie points.”

“I hope the cable of this elevator snaps and we both die instantly,”

“Asshole,”

“Bite me,”

The elevator dings and you straighten from your slouched position as the doors slide open. Aizawa and Hitoshi are both waiting for you, offering twin smiles when you walk towards them.

“Look at you,” Hitoshi grins, cupping your face in his hands, “You look good. Healthy. You good to go?”

“Mm, yeah. Just gotta sign some stuff at the front desk and I'll be all set,”

“Okay, pigeon,” he presses a wet smooch to your forehead before releasing you and ushering you towards the desk.

The paperwork takes all of five minutes and then you're practically running outside. The fresh air outside the hospital feels borderline orgasmic as it enters your lungs. After not flying for far too many weeks, you’re nearly vibrating with excitement. The first flutter of your wings sends a jolt of exhilaration down your spine, but before you can take off Aizawa wraps his scarf around your ankle.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Be rational,” he grunts, “Flying here will attract too much attention. And do not call me ‘dude’, that's disrespectful.”

“Whatever,” you huff and shove your hands into your sweatshirt pocket, “Fine. Dude.”

“Have you talked to Deku?” his voice lowers as he steps closer and releases his grip on you. You shrug, tilting your face up to soak in the sun.

“No,”

“You should,” he says, “He's going on a mission soon.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“A week, at least. Longer if things go awry. And things tend to go awry with him,”

“He doesn't want to talk to me,”

“He doesn't have to talk, he just has to listen. Make him listen,” he murmurs, “You've always been good at that.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You stop by the rubble of your apartment before going to Katsuki's. Clean up hasn't even begun yet and you grimace as you toe over glimmering glass, chunks of drywall, and broken bits of brick. Your couch is where it landed after Eijiro pulled it off of you, torn and bloody, and you take a moment to mourn it. There are a few feathers scattered on the floor a few feet away from it, likely where you had been pinned down. The wall that had been blown in is still an open space, just one with caution tape pulled across haphazardly. Just looking at it makes your lungs tighten and your wing throb.

“What a fucking dump,” Katsuki grunts, kicking at the debris by his feet.

“I want the case file on the guy that did this,” you mutter, leaning forward on your tiptoes to peek out the hole. “He fucked up the whole block.”

“I'll have Deku send it over to my agency,”

“Thanks,” you nod and take a step off the ledge. Katsuki makes a panicked noise, rushing over and scowling when you turn and grin, “Chill, I'm good. See? Wings work just fine, just wanna look at the damage.”

“Be fucking careful,” he grumbles. “Why are we here anyways?”

“Clothes. It's hard to find shirts and stuff for people with wings. And expensive,” you hum, fluttering past him towards the hallway, “My bedroom should be pretty much untouched. Gotta grab a few things and we can go.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki doesn't actually make you sleep on his couch. His guest room is made up for you, complete with not one, but two, baskets on the dresser, a fresh bed set on the bed and a brand new pair of house slippers by the closet door. The first basket is small, filled to the brim with differing toiletries. You snicker and finger through it, giving him a mental kudos for picking out decent shampoo and conditioner. The second basket is bigger and has various snacks in it. Your favorites, you notice.

“You got me welcome baskets?”

“I didn't get you shit. The food is from my mom and the other shit is from my assistant. And they're ‘I'm glad you didn't die’ baskets,” he scoffs, glaring at something over your shoulder. The gleam in his eye betrays him, you can't stop yourself from teasing just a little.

“Right, and who told your assistant to do that?” you laugh and yelp when he pinches your waist. “Okay! Okay, sorry. Tell your mom and assistant I said thank you.”

“Whatever. I'm going to make lunch,”

“For me too?”

“Obviously,”

“This is why you're my best friend,” you flutter your lashes up at him and pout your lips in a way you hope will make him laugh. You know you've succeeded when he presses his whole hand to your face to push you away.

“Shut up. Go shower,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi sets up a meeting with the little boy for you the day after you get out of the hospital. He’d argued at first, told you to rest and heal more. But you push and insist. It’s important. The kid needs to know you aren’t upset, he deserves to know. So you push and push until Hitoshi inevitably gives in and calls the mother. He tells you to be at Katsuki’s agency by noon. Katsuki forces you to get there by eleven.

“They’re here,” Katsuki grunts, hand warm on your back. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. He's, what, five?”

“Four,” Aizawa drawls.

“And three quarters,” Hitoshi tacks on, grinning when Aizawa rolls his eyes and you snort. “He's in the conference room with his mom.”

The door is all glass and you take a minute to watch him. He's small for his age, you think. Maybe. You actually don't know, can't actually tell. All kids are small to you. The only kid you have any real experience with is Eri, and she was always so small because of her situation, so mature too. Always so gentle and wise, too wise. You don't know anything about kids, but this kid is small .

He's sitting politely in a chair that’s four sizes too big for him next to his mom, who looks young. She’s saying something to him, pushing the wispy hairs from his eyes and then smiling and pointing a finger towards you. You take that as your cue to go in. They both stand as you enter, bending deeply at the waist.

“Oh, don't,” you gasp, fluttering over to them and hovering uncertain hands out in front of you, “Please, really, no need to bow.”

“Thank you for making time for us,” his mother says quietly as she straightens, “Asahi feels terrible. He appreciates the chance to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology, really. I just wanted to come show you both that I’m okay. What's your name?” you wonder, holding your hand out towards her. She blinks down at it a few times before seemingly deflating in relief and touching her palm to yours.

“Ito,” she shares, “Ito Hana. But, please, call me Hana.”

“Right,” you nod, offering her a gentle smile, “It's fantastic to meet you Hana. And you too Asahi. You've got a powerful quirk, kid.”

Asahi's lower lip trembles and he tumbles forward to press his face into your tummy before his mother can stop him, blubbering unnecessary apologies into your shirt, “I'm so sorry Ms. Aviator! I didn't mean to–to quirk you! I didn't mean to–’

“Hey, hey, no tears,” you whisper, detaching yourself enough to fall to your knees in front of him. You make a big show of taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, so he can hear it, “I'm all good. You hear that? My lungs are fine, kiddo.”

“You aren't mad?” he snivels and scrubs at his cheeks, smearing tears and snot across his face. His own breathing is unsteady, and you urge him to take a deep breath too. Together, you count as you breathe. His trembling slows, his breathing evens out, and you speak again.

“No,” you coo and pull your sleeve up over your thumb to help wipe the snot from his face, holding back a grimace when it just makes it worse, “No, I'm not mad. Accidents happen. And it's silly to get mad over accidents, isn't it?”

“My doctor says my quirk can make people bleed flowers from here,” he mumbles, jabbing two of his little fingers over the center of your chest, “Did it make you bleed like that?”

“Um,” you flit your eyes up over his shoulder, gauging his mother. She nods once, so you look back at him, “Yeah. I did for a little bit.”

“It's scary,” he whimpers. Behind him, his mother presses the knuckles of her hand to her lips and closes her eyes. You exhale a shaky breath when his tears well up again, beading over his lash line and he says, “Everyone says my quirk is scary.”

“It can be. Any quirk can be scary. But nothing scares me,” you smile when he gives you a look like he doesn't believe you. “Your quirk is only scary because you don't have control yet. But that’s okay. My friend Red Riot’s quirk was scary before he could control it. And Tsukuyomi, and even Deku. But when they learned to control it, it wasn’t scary anymore.”

“Mama says I'll get control when I get bigger,” he agrees. Then there's a moment where he looks unsure, bashful even, before he says, “You aren't even afraid of the dark?”

“Nope,” you confirm, “ Especially not the dark. I do my best hero work in the dark.”

Asahi settles after that. You aren’t sure if it’s you that soothes him, or if he does it himself. But he calms down, starts acting more like a kid should. He asks questions about your quirk and what it’s like to be a hero. You give him all the details. You tell him what all the different feathers in your wings do, and how your quirk gives you excellent hearing and incredible night vision. He asks if you know Chargebolt too, and Shouto and Uravity, beaming when you say you do. He tells you his favorite is Cellophane and you give him a high five, because that is a good choice.

You end up pulling Katsuki and Hitoshi in too when you catch the way he won’t stop staring at them. Katsuki slips on his kid-friendly Dynamight persona and lets him ogle his gauntlets and ask as many questions as his heart desires. Hitoshi lets him try on his mask. He's even kind enough to allow requests for different voices once he slips it over his own mouth again. Asahi dissolves into a fit of giggles when All Might’s voice booms through the speakers.

You learn a lot about Asahi and his mother as the next hour passes. Love related quirks run in the family, apparently. Hana’s is called Soul Ties, her mother's was Cupid's Arrow. She elaborates on her own when you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I can see people's soulmates,” she shrugs, leaning forward to brush a thumb over Asahi’s cheek.

“Soulmates? More than one?”

“Platonic and romantic,” she adds, smiling softly down at her hands like that’s where she can see it. The string of fate, you've heard of similar quirks. Hana’s smile fades to something a little more melancholic, but she puts on a happier facade quickly before Asahi notices it, “Most people have more than one of each. But it differs per person.”

“Oh,” you say, staring down at your own hand. You wonder if you have any. Any platonic, any romantic. You wonder if Izuku is your soulmate. How many strings of fate tie your hands to someone else’s? How many soulmate’s could you possibly have? Can you have a soulmate who's soulmate isn't you?

“Those men,” she says quietly, gesturing behind her to where Katsuki and Hitoshi are sitting, “I can see you're close with them. You have a strong connection with both of them. Sometimes the universe determines our soulmates. Sometimes we determine them. But when the universe decides, the connection is almost unbreakable. All of your connections are strong ones. You're lucky.”

You give Hana your number before they leave, slipping the paper effortlessly into her hand when you say goodbye, “Call me if either of you ever need anything. And when he gets older, if you want, I can get him a spot at UA. Whichever course he may want. They can help him with quirk control and confidence.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking your hand into both of her own, “Thank you so much. For saving him and for this. He really looks up to you.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki must've planned this. The jackass. The absolute cretin. You can practically see it, see him rubbing his grubby little hands together like the roach he is. Grinning and scheming up the best way to get you and Izuku in a room together. Probably with Hitoshi. They're both nasty little creatures and you have decided you love them now more than you ever have. Because you miss him.

You miss Izuku.

You're in the middle of drowning your self-imposed sorrows in more Sailor Moon reruns and half a pint of freezer-burned ice cream you found buried in Katsuki's freezer when he lets himself in. You're hovering around in a lazy circle to stretch your wings, cataloging and memorizing every picture Katsuki has on his walls. He notices you first and stays silent to watch you, watch the way you move, the way your wings flutter to keep you up. When he finally speaks, you and your wings jump, nearly knocking some expensive looking frames off the wall.

“I brought the case file you asked for,”

“Jesus– how did you even get in here?” you yelp, slapping a hand out to steady a wobbling frame.

“I've had a key since Kacchan bought this place,” he snorts, tossing the file down onto the pristine black granite countertop. “I didn't realize you were staying here, sorry, I would’ve knocked. He didn't tell me, just said to drop the file off.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” you shovel another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth without saying anything else. Izuku hums anyways, like you said something worth any sort of response, and leans his hip against the counter. You force yourself to look away, “Thanks for the file. Was it a targeted attack?”

“No, no. We thought it was too, turns out it wasn't even a real attack. A civilian with a seizure disorder had an episode and the lack of control over his quirk is what caused the accident. You and your apartment just happened to be above him. Uh, but, this is all in the file–” Izuku coughs into his fist and stares at the wall behind you.

“Yeah, thanks, I'll drop it back at your agency when I'm done reading it,”

“Take your time,”

An awkward silence falls between you. You keep eating your ice cream. Izuku looks at everything but you. The city keeps moving underneath you, your quirk helps you hear things like the coffee being brewed across the street and the dog barking three floors down if you really listen for it. You tune it in, let it wash over you. Eventually, after your ice cream is gone and Izuku’s eyes have stayed on you for the last few minutes, you speak again, “I changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I want things to change. I changed my mind,” you speak quietly, delicately, like everything will shatter if you say it too loud, if you say it out loud, “I can’t be normal after this. I love you so much that I was willing to die about it. And it’s been that way for years. Something has to change, because obviously my feelings won’t.”

Izuku stays silent. When you turn to decipher how he feels, what he’s thinking, you find him with his hands over his face. The skin of his cheeks is splotchy beneath his fingers, flustered and warm. He takes big breaths and you watch the way his chest expands with them, the way his fingers shake and his shoulders tremble.

You should say something. Or maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t know. You’re out of your element here. Romantic stuff has never come easy to you, hadn’t ever come at all. All of your romantic feelings were kept buried so deep in your chest, you hadn’t even tried to date before. No one was worth the time or effort because they weren't him.

“Say something,” you babble, ignoring the residual tightening in your lungs, “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? You’ve had, like, girlfriends or whatever. But I’ve never dated, so this is incredibly out of my comfort zone and I feel like I’m just rambling and I’m sorry. I’m, uh, done talking. Now.”

When Izuku starts to laugh, you genuinely wish you had died. Humiliation is hot in the back of your throat, seeping between your tongue and teeth. He lets his hands fall from his face and when you see the tears in his lashes, your own lip starts to tremble and you drop your feet to the floor, “Don’t laugh at me. I just emotionally stripped myself naked to you and you’re laughing? You are such a dick. Katsuki’s nicer than you, fuck.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” he hiccups between quiet giggles, stepping close enough that he can cup your face in his hands, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, baby. Don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you’re crying too,” you sniffle, letting your fingers curl around his wrist. He leans forward to kiss away your tears, cooing when you crumble forward in his arms and cry some more, “Katsuki said you were angry.”

“I was angry, but it was misplaced,” he says once you’ve settled to loud, wet sniffles and hiccuping whimpers. “I'm sorry for laughing, I’m just relieved. And excited. And I thought it was funny that you think I’ve had a girlfriend, let alone multiple. You think too highly of me.”

“I just thought– with Uraraka– and you've got your pick of the litter with your fans,” you huff, “You could have anyone you wanted, you know.”

“I want you. It’s always been you,” he whispers into your hair, swaying you both in an attempt to soothe you, “There’s never been anyone else.”

“Don’t say shit like that, you’ll give me a complex,” you groan, grinning into his shoulder when his chest rumbles with a laugh. “I’m sorry that everything got so fucked up.”

“If it hadn’t, would we be here?”

“No, probably not,”

“Then I’m not sorry. Not if this is where we ended up. And you shouldn’t be either,” he murmurs, “I am sorry that you got hurt. And I'm sorry that it was because of me. But I'm not sorry for this.”

A half hour later, after your tears have dried and your breathing evens out, Izuku makes you eat a real meal. He doesn't cook it (read: can't cook it), but he orders from your favorite place and has it delivered. You eat on opposite sides of the couch (despite both of you knowing damn well that Katsuki would absolutely kill you if he found out), but you touch him when you can. Brushing a curl from his eyes, tangling your ankles with his. Once you've eaten, when you're sated and nearly asleep with a warm, full belly, he breaks the very fragile case of glass around you.

“I took a mission,” he mumbles around a cheek full of rice.

“I know, Shouta told me,”

“I can back out,” he clears his throat, glancing at you through the curtain of curls falling into his eyes, “They don't actually need me. I took it to get away. Or, no, not to get away! To, uh, to give you space. But, I can pull out.”

“Stop, don't put your job on the back burner for me,” you grumble, leaning forward to steal a piece of chicken from his bowl.

“If I go, I leave tomorrow morning,” he continues, “And we should talk. I can drop out of the mission if you want me to.”

“Seriously, don't. Don't do shit like that,” you scoot towards him on the couch, press your hand firm over his chest, “I am a selfish person. I don't like sharing. And I won't want to share you. But I’ll have to if we're gonna make it work. And if you call out of work for me, you're just feeding into that delusion.”

Izuku’s eyes are so soft on your face, flitting between your eyes and your cheeks, your lips and your nose, taking in every detail. Cataloging every freckle, wrinkle, and scar. He lays his hand flat over yours, lets his fingers fall between the gaps, “I want you to be selfish with me, because I'm gonna be selfish with you. I've waited years for this, and I'm gonna take everything I can get. I'm gonna be greedy, let yourself be greedy too.”

Izuku's freckles get darker in the summertime, and his scars. His skin goes golden under the sun, and new freckles appear to mark constellations across his nose, down his neck and over his shoulders. He doesn't burn the way some people do, you think, he ripens like fruit.

“Go on the mission,” you sigh and crawl into his lap. He hums, leaning back to give you more space to get comfortable. You curl into him, press your nose into the crook of his neck, “We can talk when you get back.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, unsure, as scarred palms curl around your waist. You can feel how his fingers shake before they tighten over you. He squeezes then releases you twice in quick succession, just to feel you, just to touch. It relaxes you, turns your insides to liquid, warm and gooey. When your limbs go heavy and your eyelids start to droop, Izuku uses gentle hands to lift you as he stands. Your noise of confused complaint is hushed and you go quiet, letting him carry you to bed.

You're asleep before you hit the sheets and Izuku has to take a minute. Just a moment. To watch you breathe, watch the way your chest rises and falls. He remembers the fear that boiled in his chest when you stopped breathing that night. He doesn't even think you know, but he does. He knows, he remembers. It had only been for a moment, the doctors had worked quickly to get you back. But you had been gone, really, actually gone. Your heart stopped beating, your lungs stopped breathing and you were dead. Dead . You had died because of so many things, because of him.

So he takes a goddamn minute . He watches your chest rise and fall, syncs his own breaths with yours. He listens to how clear your lungs sound, presses his fingers to the pulse point in your wrist to feel your heartbeat. He reminds himself that you're alive, you’re fine. It takes an hour of watching you sleep before he feels okay to leave.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“This roof top is inaccessible to the public,” Katsuki drones, “How the hell did you get up here without a key?”

“I jumped out of the window,” you shrug, muttering around the straw between your teeth. The sun is just beginning to rise, melting the horizon into pools of blue and pink, orange and purple. The clouds soak it up like watercolor and spit it back out onto mirrored skyscrapers and tree tops. A breeze blows between you and Katsuki looks angelic, all windswept and sun-kissed.

“You doing okay?”

“Are you?” you reflect back, tilting your chin up to see him better, “I'm sorry. I haven't said that yet. I was inconsiderate and self destructive and didn't really think about how it would affect anyone else. And I almost died because of it. So, I'm sorry.”

“It's– you're fine. I'm fine,” he shrugs and stuffs his hands into his sweatpants pockets to stave off the chill creeping up his spine. “We’re fine.”

“I know,” you say, “But I'm still sorry. And I love you. And– and thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Okay,” he grumbles, “Stop, seriously. We're fine.”

“Stop being so emotionally constipated,” you snort, shooting a hand out to slap at his calf, “Say it back.”

“I love you too, or whatever, fuck,” he literally shudders the moment the words leave his mouth and you cannot contain the laugh in your chest. He nudges at your thigh with his toes when he hears it, but he's grinning down at you so you know he's not too upset. “So, how'd it go with nerdface? Did you get your happy ending too or what?”

“I don't know yet,” you sigh. He sits beside you when you pat the space there and ducks to catch your eyes when you look away from him, “I don't know. We didn't really talk a lot–”

“Keep that to yourself. Disgusting,’

“Not like that you fucking freak,” you scoff, “No, I mean, I told him how I felt, that I changed my mind. And, you know, we both cried a little bit. But I told him to go on the mission and we could talk after he got back. I don't know. I don't know what he wants or how it'll all play out.”

“Izuku has been obsessed with you for years,” Katsuki shivers with the next gust of wind, shoving his hands between his thighs to create some warmth, “I don't know what the outcome of all this shit will be, but it'll be good. It has to be after all the shit you went through for it.”

“I hope so,”

Katsuki ushers you back inside after he shivers again, insisting that if he's cold you must be too. He isn't wrong, but you argue anyway, just to poke the bear. He pokes back until you're both back in his apartment. He steers you towards a stool at his counter and once you’re settled he starts on breakfast.

“Give me that, what the hell is wrong with you,” he grumbles, plucking the half empty slushie cup out of your grip, “Blue raspberry isn't a flavor you're meant to drink before noon. Where did you even get this?”

“The twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner,”

“It should be fucking illegal to buy shit like this so early in the morning,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Your ban from work continues despite being officially deemed healthy enough to go back by your army of doctors. Aizawa is insistent on you taking more time, getting more rest, and you know arguing won't get you anywhere. So you stay home.

The days all mesh together, they're all the same. Today marks day five of doing the same shit over and over again, and day three of Izuku being gone on his mission, and you're moments away from slamming your head into the drywall of Katsuki's apartment. Not your own, no. The drywall of your apartment is already busted and construction still hasn't begun yet. That makes you wanna dive headfirst through the wall even more.

“You have nothing fun to do,” you complain for the millionth time as you follow Katsuki down his halls, toes dragging because you're too lazy to fly properly.

He's not doing anything particularly interesting, just his daily chores and clean up, but anything is better than sitting in the living room and watching the window like it's TV. He won't even let you help, and normally you wouldn't want to help. Who the hell wants to clean? Not you, and especially not if it's someone else's house. But you would. You would scrub dishes until your fingers bled if you could.

“Read a book,”

“I did,”

“Read another one,”

“I've read every book on the shelf,”

“It's only been five days, there's no way–”

“Well, all the fun ones,” you wave a hand dismissively as you float past him, “I didn't read any of the boring literature or history books. Just the All Might comics and some manga.”

“You took my All Might comics out of their protective sleeves?” he gasps, staring at you like you've betrayed him.

“Who's the nerd now?” you snort, offering him a pointed look. “We're getting off track here. I'm bored.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about that?” Katsuki barks, spinning on his heel to stomp back towards the living room. Presumably to inspect his comics.

“Fucking fix it,” you toss back, trailing closely behind him, “Come get coffee with me.”

“Fuck no, today's my one day off this week because I'm covering your patrolling shift with mindfuck tomorrow. Find someone else,”

“You are so cruel,”

“Suck it, loser,”

“Cruel,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's mission goes well. Better than anyone thought it would. In fact, he and his team come home days before they're supposed to. And when he calls you requesting to meet up somewhere, you're more than eager when you ask him when and where.

The place you decide on is a sweet spot and one of your favorite bakery cafes. It's a small place, kitsch-y and warm with sweet American style pastries and strong coffee. You've been coming here for years, dating all the way back to before you had even enrolled at UA. You came here with your mom before she left, and your grandparents after that, and then your friends. You grin when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face through the window to the kitchen, icing a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls.

The owner is a sweet middle aged woman who likes to talk about her years spent in America to anyone who'll give her the time of day. You've heard the story of how she met and fell in love with her wife over a dozen times now, but it never gets old. You're a sucker for romance like that.

The whole business is family run, Kiyoko and her wife Sophie run the kitchen and their endless supply of nieces and nephews take turns serving guests and whipping up photograph-ready coffees and teas. Some work more often than others, only because they live in America during the school year and can only come out for summers to visit and help out.

Izuku is already there, draped over one of the chairs at the furthest table from the door and sporting the worst disguise you've ever seen in your life. A dark blue Ingenium themed baseball cap is haphazardly shoved over his mop of green curls, and a pair of Pro Hero Chargebolt themed sunglasses (that are the same ugly shade of yellow as the sweatshirt from the magazine cover) are slipping down his nose as he blows the steam from his mug.

“Nice disguise. Never would've guessed it was you,” you greet, coughing into your fist to cover up the laugh on your tongue when he turns towards you and visibly brightens at your sarcastic compliment.

“Thanks! Oh, here,” he scooches his chair over to make more space for you and your wings beside him, “Sit. Can I grab you a drink?”

“I'll get it,” you insist, pressing your hand to his chest when he tries to stand, “I just wanted to say hi first.”

“Okay,” he agrees and settles back into his seat. Before you can get too far, he curls his own hand over your own and smiles at you. His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles and he tilts his chin up to see you better when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you laugh, leaning closer.

“Missed you,” he breathes, tightening his grip on you. His head tilts again, offering himself to you, waiting but not pushing, and you–

You're very aware that you haven't kissed yet. Not a real kiss at least. You've been friends for over a decade, cheek kisses have happened in that time. But you give cheek kisses to sweet old ladies and Eri too, so those don't count in your head.

You are so painfully aware of the lack of kissing that it makes your fingers go numb and your heart stutter in your chest. It's so dumb, you aren't some love struck teenager anymore. The idea of a kiss shouldn't have you feeling this way. You're an adult. An adult who has kissed people before. An adult who has done many things far more lewd than kissing with other adults. It feels wrong to do it now. Before talking, before figuring yourselves out. What if this conversation ends in an argument? What if it ends with the decision to ignore everything that's happened? If you kiss him now and then lose him, you don't think you'll survive.

And so, you chicken out. Izuku takes it in stride, like you knew he would. He smiles softly and jerks his head toward the register as a reminder to go order and it's clear he's giving you an out here. He offers it up so kindly, so sweetly, that you don't even feel guilty for turning away from him to go order. The kid working the register today is secretly your favorite of all of them. Ren is a sweet kid, freshly eighteen and freshly out as nonbinary. You remember the day they told you, how nervous they looked asking you to use the pronouns they preferred. How happy they were when you congratulated them on speaking up for themselves.

They look equally as shocked to see you as they are relieved when you stop in front of them at the register.

“You're here!” they gasp, leaning forward over the counter to look you up and down, “You aren't missing any limbs either! Auntie! Aviator's back!”

“I told you she was fine! What're those tabloids saying about her now?” Kiyoko hollers back, popping her head into the window, “Oh, she's here here! Hi, honey!”

“Hi, Kiyoko! Is the missus here too?”

“Not today I'm afraid. Sophie's visiting family in the United States right now. Oh she'll be so sad she missed you. Where in heaven have you been?” she frets, using her quirk to step through the wall towards you. “You had us all so worried! There were news headlines saying you'd gone missing from the hero scene!”

“I was– I'm fine,” you appease, offering what you hope is a calming smile. “I was just temporarily out of commission. But I'm better now and hoping to get back to work soon if they'll let me.”

“Well good,” Kiyoko sniffs, “Now, answer me this.”

“Anything,”

Kiyoko glances around conspiratorially and you meet her halfway when she leans into you to whisper, “Is that young man sitting at table six Pro Hero Deku?”

“Uh,” you risk a glance over at Izuku, who's watching you with wide, quizzical eyes, before looking back at Kiyoko, “Yes. It sure is. But he's been here before, I don't–”

“That's what I thought,” she interrupts, nodding triumphantly. And then her face contorts into the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen on her and she asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Auntie!” Ren squawks, looking as horrified as you feel, “You cannot just ask personal questions like that, oh my God!”

“What! I'm just curious! Especially because he's staring at you like you hang the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky,” she laughs, tossing you a wink, “If he isn't, he should be.”

“He isn't staring–”

“Oh, hush, yes he absolutely is,” she snorts, leaning back against the wall behind her. You fear your face is as warm looking as it feels. “I've seen all those tabloids about him and that Uravity gal, but I've never seen him look at anyone but you like that. He's always looked at you like that.”

“I don't know what we are,” you give in, practically deflating on the spot, “That's what I'm here to find out.”

“And I'm sure you're here for a coffee,” Ren says, successfully segueing the conversation. Kiyoko clicks her tongue at you both, but dutifully turns away towards the pastry case to let you order in peace. You wait to the side while Ren makes up your coffee just how you like it. When they set it on the counter for you, Kiyoko slides a pastry box towards you too.

“What's this?” you laugh, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Some raspberry turnovers. On the house,” she says, effectively ignoring you when you attempt to argue by phasing through the wall and into the kitchen again. You share a look with Ren and slap enough money on the counter to cover it anyways before turning to make your way back to Izuku.

“What was that about?” he wonders when you settle beside him.

“Kiyoko was meddling,” you push the box towards him and sip at your drink, “She gave us some raspberry turnovers though.”

“That's sweet of her!” he coos, carefully peeling the tape off the top to open it. Despite there being two, he still takes one and pulls it apart, offering out the larger of the two halves to you. You accept it with a smile.

After you finish your piece and suck the bits of raspberry filling and sanding sugar from your fingers, you ask, “So, what's up?”

Izuku hums around his cheekful of pastry, lifting his hat with his clean hand to scratch his head and ruffle his hair. He seems to hesitate with what he wants to say, nervously tapping his fingers along his cup, before he mutters, “Why– you said you didn't want this. That you didn't want to love me. And you didn't want to tell me either, you were going to– you did die. You died instead of just… telling me. And I can't wrap my head around it.”

“That was so cruel of me to say,” you say, “I should not have ever said that, I'm so sorry, Izuku.”

“I don't want an apology,” he rushes out, waving his hands out in front of him, “I don't want you to feel bad about it, I just want to know why. Was it– did I do something? Did you not trust me? Were you scared of me?”

“No. No, it wasn't that,” you're nervous, palms wet with sweat and heart fluttering in your chest, “At first, back in high school, I didn't think you had any interest. So for a long time, I didn't wanna ruin what we had. You're one of my best friends. And I know that even if I had told you, it wouldn't have made you drop me. And it probably wouldn't have been on purpose, but you're so hyper aware of how you treat people, I know it would've been different. You’d treat me differently, we wouldn't be like we had been. And I wasn't willing to risk that.”

“Okay,” he nods, shifting in his seat, “So, what about after high school, before you were sick?”

You watch a drop of condensation slip down the window in front of you. Follow the trail, guessing where it'll land, if it'll make it to the bottom before it disappears.

“I still wasn't sure how you felt. And by then, there were so many headlines about you and Ochako. And I know those are almost never true, but you guys have always been close. And I know she liked you too in school,” you sigh and lean forward in your seat to give your wings a little more space. The left one still aches sometimes, despite being all healed from the break it suffered. It's weaker now, just barely, but enough that you notice it. You stretch it wide, shake it out, and then fold it back nicely against your back.

Izuku follows the movements with sharp eyes. You take a breath and keep talking, “At some point, it sort of became a silly dream that I had. I made peace with it. I'd never fall out of love with you, but I'd never have you either. And that was fine as long as you were still here, you know? As long as we were still friends, it was fine. I ignored it. Stuffed all those feelings into a box and locked them up. I didn't ever even try to date anyone else, because I would've been a horrible partner. And that was fine too. I liked being alone. And if you ever did end up with Ochako, I would've been happy and supportive. Because I love you, and I love her, and I wanted you both to be happy.”

Izuku says your name in a soft whisper, ducking his head to catch your eye. You scrub your hands over your face and groan before turning to look at him. He looks exactly how you thought he would. Melancholic, heartbroken, thoughtful. He's soft when he says, “You don't have to tell me anymore.”

“I want to. You deserve to know,”

He nods, and you keep spilling your deepest thoughts for him. Word vomit is spewing from your chest, you can see the shadows of petals and stems on the tabletop. You tell him everything. You explain everything.

You tell him about how you wished he would reject you so you could have a moment of clarity. The way your feelings for him were so big you felt suffocated by them sometimes, and that's why you wished things were different. How selfish you feel about it all, how in denial you were about it for a long time. How you grieved him and the idea of there ever being an ‘us’ with him for years. How you mourned a relationship you thought would never happen.

You have a hard time articulating it all to him, but he seems to get it. He's always understood you, even before you'd been close. Even before you were in the hero course, back when you were just a gifted kid with a completely different dream. When you worked with your hands and went to sleep oil stained and excited to do it all again the next day.

(Being a hero had never been your plan. Sure, you had a useful quirk for it, you knew that young. And even during your days at UA, you knew you could transfer if you really wanted after being accepted. You'd been compared to Hawks more than once, you knew what you could do. But hero support had been your dream.

It's funny now, to think back on it, really. How against being a hero you were. You had no interest being on the front lines. Combat was never fun for you, you didn't get the rush kids in the hero course did when fighting.

The war changed everything.

Aizawa and Hawks came to you to ask you to fight. They needed another Hawks for something, someone in the sky. And what the hell could you do, say no? Of course you couldn't. So you fought, you fought damn hard, and you won most of your battles.

The year following the war, you still refused to transfer. Despite Aizawa offering you a spot and taking you under his wing to train. You said no, you were firm in your decision.

Honestly, you don't know why you changed your mind. One day you woke up and remember thinking that if you could do even a fraction of the good that All Might did, that Deku did, you wanted to. You wanted to save people too.

You're still a shadow in the hero support world. You work with Mei on the downlow, fix friends' hero suits and support items under an alias and then go out and fight beside them.

You learned and adapted, figured out how to get the best of both worlds.)

By the time you've talked yourself out of breath, Izuku is openly crying beside you. Again, you find yourself uncomfortable. Laying your emotions out has never been a strong suit of yours, and you can feel phantom flowers in your chest. You briefly wonder if that feeling will ever truly go away.

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of silence, “I unloaded a lot. Didn't mean to do that.”

“No,” he sniffles, wiping at his cheeks and shaking his head, “I asked. Don't apologize.”

“I don't blame you if you don't want to pursue this,” you tack on, releasing a heavy breath. Your drink is long gone, but you tilt the cup back for the last few drops anyways, just for something to do with your hands. You miss the way Izuku whips his head up to look at you, mouth hung open and a panicked look on his face.

“Are you kidding?” he gapes. You don't look at him, focusing instead on the napkin in your hands. You tear it slowly, ripping tiny pieces off to pile up beside it. He sets his hand over yours, “I love you.”

“That doesn't mean we have to date,” you rasp, “We don't have to do anything. We could just– forget. We could pretend.”

“Do you remember in the hospital, when we confessed to heal your lungs?” he's so gentle with you, twisting your chair so your body is facing him. Your wings twitch behind you and he leans around to fix a few crooked feathers while you answer.

“I'll never forget it,” you huff, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Remember when you told me to reject you?” he goes on as he leans back again, settling across from you.

“Yep,” you nod.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘no’,”

“I did,” he concedes, “I also said I could never pretend I don't love you. This won't go away. I have spent years falling in love with you. I did it over and over, because it's you . I will always want this as long as you do. Do you want it?”

“I want it so bad,” you whisper, dropping your head back between your shoulders, “God, I have never wanted something more in my life.”

“Then you have it,” he laughs, like it's simple. And really, in a way, you guess it is. It always has been, you think. He sounds like he's still smiling when he says, “I'm all yours. Until you decide you don't want me anymore, but probably still then.”

When you finally look back at him, he looks beautiful. He's looking back, smiling so softly, so sweetly, it makes your teeth ache. It makes your chest ache the way his eyes squint when he smiles, the way his teeth peek out from behind full lips. How his freckles dance across the crinkled bridge of his nose when his smile widens. You want to spend the rest of your life committing each one to memory. You want to count them all and trace the constellations they make across his skin. There's a string of fate tying you to him, and it's unbreakable.

“I could never not want you,” is all you can think to say. And now, now you do want to kiss him. You want it so bad you can feel it in your teeth, in your fucking toes. But you don't.

The streets are busier, the bakery is picking up. There's too many people around and you know it'll be a whole shit show if someone snaps a picture of you together anyways. But it'll be far worse if it's a picture of you kissing. He's still in his terrible disguise, but you don't have the privilege of covering up. You're always exposed, the most recognizable thing about you is your wings and it's not like you can cover those up.

It'll look a lot worse for him than you if you kiss him and get caught by some pervy fucker with a camera. You're fairly underground, almost completely unknown, and people don't quite care about you the way they care about Pro Hero Deku. People that know enough about you to like you would be over the moon for a picture like that. People that like him would riot .

So you don't kiss him. You get another drink, and you share the second turnover with him. He tells you about his mission and you listen with just a smidge of jealousy. He notices and laughs, asking, “You miss it?”

“Oh, so bad,” you groan, “Dude, I'm going insane.”

“It's funny to think you almost didn't do this,” he hums, “Imagine how different things would be if you were in a lab instead.”

“I work under an alias with Mei sometimes,”

“I didn't know that! That's amazing!” Izuku gushes, leaning closer with hearts in his eyes, “How come I didn't know that?”

“It's a secret,” you laugh, “Hence the alias. Only a few people know, but I don't advertise it.”

“There's always something new to learn about you,” Izuku says quietly, suddenly awestruck and looking at you like you're a work of art. Your skin prickles with heat under the attention when he keeps going and says, “You're amazing.”

“Says you,” you scoff, deflecting. He hums, taking it in stride and props his head up with a hand on his cheek. You mirror him, grinning when he huffs a quiet laugh. Behind you, the bell above the door jingles and Izuku is slow to slip his sunglasses back over his nose and shuffle back to a more appropriate distance.

It's a group of young girls who ooh and aah at the pastries. One of them glances your way and has a look of recognition flash across her face. Izuku notices too, turning his face a little more out of her field of view and peering at you over the rim of his glasses. You both know he's too late, they've seen him.

“You've been caught,” you sing, laughing when his cheeks heat, “Gonna say hi?”

“Mm, I'd hope they can see I'm busy. But I will if I have to,”

“Wow, look at you. Not so nice after all,”

“Hey, I'm plenty nice,” he rolls his shoulders back, sits a little less like the Number One Hero and a little more like he's just some dude drinking coffee. You like being privy to this side of him, the side he doesn't show the public. The side of him that says fuck and gets irritated with fans. The one that doesn't help old ladies cross the street (they’ve done just fine before, they'll make it without him), and doesn't pick up trash in the streets. The grown ass adult side that's more like Katsuki than you think he cares to admit.

“Yeah, well, your fan club is coming over here. Smile, Deku,” you snicker, burying your grin into your collar. He follows your eyes when you flicker them toward the giggling gaggle of teenage girls inching their way closer. And when you stand he looks betrayed, “I'm gonna go talk to Kiyoko. Good luck, soldier.”

“Don't leave,” he begs, catching your hand before you can get too far, “Please, they're like wolves.”

“Fine,” you huff, folding easily for his big, puppy dog eyes.

The girls are fine. They don't squeal or cry, like some fans you've seen. They request an autograph and when he agrees, they run to ask Ren for a pen. The moment they turn their backs, Izuku takes you by the waist and rushes you out the door. You're both laughing, giggling into each other like you're teenagers breaking curfew. You run four blocks before he's pulling you into an alleyway to catch your breath.

“They were nice, why did we run?” you laugh, slapping his shoulder, “That was mean!”

“No one will ever believe them,” he shrugs, leaning back against a brick wall. “And I know Kiyoko will back me up.”

“Izuku!” you chastise, “What's gotten into you?”

“I'm not Deku right now,” he groans, “I don't wanna be Deku right now.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I'm just Izuku,” he hums, stepping closer. You raise an eyebrow, but meet him halfway when he tugs you closer by the hem of your shirt. “I'm just me and you're just you. No heroes here.”

“Uh huh,” you curl your fingers around his bicep, shivering when the hand at the small of your back presses you until your belly touches his, “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, ducking his head down inches from your own, “I'm gonna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” you breathe, fitting yourself against him easily when he surges forward to press his lips to yours. Chest to chest, you consume him, you let him consume you. When he sighs, you're more than eager to swallow it down, offer him one of your own. You take everything he's willing to give, and he takes too. His hands are warm on your back, tickling their way up to settle against your shoulder blades so he can wrap himself around you.

Kissing him is everything you dreamed it would be and more.

“Come home with me tonight?” he practically begs when he pulls away, lips shiny and kiss swollen.

“Okay,” you agree easily, chasing after him to press more kisses to the corner of his mouth, “Yeah.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's house is warm, lived in. His furniture is nice, but not overly expensive. His dishes are mismatched, his walls are covered in decor. It's not all that different from his dorm back in high school, just a little more mature looking. He still has an overwhelming amount of All Might merch, but it's more spread out, blending well with friends’ merch and other things.

You've been here before, but never like this. You don't know how to hold yourself, what's appropriate and what's not.

“You're being weird,” Izuku teases, shedding his disguise. “Don't be weird. We're the same as before.”

“No,” you disagree immediately, though not unkindly, “We aren't. This is not the same at all. But, that's not a bad thing. Just–”

“Different,” he says, “You're right.”

“Takes some getting used to is all,”

He's got four large bookshelves that are overflowing with his own notebooks, old and new, comics, and manga, and that's where you plant yourself. You read through titles, take in all the knick-knacks decorating the empty spots. He's got an old photo of a bunch of UA alumni grinning at the camera. There's a cute, goofy looking Dynamight bobblehead beside the picture, staring you down from the top shelf and you reach up to flick the head, grinning when it bounces.

“I wish I had something of yours to add to my collection,” he comments, stepping up to join you with a hand on your hip.

“I'm not big enough for merch,” you remind him, “And I'm an underground stealth hero. I don't even think I'm allowed to have merch.”

“Aizawa has merch,”

“Not real merch. It's all fanmade, bootleg type shit,” you say with a snort, leaning into his warmth. “Do you not have work today?”

“No, I've got the next few days off because of the mission,” he says, then hesitates, gnawing at the inside of his cheek before adding, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Yeah,” you smile, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the freckles splattered over his cheek.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hadn't been expecting things to go the way they had when you spent the night, though you can't say you didn't like it.

Flashes of hot, sweat-slicked skin against your own flicker through your head. You remember how far down his freckles had reached, you think of those green eyes, staring up at you from between your legs. Scarred thick fingers squeezing so tightly at your thighs they left bruises. His mouth sealed over yours, swallowing down every noise you made. His own hiccuping sounds when you–

You're distracted. You can't be distracted. Today, you're officially back on duty. You're not back on the patrol roster quite yet, but you have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so you hunker down in Katsuki’s office to do it.

On paper, you're a solo agent. You don't belong to any one agency, like Aizawa and Hitoshi, but you frequently find yourself working with or in Katsuki's agency.

Hitoshi joins you under the guise of being your partner and taking responsibility for half of the paperwork. You know it's really just because he and Katsuki are officially dating now and he wants to see him.

Simp , you think, as if you aren't exactly the same.

“Remind me again why you couldn't have just finished this shit?” you ask, wincing when the hand shaped bruise on your thigh throbs as you shift and tuck your foot beneath yourself.

Hitoshi notices your discomfort. He's seen it before, having marked you similarly. He watches for the telltale signs. The way you hiss, press your fingertips to the bruise in the same way whomever left them there must've, then flush a pretty shade of pink when you're inevitably reminded of how it got there.

“You got laid. You have a sex injury,” he accuses teasingly, leaning forward to press his own finger to the bruise. When you gasp, he does not hold in his laugh.

“It's not an injury , Jesus,” you bark out a shocked laugh too and slap his hand away when he keeps poking, “Just a bruise.”

“Damn,” he whistles, frowning down at his mug when he realizes it's void of any form of caffeine, “Didn't think he had it in him.”

“What, fucking me?”

“No, fucking you hard enough to bruise. Figured he'd be, like, vanilla. Missionary with super intense eye contact, you know, the works,”

“You are so fucked in the head,” you say.

“Like you aren't?” he throws back.

“I'm getting more coffee,”

“That's crazy, me too,” he grins, “You can give me details while we walk.”

“I hate you,”

“Mm, I don't think you do,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

They tell you that your apartment won't be fixed one month into your stay with Katsuki. Your landlord's son had been kind enough to call you the moment he found out.

“They found more structural damage after the accident that isn't worth fixing,” he explains over the phone, “Dad didn't wanna charge the tenants for an apartment they weren't currently living in. But without that income, he couldn't afford it anymore without risking foreclosure. And after finding out about the extent of the damages, he just decided to sell. He closed on a deal with a real estate company this morning and they're wanting to begin demolition immediately. Tenants have a week to get their things out.”

“That's not enough notice for more than half of the building,” you huff, “Where's your father gonna go?”

“My sister has an extra room,” he says, sounding extraordinarily tired, “I know a week isn't enough. I pushed for a month, but they wanna get started as soon as they can. And I have no say anymore. I'm sorry, Aviator.”

“Don't worry about it,” you sigh, “Thanks for calling. And tell your dad I said thank you too.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hate moving. Even if you didn't particularly love where you were living, you still get this sad, melancholic feeling deep in your gut when you have to leave. It's definitely some childhood trauma shit, but you don't have time to deepdive into that.

And packing is a whole different annoyance. Especially packing an apartment that still looks like a warzone. You have backup on the way, Izuku and Katsuki are coming after they're joint patrol and Aizawa and Hitoshi texted saying they're a few minutes out. You're thankful for them, because you are overwhelmed.

Most of your stuff in the living room isn't even worth an attempt to save it. Your couch is destroyed, torn and missing pieces. Your TV is completely busted, folded in half and crushed under a chunk of your wall. Throw blankets are tattered, knick-knacks and tchotchkes broken or lost in the chaos, framed photos shattered and bloody.

You start in your bedroom instead.

By the time Aizawa and Hitoshi show up, you're nearly done packing all of your clothes. Hitoshi is gentle with you, he knows how you feel about moving. He offers you a coffee that you take with a grateful groan.

“How's it going?” Aizawa drawls, leaning back against your doorframe.

“The living room isn't even worth packing,” you huff, “Part of me wants to dig through the mess to see if I can salvage anything. But it seems useless at this point. They took so long that anything near the busted wall got wet from the rain we got a few days ago.”

“I'll dig through it for you,” he offers.

“You don't have to,” you mutter, defeated and tired.

“I know I don't have to, but I will,” he hums, scooping the hair off his neck to tie in a low bun, “You can focus on everything else. When will the boys be here?”

“Another fifteen, probably,” you say, “They're bringing the moving truck.”

“Well, with five of us it should be pretty quick,”

“Yeah,” you huff, “Thanks, Shouta.”

“Anytime, kid,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You have my merch?” Izuku coos, leaning past you to grab the sweatshirt behind you.

“Of course I do,” you laugh and slide another box across the floor and into the hallway. Katsuki scoops it up easily, grinning when you roll your eyes at his show of strength.

“I didn't know that,” Izuku blubbers suddenly, tears gathering on his lashes. “This is a limited edition, too!”

“Izuku,” you huff, snatching the hoodie back, “It's almost like I was desperately, embarrassingly in love with you for years.”

“Was?” he teases, catching you by the waist when you try to walk away and pressing himself against your back. He grins when you roll your eyes at him and leans down to leave a trail of light kisses over your shoulders.

You tilt your head back, urging him to drop one against your lips, “Kiss me and maybe that ‘was’ will change into ‘am’.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs into your neck, kissing a path from just below your ear to your lips and then leaving two more once he gets there.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you.

It's been such an easy transition, you hadn't realized how normal it felt. Your dishes mixed with his in the kitchen, your books beside his on the shelves. Hell, you have your own dresser and a dedicated side of the bed and closet now. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to even notice. It's been nearly three months, and you're just putting it together on a random, lazy Sunday morning.

“Do I live here?” you ask, startling yourself. Izuku is across from you, lounging on the couch and half asleep. The TV drones on while he blinks a few times dumbly, mind lagging and drowsy. You gasp, horrified, “Did I accidentally move in with you!?”

“You didn't realize?” he laughs, sitting up with a stretch. You're momentarily distracted by the slither of skin that peeks out when his shirt rises with his arms. He grins when he catches the look in your eye.

“No? What the fuck? You did?” you say as soon as your tongue catches up with your brain again.

“Baby,” he snickers, “You never even started looking for apartments.”

“I'm– I was just procrastinating!”

“Every single one of your boxes has been unpacked,” he adds.

“I didn't ask you to do that!”

“Are you upset?” he murmurs, suddenly looking guilty.

“I–” you hesitate, taking in your home. Your things fit so seamlessly with his, like it was always meant to be like this, “I don't think I am.”

“Okay,”

“Just– sorry, I guess,”

“What? Why?”

“For moving in with you without asking, maybe? I don't know. Are you upset?”

“Are you kidding? Coming home to you is everything I've ever wanted,” he's so earnest when he says it, “I was gonna ask anyways, but then it just sort of happened.”

“Oh my God, that's so fucking embarrassing,” you whine and drop your head to your hands. He coos, crawling from the couch to the lounge you're occupying and crushing his weight down on you carefully. You let your hands fall from your face to wrap around his shoulders and curl into the dark green curls at the base of his neck, “Is love always this easy?”

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, “I wouldn't say this was easy. It took us a long time to get here.”

“Yeah, but now that we got here it is,” you whisper into his hair, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. “I think it's supposed to be like this.”

“I think so too,” he groans, squishing his face further into your chest, “You're so warm.”

“Are you tired, baby?”

“Mm, no,” he says, turning to bite at the swell of your breast. When you hiss, he apologizes with wet licks and kisses over the mark until you make a softer noise.

“Oh,” you sigh, “Okay, not tired.”

“Definitely not tired,” he huffs, scooping you up easily as he stands. “But I still prefer the bed for this. Only the best for my love.”

Your laugh is warm, loud and unapologetic, bouncing along the walls of the house as he carries you up the stairs and to your bedroom. His own laugh twists together with yours, filling the corners of your shared space. Somewhere downstairs, the bell on Hiro's collar jingles.

It's a vibrant feeling, realizing that this is your home too. The bed he drops you on is yours too. And the shower you share after is yours. You and him have weaved parts of each other into your lives, intertwined everything to make it shared.

It's not ‘mine’ or ‘his’ anymore, it's ‘ours.’

It's shared . It's two people coming together to make one life because they love each other enough to make space for one another.

It's everything you've ever wanted.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

When you were a kid, you didn't ever want to fall in love. You watched first hand how love ruined your mother. The man who helped bring you into this world hadn't even stuck around long enough for you to meet him. And when he left, he took a piece of your mother with him you think. And she spent years looking for it. Chasing men, begging them. Changing for them.

Every man after that was the same. Kind in the beginning, sweeter than sugar to you and your mother. And then, somewhere along the line, a switch was always flipped. They didn't want kids, they didn't want you . And they never stuck around long enough for you to call them dad, not that you ever would.

You didn't need a dad, you had your mom. She was enough for you, she always would be.

You weren't enough for her.

She craved love so badly from a man, it wasn't enough if it was from you.

One man stuck around long enough. He treated her so well, he said he loved her. He asked if she loved him too. If she loved him enough to leave you behind.

The first few times he asked, she had laughed him off. You listened through the crack in your door, waiting and wishing that she would finally put your relationship with her first.

When you were ten, she left. And you learned that unconditional love doesn't exist. Not with men or women. Not with family, not with your own mother.

“He's gonna marry me,” she had said, delighted and rushing to pack her suitcase. “He just– well. He doesn't want kids. You want me to be happy, don't you? You understand, right?”

You didn't. Of course you didn't.

If love could do that, if it could take your mother away from you, you didn't want it.

Your grandparents had been furious with your mother when they took you in. They raised you well. With so much love, they taught you it could be good . They were so proud of you when you got your acceptance letter from UA. And they cheered for you during your first Sports Festival.

They tried to show you better love, healthier love.

“Love is easy,” your grandmother said, time and time again, “It shouldn't be hard. Real love is so easy, so simple. They won't ask you to change, they won't want you to be different. They'll love you as you are. And if they really love you, you'll believe them when they say it.”

And eventually, you could see it in them, in the way your grandfather knew how your grandmother took her tea, in the way your grandmother still made his favorite meal every year on his birthday, even after he passed. When she passed three years after him, you were more happy than sad. Still heartbroken, of course, but she was with him again. He had always been her happy place, and you knew they were together again, wherever they were.

You see them again in your life, in the relationships around you. You see them in Izuku and yourself, in Katsuki and Hitoshi, in Shouta and Hizashi. You see that same love, the good kind. The unconditional kind. The kind your mother failed to show you.

And you can see it now. Written between the lines of love, of devotion you've given each other. It's so saccharine, warm and gooey like honey. Izuku is so easy to love , he is so quick to give it right back. He makes the space for you, so he can love you and the rest of the world too. He fits himself in that hole in your chest, he cups his hands so tightly together to collect your soul when you pour it into his accepting palms. And he doesn't hesitate to pour his own into your hands, because he trusts you with it. Because he loves you.

He is so sweet, so kind, when he says he loves you too. He is a good man, and you are grateful to be the one to love him. You're grateful for the mornings where you wake up with him and the nights you fall asleep with him. And he, in turn, is just as grateful. And he shows it so openly. Touching you whenever he can, even if it's just a hand on your arm as he passes by you or a leg tangled between yours while you sleep. He kisses you at every opportunity, in public and in private. He dances with you in the kitchen, dips you low to the floor and presses a kiss over your heart.

You've spent years wanting him, loving him, and you are so fortunate in being able to do that. He'd shout his love for you from the rooftops if he could, you're sure. And you would do the same damn thing.

Being in love with Midoriya Izuku is so easy, all things considered. It's as automatic as breathing and blinking and being, because he loves you back just as easily. And in some sick and twisted way, you're thankful for those flowers that had sprouted in your chest. Without them, you wouldn't have this easy, beautifully simple love.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he replies. And it's so easy, and he doesn't ask you to change anything about yourself, and you believe him every time he says it.

#mha x reader #deku x reader #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x you #deku x you #mha fanfiction #vonniewrites #hanahaki's disease #deku #izuku midoriya #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #vonniefics

98 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 7 months ago

Text

No Promises (3)

Lloyd Hansen x rival assassin!Reader

I Left You Something On The Body (see previous or LH Masterlist)

Summary: You and Lloyd take to leaving consolation prizes for whichever one of you 'loses.' It...escalates delightfully.

Warnings for DARKFIC. Language; descriptions of sexual situations, toys, various paraphernalia. Smut-adjacent (masturbation). MINORS DNI. I have plenty else for you on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 982

And you do; you let Lloyd have several open contracts after the keycard incident.

Sometimes you wonder about the man providing the most fun you’ve had in years, but mostly, you relax in a noisy city high-rise with a spectacular view. A small vacation between assassinations. You drop off the network for a month or so, picking up a straight-forward job nearby, and then show up at the target’s house to find him already dead.

Pinched onto the body, overtop a blood-soaked button-down, are golden nipple clamps.

You snort in disbelief.

The sick bastard, he’s really wooing you now.

A thin chain between the clamps sports a tied tag.

To: The Cobalt Cunt

You let out a dreamy sigh, the little tingle in your mind of possibly fucking (with) him again vibrating to life. You even miss him in a weird way.

On the reverse of the tag, it reads, “not safe for lace.”

It’s on obviously and more fun than you ever imagined. At some point, you can’t tell if you two are letting each other get places first on not. The money is, oddly, totally irrelevant, and your career takes on a renewed joy.

Lloyd claims a target. You show up, kill them, and drop off an intricately-packaged Gucci jock strap with “Eat Me” embroidered at the back of the waistband, right above his asshole.

For good measure—and to remind him what he’s missing—you add a spritz of your perfume to the cup.

That’s where you want to be nestled, it implies. That’s where you belong, right against his dick.

Sadly, the next ‘surprise’ takes a while as you two are not after the same jobs. There’s plenty of work to go around till you find an oblong box wrapped in brown paper on the armchair ten feet from an enormous bloodstain.

With an empty scotch glass and a crumb-covered plate beside it, you know Lloyd’s been trolling for your attention. His snacky, sweet-tooth is somewhat notorious.

Your inconspicuous, purposefully plain gift waits patiently, the soft whipped cream of a strawberry shortcake dripping down its serving stand.

There’s no rush though, and you make a little ritual of opening it to reveal a beautiful dildo with golden speckles throughout the silicone molding. It is absolutely from a cast of Lloyd; you’d know that curve anywhere.

If that’s as close as you can get? Fine by you…

The rest of him barely participated before anyway.

Geneva.

Lloyd’s pissed and tired after the flight. Suzanne is the fucking worst and made him repeat the plan three times because her pea-brain is as sharp as a limp dick.

He dances down the plane steps, noticing a welcome party that is not his people. One sunglasses-clad, black-suited fellow walks up to Lloyd with an enormous gift basket.

It’s so goddamn pink Lloyd recoils and squints his eyes.

Good christ, it’s hideous. He loves it in a sick way.

Pink cellophane, fuzzy pink handcuffs, a sparkling fuchsia cock ring, rose gold anal beads with pesto-colored rope connecting them, and strawberry flavored lube.

Mood restored, Lloyd chuckles, turning on his heel to get back on the plane.

He’s going home. He has toys to play with.

He doesn’t bother to explain shit to Suzanne. One of these days, he’s just going to pop her for free.

This one doesn’t coincide with a job at all, but that’s what makes it all the sweeter to you.

Delivered to the place you’re staying for the week is an adorable, yellow stuffed rabbit with a pull-cord. Across its tummy is 'sunshine' in cursive letters.

You honest-to-god squeal in delight as you listen to each of the five custom recordings programed in.

Lloyd tuts then says “should have sized up my ring, you cock-drunk whore,” a deep gasp and a squelch punctuates the end.

Oh boy. It’s Christmas in July. Happy you!

You fake your own shocked gasp at the second soundbite.

“Know you don’t taste like fucking strawberries,“ he grunts before bitterly adding, “but I’ll take one for the team and eat that pussy any day.”

Third: “Bet I was the best you ever had, even when I wasn’t awake, you poor thing. So needy…”

Fourth: “How hard did you come, Sunshine? Be honest.” He laughs like the cat who got the cream to end that one.

Finally, the last of the pulls is just the slapping noise of him jerking off and finishing with a deep moan.

Now, at least, you know what Lloyd sounds like when he comes.

Utterly self-satisfied, Lloyd goes about his life of luxury.

He’ll be damned if he’s going to break and go to you. Fuck that. The thrill of this taco-and-hotdog game is worth it anyway.

He still works, and not every job revolves around you.

For one such fulfilled contract, he’s being paid in artwork and has the delivery men bring in the large framed canvas to uncover in his current villa’s sitting room.

The expectation is a well-known portrait.

It’s a painting alright, but it’s…very modern.

Lloyd crosses his arms over his chest and smothers a proud grin.

The torso and open legs of you stretch out facing the viewer, gold leaf embossed nipple clamps and their chains dangle over your stomach, and the blunt end of a golden dildo sits nestled in your cunt. There are brush strokes and paint visibly raised from the surface.

He wonders whether it was done from a photo or whether you sat there, bare, for some artist to reference for hours, maybe even days.

Lloyd had a spot in mind for his real payment, but this will do nicely. He’s quite pleased with the view. It shall go over the mantle in the bedroom, and he shall fuck whoever he wants—his fist included—while staring right at it.

The half dozen or so other people in the villa’s great room who can all see the painting don’t say a fucking word.

How the hell is he supposed to top this?

A/N: Full disclosure, I'm pretty sure this is the funniest thing I'll ever write, and I'm okay with that. I can't stop laughing 🤣🤣🤣

[Next Part: A Blazer Full of Bullet Holes]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

blue art deco divider by @/saradika-graphics--thank you for your beautiful work!

#lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #dark fic #lloyd hansen drabble #lloyd hansen series #lloyd hansen smut #in a weird way it's fluffy??#lloyd hansen fluff

119 notes · View notes

googledetective · 5 months ago

Text

I wanted to give my thoughts on the new episode, even if nobody really cares.

Spoilers, of course.

1. I love the new sprites, especially the Teruko ones.

3. I think Arturo's breakdown was very justified, and I'm glad that it happened. (also "shut your whore mouth" was the funniest shit I've heard all day!)

2. I think it's good information to know that the cast thinks they're 18 years old (inference), and Rose said that its likely been a few years. It gives us an age range now :)

2.5 (edit) Whit is looking really suspicious. I get the whole bond between him and Charles, but why would he say that Charles has no alibi if he wasn't out and about.

4. I think the fact that Teruko did not notice that Arei was swinging initially when she died, means she at least cared a bit and was surprised by her death.

5. I love the banter between Teruko and David about Xander. It's just so interesting to see such polarized and opposite opinions.

6. David really raises the question of is something out there worth more than the lives of 16 people, something I've never seen anyone consider yet or really much in Danganronpa before. I think this may end up being a justified kill.

7. David knows who Xander is... I hope that comes up again. I'm very curious as to who he really is and why David has memories. My theory is that David knew of him during or before the age of 18, so that memory wouldn't have been erased. Also why did he only say a year's worth of memories?

8. This is a bit of a leap, but I think it's safe to say David has Teruko's secret.

8.5 (edit) I'm starting to get sick of J accusing Arturo and Ace accusing Nico constantly. J is a huge fucking hypocrite, and honestly, as much as I love her, both her and Ace need to shut their goddamn mouths before I shut it for them.

9. I'm glad Hu had her moment. I talked to so many people who were starting to agree with David, so it was nice to see a different opinion. And I think she's right: that David shouldn't make the choice to die for them.

10. I'm glad David told Whit to shut up and called him out. I think that might help Whit have character development in the future, if he survives this trial.

11. My heart fucking sank when Levi confessed his secret.

12. I'm a huge Teruvid fan after this episode. I already was a fan, but holy shit.

13 (edit) David dropped the "good person" term on Xander. That's huge, considering the hidden text in the chapter card.

14. I could see Levi's reveal going one of three ways:

a. He's the killer as well and he's going to come clean

b. He's lying and he's the killer

c. He's telling the truth but he isn't the killer

Here's my opinions of the cast after this episode:

(Hu and David went up by a lot.)

#drdt #danganronpa despair time

66 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

Note

EDDIE MUNSON - OURS

😭😭😭

ours (eddie’s version)

warnings: none. just tooth-rotting fluff <3

wc: 1.4k+

a/n: i got a little carried away. but i wish i had an eddie munson to go home to each night and just kiss and cuddle goddamn it

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

“He’s… interesting.”

“I guess when you said you had a boyfriend, I never envisioned someone like him.”

“You two are such… opposites! I mean- no! No, not a… bad thing, I suppose. Just… interesting.”

You were growing tired of it. You know people didn’t mean for their incessant questions or comments to get under your skin so badly, but they did. Any time someone at your new job caught sight of your phone’s lock screen – a joyous selfie of you and a sunburnt Eddie at the lake – or your work computer’s screen saver – a photo taken at dusk of Eddie on your couch, strumming on his guitar completely unaware – they had something to say. Something to point out. Whether it be the way you two didn’t seem to fit in their minds, or how rough around the edges he seemed to be. Some coworkers even pressed on how long you two had been together, pulling out the marriage card at a completely inappropriate time. One coworker had even made a snide remark on his long hair, saying “oh, I thought that was a girl! What a relief!”. It just…. It dug beneath your skin every time without fail, making you uncomfortable and irritated all in the same breath.

You don’t understand why they cared so much. It wasn’t their relationship – they didn’t know you. You’d only started the job a few months prior. They could eat shit, for all you care.

Today had been a bad day. Maurice, one of the elderly women who worked at the front reception desk, had just been awful. She was always talking of you going on a date with her grandson, each time conveniently forgetting that you were already happily in a relationship, but today she’d crossed a line. She’d had her grandson physically come into the office at lunch time, and caught you just as you were on your way out the door to try and pick up something to hold you over until five o’clock would finally arrive.

The one day you didn’t pack your own lunch. Go figure.

“Oh! Dear! Over here!” she called to you as you tried to scurry past her desk. You had held out the hope that the young man standing beside her would have occupied her, but no. No such luck for you on this wicked Thursday.

You took a deep breath before you turned slowly, forcing a polite smile as you faced the elderly woman, “What can I do for you, Maurice?”

“This is my grandson!” she animatedly motioned to the blonde boy at her side, and as he looked up, your stomach dropped, “Jason! The one I was telling you about!”

Jason fucking Carver.

“Oh,” you tried to keep kind in your tone, but you were already feeling hatred prickle at the back of your neck. You knew all about Jason — he’d made Eddie’s life living Hell too many times to count. He was nothing like the angel Maurice had tried to paint, “I… It’s nice to meet you, Jason, but I really should get going. I’m on my lunch.”

Jason didn’t take the social cue, stepping forward and stretching out his hand towards you, “Pleasure to finally meet the beautiful coworker my grandmother has been going on and on about. Words really didn’t do you justice.”

Gag. “You’re too kind. I do hope she also mentioned I’m already spoken for.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, glancing at Maurice for a second. “You’re taken?”

You opened your mouth to say, yes, I am happily taken, but Maurice was already waving her hands about as if that fact of the matter was nothing more than trivial smoke. “Technicalities. She has a fling with that Munson boy-“

“It’s not a fling,” you stressed, your patience meeting its end, “We’ve been together for years. We live together. I’m really sorry, Jacob,” you purposefully say the wrong name as you turn to Jason, exasperated and not sorry in the slightest, “But I’m not interested. I’ll see you after lunch, Maurice.”

You think you heard Jason call out a correction of his name from behind you, but you paid him no mind. Fuck him.

You ended up taking a longer lunch, not even caring for the consequences just so you could sit in your car and call Eddie. You described each person who walked into the building that you caught sight of, completely forgetting to scavenge a snack, too wrapped up in giggling at every ridiculous joke or story he makes up for the strangers.

He made it feel better. Maurice and Jason and everyone’s incessant comments forgotten. Their judgments never took this into consideration — this tranquility and Eddie’s ability to make you laugh until your ribs ached. They never considered the love that carried you home each night.

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

You practically speed the entire way home, forgetting to watch for any police cars half the time. Your poor front door cries out on its hinges as you barrel through it with only one thing on your mind: Eddie.

“Hey baby-“ Eddie tries to greet you, but he hardly has the time to set his guitar to the side before you’re falling into his lap where he sits on the couch. “Oof, bad day?”

Your thighs bracket his hips and your nose is already nuzzling into his neck, his soft laughter shaking his shoulders slightly as your arms wind themselves around him to the best of your abilities. He returns the favor without hesitation; arms hold you close to his chest and you can feel his nose dip to graze along your temple.

“The absolute worst,” your voice is muffled by his neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind, so you continue, “I swear to God, if I had know this office was full of such judgmental assholes I would have never-“

“Woah, woah, woah,” he pulls you back slightly, bringing his hands up to hold both cheeks between his palms as his thumb trails softly against your cheek bone, “Are they being mean to you? Because if they are, just say the word – I’m not afraid to kick a couple of grandmas’ asses.”

You laugh, sniffling a bit, still on the verge of tears out of relief of being home with him finally, “No, no. You don’t need to go and kick any elderly ass – today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

You pretend to think about it as you finally slide off his lap, sitting to his side as your legs remain draped on his lap. He’s quick to reach down and let his calloused fingertips graze a trail down your thigh, ending at your ankle before he wraps them around it and squeezes softly, “Hmm, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Yeah?” he questions, leaning his face down to your shoulder, peppering kisses there, eyes still attempting to glance up at you in adoration through thick lashes, “So not a no. Got it. I’ll have my boxing gloves at the ready.”

You both laugh as Eddie continues his short assault of kisses.

Your coworkers can say whatever they want. They can judge the two of you based on short snapshots all they please – they can’t take this from you. Not as his lips brush your collarbones, not as his palms massage your calves, and certainly not as he murmurs soft declarations of how much he missed you all day against your skin.

“Say, you wanna play a song for me on that guitar, rockstar?” you say as you thread your fingers through his curls, noting the way they’re extra soft, as if he’d done a hair mask like you always pestered him to.

He lifts his head and leans back casually against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as he smiles at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand, “Maybe later. Right now, I just wanna spend some time with my baby.”

“Oh, I see,” you snort, “You’re gonna break out sweetheart instead? No more dragon-slaying for today?” you joke, referencing his nicknames for his two guitars.

He only shakes his head and rolls his eyes at you, surging forward and capturing your lips against his, teeth clashing a bit due to both of your wild grins. He has you falling backwards into the couch cushions in an instant and lets his weight settle between your thighs, enveloping you in smells of home. Just him, just you, just the love that you two have gardened here. No opinions of others ever needed.

“Shut up. I love you.”

“and it’s not theirs to speculate if it’s wrong. and your hand’s a tough but they are where mine belong.”

#speak now (ghost's version)#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #my writing

831 notes · View notes

fatkish · 9 months ago

Note

well hello there i just what to say i love the righting and 2 as u can see i suck at spelling so im sorry. and 3 i wish to know if u could do some mha angst like maybe like kiribaku x adhd reader where like bakugo dosen't mean tell reader to stop talking so fast or to like sit properly and stop moving there leg (i kinda want both cuz i get told that alot but u pick) but then kiri comes home and bakugos is sleeping on the couch and next day, kiri makes bakugo apologises and see how he was wrong. but its up to u. like reader could be overstimulated and cant stop moving. or sumth its up to u but thx for replying if u do don't feel like u need to tho byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Kirishima x Bakugou x Reader Drabble

It was that time of year again. Exams were getting closer and you and Kirishima needed help studying for them. So you both asked your shared boyfriend Bakugou, to help you guys study. Due to your ADHD, you typically take you tests in a different room alone with one of the teachers, that’s because it’s easier for you to focus when there’s less possible distractions. Due to your constant fidgeting, the school has allowed for you to keep a small exercise cycle underneath your desk. This device is similar to an exercise bike with its pedals, but it’s smaller and made to be used when sitting. The cycle is considered a learning tool for you since it allows you to fidget while disturbing as little people as possible.

Sadly, you can’t bring it everywhere with you, if you could then that incident wouldn’t have happened. You and Kirishima had begged Bakugou to help you guys study, so you three went to a cafe. Of course, your Boyfriends knew of your ADHD and how it affected you. They knew that it could only be managed so much, it wasn’t something that could be completely controlled and that it’s something you struggle with. While Bakugou was trying to help you both study, you kept getting distracted by everything and you wouldn’t stop shaking your leg, causing the booth to vibrate.

As you would point out things that you saw that you noticed like someone’s hairstyle or a band t-shirt someone was wearing, Bakugou was starting to get fed up with your inability to focus. You were sitting next to him in the same booth and your constant leg shaking was vibrating the seat and it was driving him crazy. After 1 hour and 30 minutes of your constant interruptions and leg bouncing, Bakugou was at his wit’s end.

“Goddamnit you spacey fuck, can’t you concentrate for more than a couple fucking seconds?!?! And will you fucking quit bouncing your goddamn leg. It’s so fucking damn annoying!” The moment Bakugou registered what he just shouted at you, he realized how much he messed up. You looked at him with watery eyes before your face changed to one of anger.

“I’m leaving” you got up and left the cafe, leaving behind a sorrowful Kirishima and a sorry Bakugou. Bakugou knew he had messed up the moment the words left his mouth. Before Kirishima could say anything Bakugou spoke.

“I know, I know, I messed up and I need to apologize. Don’t worry, I will.”

Kirishima could only look at Bakugou in slight disappointment before he went back to studying.

The next day at school, Kirishima pulled Bakugou aside in the hall outside the classroom and demanded that he apologize to you. Bakugou knew he messed up and was already planning out how he was going to apologize. As they walked into the classroom, they saw you scribbling away in one of your doodle journals. Since most students weren’t in the classroom yet, Bakugou decided to apologize then and there. He walked over and grabbed the back of your shirt, dragging you into the hallway.

“Look, I’m sorry ‘bout what I said yesterday. I was just pissed and I took it out on you.” He mumbled just quite enough for you to hear.

“It’s okay, I know I forgot to bring a fidget and I’ve been trying to manage my symptoms better. I just have to work harder but I appreciate the apology”

“Yeah yeah just shut up” Bakugou muttered as he looked away with a slight blush on his cheeks.

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader

77 notes · View notes

stardustbarbarians · 5 days ago

Text

The Sound of Thunder

A Sam Kiszka / Daniel Wagner fic

Summary: When Sam was hired to catch Danny, he got more than he bargained for.

Tags: bounty hunter!Sam, outlaw!Danny, 1870s Arizona, getting together, slow burn, fluff, a touch of angst

Words: 14.9 k

A/N: Yeah when I said slow burn I meant it. I have no chill when it comes to cowboys. Couple of quick things: there's a character named Micah in this fic that is not based off of Josh's partner, but a character from rdr2 who I fucking hate. Secondly, I tried to be as period accurate as I could be (fun fact: did you know one of the most iconic Old West figures, Buffalo Bill, had long, curly hair?). Also, I referenced a certain singer multiple times in here; if you know who that is you win a gold star from me! Lastly, this fic's title is taken from Caught My Breath by Palace. Dedicated to @runwayblues. Enjoy!! <3

+++

“I’ve never been real good at startin’ stories,” the outlaw admitted, the left corner of his lip pulling upwards in a wry way.

“Well, it sure is a good thing I’m looking for the truth rather than a story, ain’t it?” The other man’s boots made a heavy sound as they tapped down against the dusty wooden floor. A small metallic jingle resounded with each step as well, the spurs on his boots jostling as he circled the man tied to the chair in the center of the room.

That got a scoff of a laugh from the outlaw. His dark eyes followed the bounty hunter that circled him like a vulture; that comparison itself almost made him laugh again. The outlaw always thought bounty hunters were like those carrion birds: earning their keep from other people’s kills.

“Would you even believe me if I told it to ya?” the outlaw shot back, refusing to crane his neck as the bounty hunter walked behind him.

The bounty hunter sighed deeply, an annoyed sound that came from his bones. It amused the outlaw to no end.

“Just tell me what you were doin’ in Clearwater. Make it easy for the both of us,” the bounty hunter attempted to bargain, his patience wearing thin. He even pulled out his six-shot from its holster, twirling the weapon around on his finger just like his big brother taught him all those years ago. It wasn’t meant to be an intimidation method, at least not entirely. It had been a habit of his ever since that pearl-handled revolver had been passed down to him.

“Why? Pissin’ you off has been the highlight of my week.” A borderline cruel laugh tumbled from the outlaw’s lips. His eyes glittered in the flame of the kerosene lamp that flickered on the desk in front of him - behind the bounty hunter - as he gazed into the quasi-lawman’s eyes.

“Y’know,” the bounty hunter started, bending at his waist to be level with the current thorn in his side, refusing to be intimidated by his unwavering glare and only returning it ten-fold, “for a fella in real deep shit, you sure are pushing your goddamn luck.”

The outlaw wet his lips before smiling. It wasn’t a friendly one, neither. It evoked images of snakes coiled up before striking, hammers on revolvers being cocked, and knives pressing into throats.

“Ain’t that worrying you, pretty boy?”

“What, that you don’t respect me? I already know you’re a fool.”

That seemed to be just the right answer. That amusement finally reached the outlaw’s eyes, sending an involuntary shiver down the bounty hunter’s spine.

“You sure I’m the fool?”

As if on cue, a thunderous BOOM! ripped through the relative quiet of the immature night. The wall behind the bounty hunter of the single-room cabin the two were holed up in was blown clean open. The shockwave sent him to the ground, splinters showering down on him as the desk protected him from the major debris. The ringing in his ears muffled the sounds of men shouting, his head pounding from where it made contact with the floor. He would’ve been consumed by the darkness encroaching on his vision if it hadn’t been for the sensation of a boot toe turning him onto his back and the sharp sting of a large hand cracking him across the cheek.

“That was fun, Kiszka! Let’s do it again sometime!” the outlaw hollered, his silhouette towering over him. He was cast in a silvery color, the light of the moon highlighting half of his face. His toothy smile seemed genuine, his amusement almost childlike as it scrunched up his prominent nose.

“Deadeye, let’s go! The whole place is gonna go up like a torch!” a disembodied voice shouted from where the wall had been blown up. The outlaw’s attention was snapped to the voice, leaving the bounty hunter to feel a strange cold wash over him at the loss.

“Be right out!” he called back, his attention once again fixating back onto the bounty hunter. He pulled his pistol from where it was tucked into the bounty hunter’s belt, the man having confiscated it when he apprehended Deadeye. “Catch me if you can, pretty boy.”

With a wink and a simultaneous click of his tongue, the outlaw dashed from the bounty hunter’s view and off to join his band of miscreants. Numerous hoofbeats followed shortly after, decrescendoing into the night. He could hear his own horse whinnying with fear as the cabin’s fire grew larger by the second.

With what little strength he had, Sam Kiszka pulled himself out of the debris and splinters. Gathering what little he could with such short notice, he hurried off to where his trusty steed was tethered. His entire body ached as he mounted up, his teeth gritted against the pain. His face burned as he whipped his horse’s reins and the fire blazing at his back could not be blamed.

That had been their first time meeting. Sam had been hired by the sheriff in the town of Clearwater to track down and capture the infamous “Deadeye” Wagner and his posse. There wasn’t anything concrete, but the sheriff was pretty damn sure the outlaw that had been terrorizing their state for nearly a year was to blame for the batch of cattle hustling and home robberies that had taken place while they were in town.

“You’re our best hope,” the sheriff had spoken right after Sam was given Deadeye’s wanted poster. It wasn’t meant as a slight, Sam knew that. But, he read between the lines of that statement.

You’re our best hope since we can’t hire your brothers.

Josh and Jake had been the best trackers and bounty hunters the west had ever seen. They were always in demand, often getting job offers multiple times in a single day and having letters written to them asking for their help. There was not a single bounty they couldn’t bring to justice.

Until Reno.

Jake had caught that bullet in the throat and Josh couldn’t shake it. He quit the life right after he shot the bastard who killed Jake between the eyes. He lives up in the mountains somewhere now; Sam will write to him when he has the time. But, as it is, Sam was left to take on the family business. He didn’t know any other way of living, or else he might’ve been a ranch hand or something.

The Kiszka name didn’t hold the same weight as it used to. And everyone knew that. Sure. Sam was good at his job, but his name no longer struck fear into the hearts of criminals like it had before Jake died. He wasn’t as good as the twins were and he could sense that gap in skill each time he took on a job. He could see the patronizing look in their eyes as they longed to be hiring his brothers in his stead. He could hear the “you’re not as good as them” in their words. He felt their forced respect with each interaction.

But he kept doing his job. And he kept doing it well. He may not have had his brothers’ level of talent, but he was still far better than any other bounty hunter in the state.

And that was why he was specifically reached out to in order to find Deadeye. It had taken him longer than it would have finding other bounties, but Deadeye was no ordinary bounty. When that whole incident went down with the Diamondback Gang blowing up a house and Sam losing some of his hearing in his left ear, he had been tracking them for two weeks before he was finally able to be in the same town. It was another few days before Sam could catch the elusive Deadeye on his own.

Since then, it had been his personal mission to take down Deadeye himself. He didn’t focus solely on catching the bastard - he needed money for food - but he always kept his eye out for any possible lead. Most of them had been completely useless, oftentimes coming to him when it was far too late and the Diamondbacks had already moved on. But, just as a broken clock is right twice a day, Sam will receive useful information from time to time.

And that was how Sam had found himself being the one tied to the chair this time around.

“Y’know, I was expectin’ you to show up again. But this certainly wasn’t how I pictured it,” Deadeye drawled, leaning against the far wall and cast in shadow. Sam watched as the pocket knife he was tossing in his hand would catch the light of the kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what this daydream entailed,” Sam shot back, wriggling against the rough rope as it cut into his wrists. He knew they were going to be raw when he got out of them, he just hoped they didn’t end up bloody by the end.

Deadeye chuckled at the statement, the sound reminiscent of thunder roiling. He pushed off from the wall, his boots heavily hitting the ground to fill the void of voices. It was just the two of them in that cellar; Deadeye had sent the rest of the Diamondbacks up to the house they had commandeered. Deadeye was sure to inform Sam that the house had belonged to a vile bastard who preyed on women. And, while it was still wrong to hang the man by dragging him behind his horse, Sam can’t say he was particularly upset with the outlaw for his actions.

“We’ll just say that there was a lot less rope involved… and a lot more whiskey.”

“Hell, if you’re offerin’ I’d sure as shit love a nip.” Sam never let his eyes stray from his captor’s face, but he also made sure to pay attention to the man’s hand that sat on his gun belt. While he was tossing the knife with his right hand, everyone knew that Deadeye’s left hand was the one you should fear. He was the only left-handed draw in the state and the only one worth their salt in the whole country.

That earned Sam a laugh. A genuine one. It was saturated in smoke and rattled in his chest - no doubt a side effect of having been shot there a handful of years ago. But, nonetheless, it burned good as it hit his ears just like a good hard liquor slides down your throat.

“I knew I liked you,” the outlaw declared, finally slipping his hunting knife back into its spot next to the gun hanging from his hip. Immediately, it was replaced by a flask the man had pulled out from the inside breast pocket of his vest.

He uncapped it and took a pull of his own, walking slowly to the spot right in front of Sam. The bounty hunter watched as the man’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the chords in his neck flexing as he tipped his head back.

“You sure it’s a good idea to get drunk? Considerin’ you’re in the clutches of the man you’ve been huntin’ for months?” Deadeye asked after pulling the flask away from his lips.

“The way I see it: if I’m gonna die, might as well get to enjoy something on the way out,” Sam professed, nodding his head towards the silver, engraved drink vessel.

Wagner obliged, carefully pressing the opening of the flask to Sam’s lips. The bounty hunter tipped his head back, taking a long pull of the liquor. It burned as it slid down his gullet, but it didn’t stop him from taking another gulp. He maintained the eye contact he held with the outlaw, something burning in him that couldn’t be blamed on the whiskey.

“You think I’m gonna kill you?” Deadeye questioned, capping the flask before slipping it back into his vest pocket. There was a very faint quiver in his voice that was easily missed if you weren’t paying attention. It was hushed with a clearing of the outlaw’s throat.

“That, or you’re tryna see just how much someone is willin’ to pay to set me free.” Sam wet his lips to catch the bead of whiskey that had pilled on his bottom lip. He watched as something strange happened to the outlaw’s eyes in the flickering lamplight.

“That so?”

“I’ll just go ahead and save you the trouble, friend. Ain’t no one out there willin’ to spend a single cent on me,” Sam sardonically groused. He felt his temper worsen at his own words.

Deadeye just watched his captive for a while. There seemed to be something brewing underneath that curly head of hair he had, and Sam had the distinct feeling he wasn’t gonna like the outcome. Now that the man knew Sam was practically worthless, he knew he was living off of borrowed time. There was a possibility - however slim - of him making it out of there alive, but he needed a distraction.

“That ain’t what I heard,” Deadeye finally responded.

“What you mean?” Sam had the distinct feeling Deadeye was toying with him, like he was luring Sam into a room only to pull the rug out from under him and get him to tumble unceremoniously to the ground. He didn’t like it at all.

Deadeye shrugged, his arms crossing over his chest after sitting down in the only other chair in the place. Even in the limited light of the kerosene flame, Sam could see the way his shirt strained against the outlaw’s shoulders.

“The way I hear it, you’re the number one bounty hunter in the state. Costs a pretty penny to hire you.” Wagner had leaned back in the chair, his posture perfectly relaxed.

Kiszka couldn’t help the scoff that tumbled from his lips. Bringing up his rate… how ridiculous. “People don’t pay a ransom for their tools.”

“They would if they were smart. In this instance.”

Sam gazed quizzically at his captor, as if he were a puzzle and the pieces were all scrambled.

“You’re the only bastard who’s been able to track me down twice,” Deadeye finally elaborated after Sam kept giving him a funny look.

While he talked, Sam slowly slid his leg back so that he could reach into his boot.

“Typically the ‘bastards’ who hunt you down don’t live too long after they find you,” Sam bit, the venom in his voice not intentional.

The outlaw laughed once more, this one having almost a nostalgic twang to it.

“That just makes you one of a kind, pretty boy.”

The nickname gave the bounty hunter pause. He’d called Sam that before during their first meeting. It should have irritated him. It really should have.

“Why ain’t you killed me?” is what Sam asked. What he really meant was what makes me different?

“I already told you,” Wagner started, his voice sounding like honey as he leaned forward in the chair to look deeper into Sam’s eyes, “I like you.”

“Why?”

Deadeye chuckled, a short little scoff of a laugh, and leaned back in his chair once more. “‘Cause. You’re fun.”

It was Sam’s turn to scoff.

“All we done is tie each other up. And your boys blowin’ me half to hell,” Sam quipped, the ringing in his left ear somehow getting louder at the memory.

“Yeah, but you seem to be forgettin’ exactly how you got me in that chair. I ain’t never been bush-whacked by a fella who lassoed me first,” Deadeye admitted, amusement dripping from his tone and from the toothy grin he wore.

The rope around Sam’s wrists loosened. He slowly and carefully closed the small pocket knife before slipping it back into his boot.

“You say that like you often get kidnapped,” Sam dryly pointed out, carefully unwinding the rope from his wrists and coiling it up in his hands. He was diligently keeping his wrists together, miming that they were still tied up.

“You said it yourself. I’ve been hunted down quite a lot in my time.” Sam had wished that Wagner had taken off his hat so that he might see the outlaw’s eyes. Something told him from the way that he kept his voice carefully level, Deadeye was masking how he truly felt about that. Something that his eyes wouldn’t be able to hide. Was he mad? Scared? Amused? Sam was dying to know. For what reason it made his curiosity burn, Kiszka couldn’t tell you.

There was a beat where Deadeye waited for the bounty hunter to speak. Like a breath being held, there was a palpable pause as they both waited for conversation. And Sam did answer.

But it wasn’t with words.

Sam took the opportunity to lunge at his opponent and tackle him to the ground. Both of their chairs fell to the ground with a thunderous CRASH! and Deadeye’s even splintered into hundreds of pieces as it took the weight of both fully grown men. The bounty hunter used the rope he cut off his wrists to press into Wagner’s throat; not enough pressure to choke the man to death, but enough that the outlaw knew Sam could do that if he needed to. He straddled the man under him, his knees on either side of Deadeye’s hips.

For some strange reason, and before Sam could even voice his demands, the outlaw started to laugh. It wasn’t a pure laugh like a child’s, but one that was full of a twisted kind of delight. The bastard had a cocky smile on his lips, the left corner of his mouth pulling up in a crooked, toothy grin. It made a shiver go down Sam’s spine, one that he had to suppress from wracking his entire body.

“Well, partner, you have my full attention, now,” Deadeye breathed, both of his hands facing upwards in a show of his surrender to Sam. It was a strange thing.

Sam pulled Deadeye’s revolver out of the man’s holster and pointed it right at his head. “You let me walk right on outta here and no one has to die, alright?”

They both knew that Deadeye was the stronger man of them both. If he wanted, he could turn the tides of this situation in the blink of an eye. Yet, for some reason, he was letting Sam be in control.

No doubt in reaction to the commotion Sam had caused when he attacked their boss, a few of the Diamondbacks burst through the door of the cellar the two men were in. Kiszka instantly turned the gun to them out of instinct, noting how they each had a rifle or revolver of their own.

“You sneaky BASTARD! He got the boss!” One of them yelled, causing Sam to point the gun right back at Deadeye’s head.

“Make one wrong move and I’ll paint this floor with his brains, you hear?!” Kiszka shouted back, his free hand fisting Wagner’s shirt collar and pressing him harder into the floor.

“Ohhhhhh, we all know you ain’t got the stomach for that, pretty boy,” the same man hissed, bringing his rifle up to his eye and pulling on the lever to rack in a shot.

Sam bristled at the usage of the nickname.

“You wanna take that chance?” Sam slowly threatened, never breaking eye contact with that particular Diamondback.

“Lucky I’m-”

“Enough!”

Deadeye’s voice cut through the air. It was a commanding presence, one that even made Sam obey. Though, given the way that Deadeye was looking at his crew, Sam was not the one he directed that order to.

There wasn’t another word uttered out of Wagner’s mouth. Yet, somehow, he made his crew lower their weapons. Reluctantly, of course, if the way they all still gripped their guns tightly and kept their fingers on the trigger was any indication. Each one wore a scowl that could curdle milk.

Finally, Deadeye’s attention fell back onto Sam. Despite being the one with the gun pressed into his temple, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that Wagner was in control.

“Let ‘em go, boys,” the outlaw smoothly ordered, his eyes never leaving Sam’s. From this proximity, Sam saw that they were a light brown with hints of green in them. They reminded Sam of a mossy tree you might see in a cold forest after a heavy rain.

“What!?” the Diamondback that Sam was arguing with earlier hissed, clearly unhappy with that decision.

“Isaiah, get Micah outta here! Before I slit his throat!” Deadeye waved his hand animatedly at the men above his head. It was the first time Sam had witnessed the outlaw’s infamous rage. He’d heard about it from the survivors of his gang’s attacks and read about it, too. But it was much more powerful experiencing it first-hand. And Sam had the feeling he’d only seen a glimpse of it.

Just like he’d asked, one of the Diamondbacks - Isaiah - grabbed the confrontational member - Micah - and dragged him out of the room. From the looks of it, no one was upset at this change.

“You’re good, Sam,” Deadeye praised, that dark amusement back in his tone as he slowly rose to his elbows, “real good.”

Sam slowly pulled the gun off of the outlaw’s temple, but kept the barrel pointed at him. You couldn’t be too careful when facing down a predator.

“Your skills, well…” Wagner slid out from under Sam, getting to his feet with Sam quick to follow, “You certainly live up to the stories, if not more so.”

“I don’t rightly get you, friend,” the bounty hunter huffed, his frustration at Deadeye’s confusing treatment of him finally showing outwardly. At least a little.

Wagner chuckled. “‘Course you wouldn’t. Not yet, at least.” He said the last part under his breath.

Even though Sam was still pointing his own gun at him, Deadeye seemed to be as relaxed as a lizard sunbathing on a rock. His hands were still up in surrender, yet it seemed more of a formality than an act of self-preservation.

The outlaw jerked his head towards the door where his men were watching everything go down, their guns still lowered but trigger fingers in position waiting to pounce. “Go on out. They won’t give you no trouble, I promise.”

Sam cast his eyes towards the stairs quickly, placing them back onto Deadeye. While still facing his opponent, Sam made side-steps towards the exit. He still kept the gun trained on the outlaw as insurance that his posse wouldn’t shoot him in the back.

Just as he made it up the stairs and to the threshold, Deadeye called out to him. “Oh, and Sam? Think about what I said.”

The bounty hunter felt that confused frustration shoot through his bloodstream again. Involuntarily, his hand clenched around the handle of the revolver. “About what, exactly? You said a lotta things.”

“You’re an intelligent man, pretty boy. You’ll figure it out,” Wagner answered, his tone bordering on a whisper as his voice smoothly flowed from his lips. His smirk was dripping with that twisted amusement, giving Sam the feeling of a predator toying with his food.

Before Deadeye could change his mind about setting Sam free, the man booked it for his horse. Sam whipped his mare’s reins and had her take off into a full gallop, wanting to put as much distance between him and that confusing criminal as possible.

It wasn’t until after he’d finally stopped to rest for the night that the bounty hunter realized he’d still possessed Deadeye’s revolver.

+++

The next time they met was a complete accident.

No, really.

Sam hadn’t taken to pursuing the Diamondbacks for months. He wanted to leave them be for the time being. And it wasn’t because of the confounding way that Deadeye made Sam feel. It wasn’t that at all so don’t even try to accuse Sam of that.

It’s just that- well- Sam was busy. He did have a life outside of Deadeye and his band of miscreants. And that life included tracking down other criminals so that he could feed himself and his horse, Sundown.

In fact, it was while he was chasing one of those other law breakers that he found himself in Deadeye Wagner’s company once more. They were following the same lead, it seemed.

“You lookin’ for Cotton Jenny, too?” the general store owner questioned, not even bothering to look up from the ledger he was scribbling in to address Sam. Kiszka was surprised, to say the least.

“Yes, sir. How’d you know?” Sam answered, adjusting the bandana around his neck as a nervous habit.

“Son, I’ve been ‘round long enough to know a bounty hunter when I see one,” the shop owner answered irately, his big, grey eyebrows furrowing as he continued to write in his ledger.

Kiszka had to suppress a scoff. “Only people who recognize bounty hunters are other bounty hunters… and crooks.”

The proprietor ceased writing, finally looking up from his book. His wrinkled face told the story of a hard-fought man - a tired one. One that gave credence to the saying “beware of a man who grew old in an environment where people die young”.

“We all got our pasts, boy,” he darkly growled like a greying attack dog.

“Sure,” Sam drawled, his spurs jingling as he took a step towards the old man, “and some of us can’t outrun ‘em.”

The shopkeep laughed; one single, dry cough of absurdity. “You say that like you got ghosts followin’ you.”

“Just like you said, we all got our pasts, mister,” Sam spoke placatingly, taking another step towards the old man, shrugging his shoulders as he rested his hands on his gun belt, “and right now, the only past I’m interested in is Cotton Jenny’s. And if you help me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

The shopkeeper and the bounty hunter stared at one another for a moment, each one deciding how they felt about the other and preparing for if that opinion was bad. But, like a frozen river breaks like a bone in a spring thaw, Sam watched as a smile slowly crept up under that bushy, white mustache.

“I like you, kid.” Sam’s mind echoed those same words in Deadeye’s voice. It had been months, yet he could still hear his voice like he was next to his ear.

Sam felt his shoulders relax, realizing he wasn’t in imminent danger any longer. He never let his hand stray from his gun belt, though. He knew better.

“I’m bettin’ you’re wantin’ to know where she’s holed up,” the shopkeeper inferred, closing his ledger as a signal to Sam that he had the man’s attention.

“Yes, sir. Any information you’ve got on her would be helpful.” Sam nodded his head, having to adjust his hat as it slid down on his forehead a touch.

“Last anyone heard, she was seen hidin’ with her gang ‘round Cherokee Bend. If you follow the river south a ways, you’ll see a bend in the bank. Keep goin’ a bit off the beaten path, there’s an old cabin there.”

Sam repeated the directions in his head twice. He didn’t want to get a single detail wrong. With a nod of his head, Sam reached into his satchel and pulled out a bill fold.

“Thank you,” he politely hummed, setting the five dollars in singles on the counter. The metal clip made a dull thud against the worn wood of the counter, the light green stark against the elm board.

Just as Sam lifted up the handle of the shop door and pulled it open, the store clerk called after him.

“Jenny’s got a real big price on her head, son. That tends to draw in other folk who might not be so honest,” he warned, his tobacco soaked throat making his voice gruff and scratchy. It spoke of experience, his warning.

Sam simply hummed a small laugh, glancing over his shoulder at the man. “I know, sir.” He spoke from experience, too.

And with that, Sam tipped his hat to the store owner and walked out into the burning sun of the evening. His stomach grumbled in anger, reminding the man that he hadn’t eaten since the morning. And while he still had canned food in his saddle bags, He’d rather get shot in the stomach than have to force down that metallic tasting sludge again. Goddamnit, he’d pay the odd sum of dollars to get a fresh cooked meal.

So that pointed his boots in the direction of the saloon.

Usually, he tended to stay away from whiskey bars and gin joints as much as he could. That was where most of his enemies would reside drinking themselves stupid. And, truly, there was nothing more dangerous to his health than a man with a gun and a mind full of liquor. Especially since his family had put away the most criminals this side of the Mississippi. That created a lot of enemies.

With that in mind, Sam strode into the saloon and cautiously scanned the room. No one immediately stood out to him, which was always a good sign. It was early enough in the day that the patrons weren’t very drunk yet, but it was clear that many of the men were not on their first drink of the day.

Kiszka kept his hand close to his gun as he walked, but never made the mistake of touching it. That was a sure-fire way to start a fight. He was able to reach the bar without incident, ordering himself a cut of pork loin, greens, and potatoes. And a beer. What? He never said he didn’t drink.

While Sam waited for his meal to arrive, he tried his best to keep his head down. His head had been pounding from the moment he opened his eyes, and the only relief he got was when he closed them. Though his sight was removed, his sense of hearing sharpened. He could hear the rumble of conversation, the clink of glasses, the thud of boots, and the door opening. But he kept his eyes shut.

That was his first mistake.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a familiar drawl voiced to Sam’s left, a sense of cold dread washing over the bounty hunter as he recognized the speaker, “Pretty Boy Kiszka, as I live and breathe!”

“Wagner,” Sam blandly greeted, not even bothering to even look his way, much less open his eyes.

“Awwww, don’t be like that! Ain’t you happy to see an old friend?” Deadeye threw his arm around Sam’s shoulders, jostling the man and nearly making him lose his balance.

“We ain’t friends,” Sam growled, throwing the unwanted touch off of him. He shot the criminal a scowl pointed enough to kill a man. He should’ve known that wouldn’t deter the likes of Deadeye.

“Sure we are,” Deadeye drawled, cozying up right next to Kiszka. The bounty hunter just rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. At that point, he figured it would be less of a fuss to just let Deadeye do his thing then try to shove him away.

“What brings you to the humble little town of Acacia?” Wagner trudged on, willfully ignoring all of Sam’s cues to leave him alone.

“Ain’t no business of yours,” Sam hissed, the bartender finally placing his meal and drink down in front of him. He immediately took a swig of his beer, needing something to get through this interaction.

For a brief moment, Deadeye didn’t say or do anything. He watched Sam as the man ate his dinner with intensely intrigued eyes. Almost as if he was studying his every move; like that would give him the answers he sought.

“You’re goin’ after Cotton Jenny.” It was a fact. That’s how he said it. As certain as death coming his way one day, Sam was going after Cotton Jenny.

Sam made his next mistake here. He froze. His fork was halfway to his mouth when his entire body went rigid. That was all the confirmation needed.

The outlaw wore a satisfied grin on his face and leaned his elbows on the bar, his back pressing into the wooden counter.

“That’s a risky business to take on all by your lonesome, cowboy,” Danny continued, his voice dripping with something saccharin. If Sam hadn’t known any better, he would’ve guessed the man was flirting.

“Who said I was alone?”

The smile on Deadeye’s face at Sam’s comment made him realize he’d played right into the outlaw’s hands. He wanted to pound his head into the wall for his stupidity.

“I know you, Kiszka. You ain’t ran with no one since your brothers.”

So what if he was right? Sam didn’t like the idea of this outlaw pretending to be friendly with him.

“If you got a point, Wagner, I suggest you make it and quick.” Sam’s jaw was clenched together as he spoke.

“Let us ride with ya.” It was as plain as that. At least, that’s what Deadeye’s tone suggested. But Sam knew there was a catch. He wanted something out of this deal.

“And I suppose that means you and your posse get a cut of the reward, too?” Kiszka scoffed, finally taking a bite of pork. It was a little dry, but, damn if it weren’t better than the shit he’d been eating out of cans for weeks.

“The money’s all yours, Pretty Boy.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to study the outlaw. There was a knit in his brow as his eyes scanned Deadeye for any hint of deception. It was too good to be true.

“Bullshit,” Sam called, taking another drink of his beer and shaking his head.

“We don’t need it. Me and the boys just- well… You’ll be readin’ ‘bout it in the papers soon enough.” Deadeye leaned in towards Sam as he spoke, mere inches away from one another. Sam ignored the way his husky tone made him want to shiver.

“I should arrest you for that,” Sam argued, his voice also dipping towards the sultry side. He wasn’t aware of his tone or else he wouldn’t have employed it. Which makes it all the more incriminating.

“But you won’t,” Wagner confidently purred, his eyes darting down to the bounty hunter’s lips as he leaned even closer.

Many eyes in the saloon were fixated on the pair, now. Not that either of them noticed. They were all waiting for one of the men to throw a punch at the other. To spit in the other’s face. To grab them by the lapels and throw them to the ground. That was how tense the air was between the two figures.

“So, we doin’ this or not?” Deadeye asked after the two continued to stare at one another for too long.

Sam sighed and looked down at his plate. He bought himself some time to think as he took another bite of his dinner. While he hated to admit it, Deadeye was right. Going on this job by himself was dangerous. Then again, he went on every job by himself no matter the danger. But Cotton Jenny’s price was high for a reason.

Can you trust him?

That was the big question, wasn’t it? Could he trust Wagner with his life? He had spared Sam twice, now. But those times were different. There would be gunfights, bloodshed, and possibly death. How did he know Wagner wouldn’t tuck tail and run?

Taking one more drink of beer, Sam made his third mistake of the night. “Fine. But we’re doin’ this my way, got it?” Kiszka growled. He slammed the bottle onto the bar, turning to look the outlaw in the eyes.

“Of course, boss. Your word is my command,” Wagner agreed, making a show of splaying his hands out and lowering his head to submit to Sam. It made the bounty hunter’s hackles rise.

“Meet me at the milliner’s in an hour. Gives you enough time to gather your crew,” Sam mumbled, shaking his head at the display. He felt his lip curl back in disgust at Deadeye and his “submission” the longer he thought about it.

“You need a new hat, m’lady?” Deadeye joked, poking fun at the location Sam chose.

“Get outta here and let me finish my goddamn meal!” Kiszka barked, nudging the outlaw away from him and towards the door. He grudgingly followed the order, Deadeye’s boots jangling with each heavy step.

“Hey,” the bounty hunter called out before Deadeye could reach for the door handle, “don’t make me regret this.”

Wagner’s lips pulled up at one corner. He tipped his hat in acknowledgement before disappearing out the door.

This is one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever had, Kiszka.

+++

Two hours or so after they had met up at the south end of town, they made their way back with Cotton Jenny hogtied on the back of Sam’s horse, Sundown. It had gone surprisingly well for them; not a single death on their side and only one injury. Good ol’ Micah had gone and gotten himself grazed by a bullet in the side. Lotta blood, but nothing too serious as long as he saw a doctor. With the way he was belly aching about it, though, you’d assume he was taking his final breaths.

“Son of a BITCH!!” He cried for the fourth time as they followed the river back towards Acacia.

“Oh, can it, would ya??” Isaiah cried, finally fed up with his acquaintance’s bluster.

“Why we lettin’ Pretty Boy get the money, huh? We did all the hard work!” Micah griped, nudging his horse closer to Deadeye’s.

“Cause I said so.” Deadeye left no room for argument. Yet, the annoying bastard was able to find that tiny margin for error.

“You’re turnin’ soft, Deadeye,” Micah spat.

“You wanna ‘nother bullet in ya, Micah? Cause we both know I ain’t one to miss,” Deadeye hissed at his subordinate. He even went so far as to draw his pistol from its holster and point it between Micah’s eyes.

“That’s enough!” Sam yelled, cutting through the argument. “Isaiah, Virgil, take Micah with ya to the doctor’s. Deadeye, you ride with me to the city lock up. Ain’t nobody shootin’ no one, is that clear?”

All the other men begrudgingly sighed, doing as ordered. Isaiah and Virgil, the fourth man to join from Deadeye’s crew, escorted Micah to the doctor’s office, having to veer off of the path Deadeye and Sam were taking to get to the North end of town faster. That left Deadeye and Sam by themselves. With Cotton Jenny of course.

She had started making these panicked noises a little bit into the trip, catching the outlaw’s attention.

“What’s up with her?”

Sam glanced at the woman tied up on his horse. He noticed how she kept trying to get the gag off that Deadeye had stuffed into her mouth.

“She can’t breathe,” Sam answered, reaching around with a hand free from his reins and pulling the cloth out of her mouth. It was hard enough breathing on the back of a horse when the damn thing was bucking into your ribs, Sam should know.

As soon as he pulled it out, Jenny started gasping for breath. It was only a matter of time before she started yelling.

“Deadeye, you rotten son of a bitch!! I oughta skin you and bleed you dry!!”

Sam couldn’t help the laugh that burst from his lips. That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Usually I’m the one gettin’ cursed out,” Sam admitted, an amused smile on his face as he watched Wagner change color.

“You yellow, no good, RAT! You’re a lyin’ snake with no goddamn guts!!” Jenny continued, ignoring Sam completely.

“That’s enough, Jen,” Deadeye hissed, the warning very clear in his words.

“You sold me out to the law! Not only that, you helped bring me in all ‘cause some pretty boy batted his lashes at ya!!”

“What’s she talkin’ ‘bout?” Sam inquired, searching the other man’s face. There was anger burning in his eyes, no doubt, but underneath that was something that looked like embarrassment on the outlaw’s face.

“Dunno,” Wagner attempted. Sam was starting to realize just how bad of a liar Deadeye was.

“Bullshit! We had a deal-”

“And deals can go sour, can’t they? You’d know that better than anyone, Jennifer,” Wagner spat at the woman, a sneer curling his lips.

Sam was only left more puzzled than before.

“C’mon. We’re wastin’ time,” Deadeye quickly said before urging his horse to speed up. It wasn’t long before Wagner was far up ahead of Sam and Cotton Jenny.

Feeling thoroughly lost, Sam had Sundown pick up speed as well. He couldn’t push her as hard as Deadeye’s gelding, given the extra weight on her back.

“You ruined everything,” the woman spat after a minute or two in silence.

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. I suggest you save your breath for the judge,” Sam tiredly responded. His headache still hadn’t let up and he just wanted some goddamn quiet.

“Everythin’ was fine ‘tween us ‘til you came ‘round.”

That struck Kiszka like a bolt of lightning.

“You mean…”

There was a bitter silence from Cotton Jenny. It was all the confirmation Sam needed.

“Deadeye goes through women like cigars. He’ll use ‘em ‘til he gets bored and finds himself a new one,” Jenny sourly spat. There was a loneliness underneath her vitriol.

The bounty hunter’s head felt like it was spinning like a top.

“My advice? Don’t get too comfortable. He’ll get bored with ya sooner or later.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” Sam asked, feeling extremely disoriented despite knowing exactly where he was.

Cotton Jenny laughed at Sam. It wasn’t a pretty sound.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty, bounty hunter. ‘Cause clearly that head of yours ain’t made for thikin’.”

Even though the rest of the ride went by in silence, Sam’s head was louder than cannon fire. His mind kept racing through everything Cotton Jenny had said, repeating it over and over again on a loop. And just as usual, Sam felt confounded when it came to Deadeye and his motivations.

When they finally reached the sheriff's office, Sam was relieved to finally be rid of Cotton Jenny and her confusing words. Deadeye was waiting by the building already, horse hitched and leaning against a pillar with a smoke between his lips. Sam hitched Sundown right next to Deadeye’s gelding, using his knife to cut the rope around Jenny’s ankles before pulling her off the horse.

“No sudden moves and you get to keep your head intact, got it?” Sam threatened, his off-hand pistol pressed into her pretty black hair at the back of her head.

“I see why you like this one so much,” Cotton Jenny commented to Deadeye, a sourness to her tone.

No one said a word as Wagner opened the door to the sheriff’s, watching Sam as he walked past. Sam wasted no time marching the woman into an open cell and slamming the door behind her. He was given half of the reward right then, being told to come back next week for the rest of it when payroll came.

“You did real good back there,” Wagner warmly complimented, blowing smoke from his lips, “like you fit right in with us.”

“Don’t.” was all Sam said. He rubbed at his temple with his free hand, his headache only worsening since Wagner approached him at the saloon. The constant ringing in his left ear, usually only a minor inconvenience, was now excruciating to his poor head. He wanted nothing more than to sit in a dark, silent room for days.

The outlaw held up his hands in surrender. He took a solitary step back, a display to placate Sam and nothing more. There was no real danger Kiszka posed - to Wagner, anyway - and they both knew that.

It was during this mock display that he noticed the gun Sam was holding.

“Nice pistol ya got there, pretty boy,” Deadeye drawled, his voice reminiscent of dripping honey.

Sam, slightly confused about the rapid change of topic, looked down at the revolver still in his hand. It was a custom one; one only a man with money to burn could pay for. Gold inlays on the blackened steel glowed in the moonlight shining down on them. Right below the hammer was an etched eye, the crying thing Xed out in gold.

Sam knew instantly what Deadeye was doing. It was his gun, after all. The one Sam had stolen from him the last time they were face to face. He decided to play dumb. He looked between the outlaw and the gun like he thought Wagner was acting strange.

“What about it?”

Deadeye caught his eye. The knowing smirk sent a chill down Sam’s spine.

“Just looks real familiar, is all.” Wagner shrugged his shoulders, a lazy gesture that almost felt too casual. Like he practiced it.

That was when Sam “realized”. When he forced his face to light up in recognition and shot his eyebrows up. “Oh,” he mumbled.

The gun wasn’t balanced well enough for him to spin it around his finger gracefully, but he did so anyway. He allowed the weapon to dance in his hand before holding it by the cylinder and barrel, extending the handle towards the outlaw.

A silent moment passed between them. A moment where, even in the rapidly cooling desert night where bugs and beasts were aplenty, you could hear someone’s heartbeat. And Sam did; only it was his own. He forced his hand to steady as he kept it held out, watching Deadeye watch him. The outlaw kept his hands rested on his gun belt, all fluid lines and casual nature that was most certainly practiced.

It had to be a trick of the light. There was no way Wagner’s eyes were able to glitter in the manner that they did as he huffed out a warm, amused laugh.

“Keep it. You took it from me, fair and square.” Wagner left the steps of the sheriff’s office. It seemed he remembered there was also a price on his head.

Sam felt his headache crash into him like a gunshot, making him wince and have to brace himself against the pillar to his left. By the time he opened his eyes again, Deadeye was mounted up and pointing his horse down the road.

“It looks better with you, anyway.” His compliment was accented by a smile bright enough to blind a man.

“Where are you headin’?” Sam called out. He had to ignore the compliment. It had too many implications that Sam was not equipped with understanding in his hindered state.

“That would ruin the fun if I told ya, wouldn’t it?” Once again, his voice sounded like dripping honey.

Kiszka let out a frustrated growl. “For once would ya just answer my goddamn questions??”

Deadeye laughed. It was hearty and forceful, enough to make his head tip back like a wolf howling at the moon.

“See ya around, cowboy,” Deadeye drawled, permeated by a wink that made something flutter in Sam’s chest. Then, he whipped his gelding’s reins and tore off into the night.

Sam watched him go. He wasn’t quite sure why. He knew he wasn’t going to go after the outlaw. But once his form completely vanished from view, Sam huffed a sigh and shoved his gifted revolver into its holster.

+++

It was cold, now. Even though he was still technically in the desert, Sam watched his breath ghost out in front of him as he pulled his wool-lined coat tighter around his shoulders. Guess that was to be expected in the mountains in February. Thankfully, the heavy snow had let up. No longer did he have to wonder if anyone would be able to find his and Sundown’s bodies under 6 feet of snow.

The snow that was falling right now was the kind that was more atmospheric. They were small flakes that lazily, yet gracefully, floated onto the ground. Barely enough to dust the top of his hat or Sundown’s mane. Still pretty all the same. Even though he spent his days in the scorching sand, Sam had always loved the snow. It reminded him of home; of simpler times when his brothers were still around.

Speaking of: that’s where he was off to. To see his brother, not back east. It had been one of the very rare instances where Sam wasn’t working. That’s not to say that people weren’t trying to hire his services. He was sure there was going to be a pile of letters addressed to him when his vacation was over.

No, Sam was taking a break for a while. His last job, well… Let’s just say it was way too close to Jake’s last job. And that was when he realized he hadn’t seen Josh in… shit, two years. So, he wrote his big brother a letter and packed for a long journey.

He was almost there. It was at the point where Sam was close enough that he could make it to Josh’s cabin by daylight. But Sundown was getting tired. He knew she was. So, instead of going right at the fork in the road, Sam went left. Josh had mentioned there was a town with an inn nearby if he needed it. And if the signage was to be believed, he had just reached it.

It wasn’t a big town. Then again, lumber towns really weren’t. Unlike Tombstone, lumber didn’t offer the promise of “get rich, quick!!” like the silver industry had. So there was no rush to live in the town of Cedarville. But, it had a general store, blacksmith, an inn, and a stable. So, all things considered, a nice little town.

Kiszka stabled Sundown for the night, paying the extra few cents needed to get her an extra blanket in this chilly weather. He gave her a few pats on the nose and the explicit instructions to get some rest before he made his way to the inn next door. It was warm; something he first noticed when pushing through the door. Even though the snow had stopped, the wind decided to pick up, cutting through any layer of protection Sam might have had.

When he stumbled inside, he took his hat off and left it on the rack. He shook his long hair out, feeling the strands smack against his cheeks after they were released from their prison inside his hat. It felt as if the cold would never leak out of his bones, but damn if he wasn’t gonna try. He kept his jacket on, walking over to the bartender slinging whiskey and gin to jovial, ruddy-faced patrons.

“What can I do ya for, partner?” the barkeep inquired, offering a kind smile that reached his eyes.

“Got any rooms left?” Sam cut right to the chase, a chill racking his bones despite the burning parlor stove at his right.

The man’s smile dimmed at the question. Sam’s heart sank.

“Hate to tell ya this, friend, but a man came in here yesterday and booked all the rooms available. Sorry, friend.” And Sam truly believed him. That he was sorry.

With a huff, the bounty hunter hung his head. It was just his luck, wasn’t it?

“You know anywhere else I can rest for the night?” Sam had questioned, trying his best to keep his bone-tired weariness out of his words. He was certain he failed.

“You can try Mrs. Cohen’s down the way… she’s a widow with a boarder. Maybe she’s got somethin’ for ya. But I wouldn’t hold your breath,” the middle-aged man sighed. He produced a cloth from one of the pockets in his apron to wipe up a wet spot from a patron’s spilled libation.

Sam nodded his head in thanks, a deep sigh slipping out of his lungs. He knew he had to go back out in that weather. He had just started to get a little bit warmer, too.

Before he could even get his hat off the hat rack, however, he had been stopped by one of the patrons.

“Hey, I know you,” he slurred, a dopey grin on his lips. .

“I’m sure ya do, partner,” Sam groused, being polite as he could feel with his mood souring at the prospect of freezing his balls off again. He flashed the man a tight smile before turning towards the door, hat in his hand.

“You’re pretty boy, ain’t ya? Pretty boy… Keys?”

Sam froze. He could feel his muscles turn to stone as the words reached his ears.

“Nah. That ain’t it. Kiss-ya!”

There was only one person who called him by that name.

“Kiszka,” Sam corrected, his fingernails digging into his palms. My damn bad luck.

“Kiszka! That’s the one! Pretty Boy Kiszka! No fuckin’ way - Deadeye was just talkin’ about you!” The drunk patron’s voice was thundering. It was loud enough that Sam protectively covered his right ear - a habit he picked up after mostly losing function of his left one.

“Was he now?” Sam gritted out. Of all the damn places in the state of Arizona, he happened to walk into the very same one as Deadeye fucking Wagner.

“Shit, he couldn’t keep your name outta his damn mouth! It was all ‘pretty boy’ this and ‘pretty boy’ that! Sounded like my damn teenage daughter about the boy she’s courtin’, I’ll tell you what.”

Sam couldn’t stop himself from spinning on his heel. He wasn’t sure what about the man just admitted to him was so flummoxing, but it felt as if his heart was trying to take flight like a startled bird.

“I’m gonna go get that sorry sonofabitch. He’ll be so happy you’re here!”

Before Sam could even register what the drunkard had said, the man had stumbled over to a table full of rowdy men. He stopped at the man with his back directly to Sam. And, really, Sam should’ve realized Deadeye was here earlier. Because as soon as he saw that head of chocolate curls, he knew. He knew exactly who was in front of him.

Rising out of his chair and turning on his heel with a practiced grace was none other than Deadeye Wagner. The second he locked eyes with Kiszka, a charming smirk grew across his face. One that made Sam feel weak in the knees and forced him to lock his jaw so as not to say anything stupid. It made his chest flutter in anger and his face burn with it.

“We gotta stop meetin’ like this, pretty boy,” Deadeye drawled. And suddenly, Sam didn’t feel all that cold anymore.

Kiszka forced himself to breathe. He knew if he didn’t take a moment’s pause, he’d make a fool out of himself. So he focused on the way his lungs expanded to take in the scent of burning coal from the parlor stove and the tobacco smoke floating in the air.

“Always a pleasure, Wagner.” Sam’s pleasantry was very forced, something he was certain the outlaw would catch. He just couldn’t find the energy to be more convincing. His luck had run out and he was weary from his long journey.

“I thought we were past all this sourness-” Deadeye cut himself off. His lips had formed a word, but he clamped them shut to prevent them from speaking it. He was thrown off by his own actions, if his nervous titter of a laugh was any indication.

Kiszka elected to ignore the… whatever that was… for the time being.

“It’s been a long journey. I ain’t in the mood for your…” Sam vaguely gestured at Deadeye. He hoped the message came across. He wasn’t exactly sure there was a nice way of saying “the way we interact confuses me to no end and it exhausts me”.

Wagner clicked his tongue in a way that suggested sympathy but felt condescending. “You poor thing,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam blames his surprise at the touch for how long it took him to throw Deadeye’s arm off. Despite the roughness he used, Deadeye didn’t seem upset by the action. Instead, he just laughed.

“Do not patronize me,” Sam hissed, his temper worsening just from being in proximity of his… shit, what was Deadeye to him? An enemy? But you don’t typically team up with an enemy. His rival? They’d have to be in the same line of work to be rivals.

Well, whatever he was, Sam knew that Wagner confounded and confused him more than any other person he had ever known. Any time he even thought about the man - which, Sam had to begrudgingly admit, was very frequent as of late - he felt a confusing swirl of emotions deep in his gut. It was confusing to the poor bounty hunter and it only made him angry.

“Sure thing, sugar,” Deadeye smoothly responded, slithering his arm back onto Sam’s shoulders. “What brings you ‘round these parts?”

Sam forced himself to count to five. And then ten. He was trying to get under Sammy’s skin and he wasn’t going to allow the man to win.

“What’s it to you?” Sam spat back. It wasn’t as calm as he had hoped, but it wasn’t as venomous as it could be.

“Just tryin’ to see how long you’re fixin’ to stay, is all. No need to act like a rattlesnake, pretty boy.” It was right in his ear, the words Deadeye spoke. Kiszka could feel the warmth of his breath caressing the skin of his ear and cheek as he leaned towards the bounty hunter to talk.

Sam’s fingernails dug into his palms to stave off the shiver that wanted to wrack his body.

“Seems I gotta find another place to sleep. Some bastard came along and rented out the rest of the available rooms here,” Sam grumbled, his sour mood still ever present. It only worsened when he talked about the major inconvenience.

“That was me.”

“What?” Sam barked.

“The bastard who rented out the rooms? That was me.”

Sam had no choice but to laugh at the absurdity. “Of course it was!”

Deadeye watched with rapt fascination as Sam felt like he was coming apart at the seams. He was so damn tired. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted it so bad he felt as though he could cry as manic laughter flooded out of his mouth.

“That’s just-” Sam interrupted himself with another round of involuntary giggles, “That’s just fantastic, ain’t it?”

“You’re welcome to stay with me.” It was casual. Like a shrug of his shoulders. Like talking about the weather.

“Pardon?” But it didn’t feel casual. In fact, Sam swore he could feel the earth shift under his feet at the offer.

“It’s just… well, you ain’t really got much of a choice. And the bed should be big ‘nough to fit the both of us. ‘Course, you could sleep on the floor - or I could…” Wagner rambled. A trait Sam had never really seen Deadeye employ. He could also feel the man’s fingers fidget on his shoulder; watched as he failed to meet Sam’s eyes.

To say that Sam was baffled was one thing. Yet, underneath all of his shock, he was touched.

“That’s real sweet of you,” Sam finally offered. While it had been amusing to watch the outlaw flounder for a spell, it had started to feel like watching a mortally wounded animal. At some point, you gotta put the poor beast out of its misery.

Wagner sighed in relief. Sam felt the way the tendons and muscles in his arm melted into a relaxed state.

“You don’t know how sweet I can be, pretty boy.”

“I’m sure,” Sam patronized, even going so far as to pat Deadeye’s arm around the bounty hunter’s shoulders.

And with that simple act of kindness, Sam felt his agitation and mania melt away.

“Let me take you up there,” the outlaw offered, his arm tightening around Sam so that his side was pressed flush with Wagner’s. Sam did not protest or make any movement to wiggle out of the touch. He knew many people were watching the pair of them. He was too tired to care.

The room itself was very cozy, but very on par with all the other inns and hotels Sam had spent his nights in. A potbelly stove with a pile of coal adjacent to it was stationary in the corner keeping the cold at bay. There was a vanity across from the bed equipped with a wash basin and white porcelain pitcher with sapphire blue flowers painted on it. The walls, floors, and furniture were all made from dark wood, making the room feel smaller than it probably was. Kerosene lamps illuminated the room a little, but it was still dark due to the lack of sunlight pouring through the window. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed. Sam didn’t need to look to know Deadeye’s limited possessions were stored there. He could already imagine what they were: his various guns and ammo as well as his minimal clothes. Sam had the same items to his name.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Deadeye prompted, removing his arm from its perch around Sam’s shoulders. He stayed stationary in the doorway as Sam wandered further inside.

It wasn’t like he was attempting to keep his attention on Wagner, but he found himself acutely aware of the way he watched Sam explore the room. His hands were fidgeting with something - a bullet from his gun belt, Sam realized - and his shoulders were hunched in. It was a strange stance on the outlaw. Sam had really only ever seen him cocky and exuding confidence. It was… nice. Made Deadeye seem a bit more human to Sam.

“Oh,” Sam finally spoke. It was an accidental exclamation more than anything.

“What?” Wagner immediately inquired. Sam didn’t miss the way he jumped up into action, pushing off where he leaned against the doorframe and standing tall.

“Oh, it’s just…” Kiszka gestured at the bed before them. It was a full-size mattress, just barely big enough to fit someone as large as Deadeye. Sam wasn’t large, per se, but the two of them would be hard up for any personal space in that thing. Not that Sam wasn’t used to having to share a bed with someone. It was commonplace in most of the hotels and taverns Sam stayed in. But, in those instances, the beds were large enough that some personal space would be allowed.

Deadeye seemed to pick up what Sam was implying. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“It’s your room-”

“I got to sleep in it last night. Seems only fair that you get it for the night,” Wagner insisted, waving his hand in a dismissive manner, “In fact, lemme go down and ask the owner for some extra accommodations.”

And before Sam could even protest, the other man was out the door and closing it behind him. The only sound was that of the whistling wind outside the window and the hissing of the lamp at his right. The bounty hunter let out a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was too bone-tired to even try to think about why Wagner’s gesture made his chest feel warm. Instead, he busied himself with stirpping off all of the layers he was wrapped in. They did their job against keeping the cold mostly away from him. Now that he was in the warmth of a heated room, they were beginning to make him sweat.

Just as he’d gotten to taking off the last of his shirts, that was when Deadeye walked into the room.

“Shit!!” Wagner exclaimed, covering his eyes at the same time that Sam scrambled to cover his bare chest with his discarded shirt.

“The hell, man??”

“Sorry! Sorry. I-I should’ve knocked…” Deadeye rushed out, his hand still covering his eyes. He stayed there like that.

In fact, they both stayed there like that for a moment.

“I’ll… I’ll wait outside-”

“Oh, for god’s sake. Just get in here and shut the goddamn door!” Sam shook his head.

The outlaw did as he was told. He kept his eyes covered, much to Sam’s amusement. He watched Wagner fumble his way around the room with his hand still clamped over his eyes. Sam even took note of the pink hue on the outlaw’s cheeks; what little of them he could see.

“You act like you ain’t never seen a man shirtless before,” Kiszka taunted, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards as he found delight in Deadeye’s theatrics.

With that little jab, Wagner slowly removed his hand off his eyes. It was still pretty dim in the room, but Sam didn’t miss the way his dark eyes snuck a glance at his shirtless form before quickly looking at the extra bedding in his arms.

“I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

That warm feeling in his chest flowered under his ribs again. The same one Sam felt when Deadeye had offered him the room.

“You’re awful considerate. For a low-life degenerate, that is,” Kiszka tacked on at the end along with an anxious laugh. He didn’t wanna seem too genuine. The prospect of that - a moment of genuine connection - made fear thrum in his veins.

“That’s me…” Deadeye agreed. But his tone didn’t match the playful - yet slightly nervous - one from Sam. If he had to put a name to it, Sam would’ve thought Deadeye was glum.

“I grew up with brothers. Nothin’ you need to worry about. I’m far from squeamish when it comes to bein’ scrutinized by the male gaze.” Sam, for some reason, felt like he should salvage the situation. In an act of nervousness, he began spinning his pearl-handled revolver around his finger again.

All Wagner did in response was hum. He kept his eyes trained on the bedding he was laying down on the floor. The fluffing of his bedroll was the only thing filling the void of voices.

With a sigh, Sam resigned himself to the situation. He continued stripping down to his long johns, placing his holster on top of the bedside table. You never knew when you were gonna need it within reach. He rinsed his face and hands in the wash basin once he was done undressing. And with that all said and done, Sam slipped under the covers and sequestered himself to his exhaustion.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep for. What he did know, however, was that he woke up to the sound of chattering teeth. Even in the silent room, Sam was surprised he was woken up by that; it was a very faint sound. Guess that came with the territory of having such a dangerous job.

“Wagner?” Sam blearily called out, rubbing at his bad ear. When it was that quiet, the high-pitched ringing in it became nearly unbearable.

The clattering stopped.

“Sorry, Sam.” It made the bounty hunter think of a scolded hound. Sam blamed that - his love for animals and dogs - for the ache in his chest at the outlaw’s tone. He also used it as an excuse for his next action.

With a small grunt, Sam flipped over onto his side so that he was facing Wagner’s direction. The covers were loud, relatively, as he peeled them back in an inviting gesture. The room was nearly pitch black if it hadn’t been for the sliver of moonlight peaking between the curtains. Despite that, Sam could perfectly see the confused knit in the outlaw’s eyes.

A beat passed. Neither man moved. Well, at least from their respective spots. Deadeye had sat up to see what Sam had done. But he stayed still; like a deer spotting a predator.

“You wantin’ a written invite?” Sam groused, his voice gravely from sleep.

“Are you sure-”

“Just get in, Deadeye.” Even to his own ears, Kiszka sounded bitchy. Guess his brothers were right. He was a force to be reckoned with when he was tired.

With a palpable hesitation, the outlaw abandoned his bedroll and cautiously slipped into the spot next to Sam. The mattress dipped under his weight, the wood frame only groaning slightly at the added heft. Sam was right. There was no room for any space between them. But he wasn’t going to let the man freeze to death for his own comfort. It would just have to be a little awkward for the next few hours.

Once Deadeye was settled - meaning he stopped shifting around enough, Sammy could feel how tense the poor bastard was - Sam closed his eyes again. With the added heat from Wagner’s own body, it was incredibly cozy. It was so comfortable, in fact, Sam had trouble keeping his eyes open. And not one to fight sleep when it came on this easily, Sam submitted to it.

Until he was snapped awake.

“Daniel.”

“What?” Sam quickly whispered, matching the volume the outlaw had used.

“My real name. It’s Daniel.”

In the limited light, Sam could see the anxiousness swimming within Wagner’s eyes. Even in his altered state - so dead tired he was sure he was hallucinating - Sam understood the gravity of the offered information. He was being incredibly vulnerable with Sam. Hell, it was hard not to notice the nervous way his eyes glanced all around Sam’s face to gauge his reaction when their faces were that damn close.

“Daniel…” Sam tested the name on his tongue. He found that he liked it an awful lot more than Deadeye. When Sam thought of Deadeye, it only conjured up images of annoyed sheriffs and infuriated ranch owners. But Daniel… Well, Daniel was the guy with a sweet smile on his lips and an offer of help on his tongue when Sam needed it.

“Y-Yeah,” the other man stuttered, a shiver shaking his body. Guess he was still cold from his time on the floor.

“...I like it. Handsome name for a handsome fella,” Sam muttered, his tone incredibly soft as to not disrupt the quiet in the room. Besides, with only a few inches between the two, there was no need for anything louder.

Like a flower blooming out of the winter snow, Dead- Daniel’s anxiety melted into a giddy smile. “Oh, I’m handsome, am I?”

Kiszka felt a giddy smile of his own spread on his lips. He gently smacked Daniel’s arm with the back of his hand. And as Wagner feigned a grunt of pain, the pair broke out into a fit of playful giggles.

“Keep pushin’ your luck and I’ll make ya sleep on the floor again,” Sam jested, that smile fixed upon his lips as he and Daniel continued to stare at one another.

“Too late,” Daniel sighed, finally releasing the tension in his body as he melted into the mattress, “cat’s outta the bag.”

“I’ll deny it ‘til the day I die.” Sam, god help him, found that he really liked the way Daniel’s dark eyes glittered in the moonlight.

“Hmmm… I’ll getcha to bend one day. Just you watch.”

“Is that a challenge, Daniel?”

There it was again. That chill shook Daniel’s body again as his eyes fluttered closed.

“Everything is a challenge with you, Samuel.”

+++

Sam hadn’t told Josh about that night he spent with Daniel. In fact, he didn’t tell anyone. He wasn’t entirely sure why. It just… it felt too personal.

Every day that had passed between that night and the next time he saw Daniel, he felt an ache in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure what to name it, but each time he thought about that night - or, rather, Daniel in general - he felt a dull pain lurch in his chest. The only thing he could compare it to is the similar feeling he gets when he thinks about Jake… but not quite. There was more pain when he thought about his brother.

But, as usual, the next time the bounty hunter and the outlaw met, it caught Sam completely by surprise. In fact, Sam was very surprised that Daniel was even able to find him.

As it so happened, Sam himself was in the very last place he’d ever think to find himself: in jail. It was very strange being the one on the other side of the bars. He was very hazy on the reasoning behind why he was locked up. Something about an assault on some poor woman. He didn’t know. He was drunk when he was arrested.

Sam scoffed to himself. The one night he let loose a little and look where it got him. He scrubbed his hands down his face as he sat down on the very threadbare cot. He had just wanted to have a few drinks in honor of his dead brother’s birthday.

“So, you care to explain why, exactly, I’m bein’ made to rot in here?” Sam tried again. It had been about three days since he was thrown in the cell and he still hadn’t been given a straight answer.

“Jesus, Kiszka, I already told you! You were seen harassin’ the mayor’s daughter by a very reliable source!” The deputy yelled, his frustration evident in the way he bared his teeth at Sam.

“This is bullshit. I’d never put my hands on a lady!” The bounty hunter was pacing the very limited space in his cell. He felt like he was losing his mind being trapped like that.

“I’m sure that defense will hold up in court,” the deputy snarked. And with that, he went back to reading his newspaper.

With a growl of frustration, Sam slammed his palm against the bars. He instantly regretted it as pain shot through his hand and up his arm. With a curse under his breath, Sammy cradled his injured hand against his chest and sat back down on the uncomfortable cot.

That was where he stayed for the next few hours. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. Thankfully, he was allowed to keep his pocket watch on him. That’s how he knew four hours had passed since he last spoke and when someone entered the building.

“Evenin’ partner,” the smooth voice drawled, heavy boot-steps resounding off the wood floor.

I know that voice

Sam’s eyes snapped open as he shot up-right off his cot. His eyes were able to confirm exactly what his gut instinct had told him. Standing in the jailhouse with his hat in his hand, the evening sun bathing him in golden light, was none other than Daniel “Deadeye” Wagner himself. Kiszka didn’t even care about the implications as a huge wave of relief crashed into him.

Daniel, seemingly aware that he had Sam’s full attention, sent him a sly wink along with the mouthed words of “play along”. Sam hadn’t even needed the hint. He understood from the second he heard Daniel’s voice.

“State your business, friend,” the deputy demanded, barely even bothering to look up from his newspaper.

“My name is Deputy Bobby McGee and I represent the sheriff up in Clearwater. I’m searchin’ for a man by the name of Kiszka… heard tell you might know where I can find him?” The lie was so smooth that Sam himself almost believed it.

“Are ya, now?” The Deputy finally set down his newspaper, taking his feet off the desk and planting them on the ground.

“Took ya long enough, Bobby!” Sam cried, getting to his feet off the cot.

Sam saw the tiny smile on Wagner’s lips before he rolled his eyes. “Apologies, your highness. Couldn’t drop everythin’, y’know.” He grumbled.

“And what, exactly, do you need him for?” The deputy interrupted. His beady eyes never strayed from Daniel’s face.

“Well, he was hired by Sheriff DuPointe to help catch a very dangerous outlaw by the name of Deadeye Wagner. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. The man is very desperate, you see. He’s even willin’ to pay the bounty owed,” Wagner continued, walking further into the jail and closer to the desk the deputy sat behind.

Even though the deputy - who’s name Sam cannot remember - held the authority bestowed by the state, it was clear who held the real power between him and Daniel. It was quite amusing watching the annoying little prick have to crane his neck as Daniel stood in front of him. Even if the other man had been standing, the outlaw would’ve towered over him.

“Unfortunately, there’s no bail to be posted. The mayor is mighty furious and he’s makin’ damn sure the bastard swings for what he did to Miss Lavender.” The smug lift to the corner of his mouth made Sam’s annoyance spike. The deputy was talking about his life being in the hands of some felonious witness, and here the bastard was, smiling.

Wagner seemed to catch onto the arrogant air the little rat had taken on. Well, that is if the way his knuckles bleached as he clenched his fists was any authority, that is. And the way the muscle in his jaw flexed, too. But, in the blink of an eye, that irritation was gone.

“Ain’t that a shame. I’m gonna have a few words with the man,” Daniel stated, no room to be told no. He didn’t even wait for the deputy to answer, simply pushed on past him and towards Sam’s cage.

Sam was thrilled to see Daniel in person after so many weeks. Their last little interaction had taken place in the snow-capped mountains in the heart of winter. Now, almost to the Mexico border, Spring was in the air.

“How you gettin’ on?” Wagner inquired, his tone even but his eyes very tuned into Sam. He seemed to search Sam for any and all signs of distress, knowing they had to act covertly.

“Been better… clearly… Just sittin’ here rottin’ all day,” Sam grumbled. What he didn’t add was how much better this day was now that he had shown up. Despite them having spent longer stretches of time apart, those few weeks seemed to stretch on.

Wagner’s eyebrows knitted in sympathy. His hand came up to lean against the bars, hesitating at where Sam’s hand was coiled around the iron. “You know I gotta ask.”

Sam sighed deeply, resting his head against the bars as he braced.

“Did you do it?” The outlaw’s eyes were intense. Dark as a maw of a cavern. They made Sam shiver.

“I swear on my brother’s grave. I did not touch that woman.” Despite wanting to divert his gaze, Sam held it steady. He needed Daniel to know he was telling the truth. He needed him to know.

After holding the stare for a little longer, the outlaw nodded his head. One curt jut of his chin. Wagner slid his arm from its leaning position, his hand grazing the back of Kiszka’s knuckles. It was brief and far from the only touch they shared. It had felt… heightened. More intense than those other times.

It wasn’t until Daniel took a step back and turned away that Sam even realized how close they had leaned in towards one another.

“Y’know Kiszka, you and the good deputy look pretty similar…” Wagner started.

A bolt of indignation spiked through Sammy before it sizzled hotly in his veins. “I beg your pardon?”

“From far away, that is,” Daniel was quick to correct, “Y’all both got the same lean physique, the same long head shape… hell, even the same hair color.”

Sam watched the lawman’s spine stiffen at Daniel’s claim. That was all it took for the bounty hunter to catch on. He couldn’t help the knowing smile as it tugged on his lips.

“Now that you mention it,” Sam added on, tilting his head as he took in the deputy’s features, “we could be related… distantly, that is.”

“You choose your next words carefully, now,” the lawman sharply ordered. He stood to his full height but stayed by the desk. It did not escape Sam’s notice that he rested his hand on the handle of his revolver.

Daniel must have noticed as well. In a mirror of their second meeting, the outlaw raised his hands up with his palms showing. And just like when it was Sam pointing the gun at him, Wagner was only doing so as a formality rather than for self-preservation.

His back was turned to Sam now. Kiszka’s view was completely obscured as the outlaw stood right in front of him. That was how he was able to hear rather than see the patronizing, lopsided grin on Daniel’s face.

“Now, ain’t no reason to act that way, friend. Just makin’ a simple observation, is all,” Daniel smoothly drawled, all casual fluidity and honeyed tones. You would not assume the man was in fear of being shot based on his body language alone.

“I don’t like what y’all are implyin’.” Sam watched carefully as the deputy’s hand gripped his pistol harder. He involuntarily swallowed as his adrenaline spiked. If he had his own pistol on him, there would be no contest. As it was, his trusty pair of revolvers were sitting on the desk right next to the deputy.

“And what would that be?” Wagner obstructed Sam’s view once again after checking over his shoulder. Sam grit his teeth, irritated about how this was turning out. He was useless trapped in that cage.

The deputy paused. If Sam could see, he would’ve watched the lawman’s eyes nervously dart back and forth between Daniel’s eyes and the spot behind him where Sam was standing. “That I assaulted the mayor’s daughter.”

Kiszka had to bite his tongue. Wagner was good. Really good. With just some simple word play, he was able to get this deputy to own up to his crime.

“Now why would an innocent man be worried about such an accusation?” Wagner’s hands slowly dropped down. He still showed the deputy his open palms, but they were closer to his stomach rather than at shoulder-height.

A tense atmosphere suffocated the one room sheriff’s office. The oppressive, southern spring sun that beat down on the building made the air unbearably hot. Sam could feel the sweat prickling on his hands and forehead. No one moved.

“No one’ll believe you,” the deputy nervously spat, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “it’s my word ‘gainst yours.”

“You sure ‘bout that, partner?” the outlaw drawled, his hands now hanging down by the handles of his pistols.

“He’s gonna swing and you’re gonna watch him die,” the lawman’s voice grew more manic with each word, “and there’s nothin’ you’ll be able to do.”

In the blink of an eye, Deadeye had drawn his pistols.

“Daniel, no!” Sam cried, his hand reaching through the bars to grab the unstable outlaw. It must have worked. Daniel didn’t gun the deputy down. “He ain’t worth it.”

“Sam,” Wagner breathed, his eyes never leaving his adversary, “you know I can’t let this happen to you.”

“There’s gotta be another way,” Sam desperately pleaded, reaching out his other hand to gently lower Daniel’s revolver in his left hand, “I can’t let you kill him.”

Wagner hesitated. His eyes swept from the deputy to where Sam’s hand rested against his left hand. With a curse under his breath, the outlaw holstered his guns. “You’re too good. He don’t deserve your mercy.”

Sam didn’t argue. He simply let out a breath of gratitude.

“Yeah, Daniel. I ain’t worth it,” the deputy taunted. There was a smug smile on his yellowed teeth. Sam wanted to punch them in himself.

Wagner’s back straightened as his muscles tensed. In only a few short steps, Daniel had removed himself from Kiszka’s arms and was inches away from the foolish lawman. It was quite amusing seeing the pathetic man crumple under the sheer tenacity of Daniel’s fiery intimidation. And that was when he growled something under his breath. It was so low that Sam could only hear the tone and none of the words.

It must’ve been one hell of a threat. Cause when the outlaw was finished, the deputy had turned as pale as a sheet. With wide, frightened eyes, the coward glanced between Daniel and Sam. It was no secret what Wagner thought about that, his anger shifting towards dark amusement.

With an eager smile sent Sam’s way after he tipped his hat to him, Daniel made for the exit. “Y’all have a good night, now.”

+++

Sam was awoken that night by the sound of someone whistling. With a confused grumble, Sam checked his pocket watch. 1:15 AM.

“Sam!” came a hissed whisper.

“What?” Sam whispered back. He quickly checked that the night guard was still sleeping.

“Come to the window.”

Sam, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, got to his knees on the cot to peer out of the small window of his cell. Standing in the pale moonlight with his face covered was none other than Daniel. He pulled his bandana down from his face just for a second to flash Sam a sweet smile.

“Oh, what are you doin’?” Sam quietly whined. He knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“Gettin’ you free, of course!” There was genuine excitement coming from his voice.

“Are you crazy?!”

“Maybe just a little,” Wagner conceded. “Look, you ain’t makin’ it outta this alive. That deputy is gonna testify and the mayor will push the judge towards a hangin’. Way I see it, this is your only chance at livin’ another day.”

Despite Sam’s lifelong service to lady justice, he knew Daniel was right. There had been one too many instances where innocent people were made to pay for the crimes of others. He was no stranger to this. He had just hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

“I don’t have my guns,” Sam relented with a sigh.

The bounty hunter could see the smile in Wagner’s eyes as he held up Sam’s gun belt in his hand.

“How’d you-”

“I ain’t the best in the business for no reason, sweetheart.”

Kiszka didn’t even try to suppress the shiver that elicited as it wracked his body. Nor did he try to hide the thrilled smile that pulled at his lips.

“Right. How we gonna do this?” This was it. With one simple sentence, Sam had resigned himself over to being an outlaw. If the legal system was gonna screw him over to protect a crooked man, he might as well screw it over first with the help of an (almost) honest man.

Daniel had told him to take cover as he hooked the window bars to a steam donkey. With a few metallic groans and a big puff of smoke, the cell wall came down with a thunderous crash. Wasting no time, Sam climbed through the opening and strapped on his gun belt after taking it from Wagner.

“We don’t got much time. We gotta make a run for our horses,” Daniel plainly explained, his head on a swivel on the lookout for any possible threats.

“Wait!” Sam - acting on impulse alone - grabbed the outlaw’s face, pulled down his bandana, and kissed Daniel on the lips. It only lasted for a second or two, but it made Sam’s entire being feel alive. It was as if he was a bolt of lightning: energized and charged with static and alive.

A beat went by where Sam watched his counterpart carefully. He’d known he’d just taken a huge risk. However, he had no time to even get nervous before a huge smile broke out on Wagner’s lips. His eyes glistened in the darkness, a familiar emotion glittering in them that Sam had seen times before around him.

“Oh, hell yeah!” Daniel had grabbed Sam by the shirt, pulling him in for another kiss. This was far more heated than the last.

“Kiszka!!” A disembodied voice bellowed. It was what pulled them back to reality.

“Right,” Daniel stated, breathless, “we’ll pick that up later…” He trailed off as his gaze landed back onto his partner’s lips.

“Horses,” Sam blurted. It was more of an attempt to stop himself from being distracted again more than it was for Wagner.

“Right!”

The outlaw took the former bounty hunter’s hand, drawing his pistol with his left. Sam did the same, twirling his family’s revolver on his right index finger before holding it steady.

With an enthusiastic smile and a nod of his head, Daniel lept into action. Thankfully, the horses weren’t stashed too far away from the jail. Sam only had to fire a few shots, all covering fire. As far as he knew, no one died.

Finally mounted up, the two outlaws tore off into the desert. Once they were well out of dodge, Sam whooped and hollered. With the breeze in his hair and the stars guiding his way, he felt alive.

Daniel laughed to his right, letting out a cry of excitement of his own. Sam felt his heart swell.

“Y’know, you can’t go back,” Daniel stated after the two had set up camp well away from the city.

“Ain’t that what you’ve been wantin’ since the start? For me to join your outlaw crew?” Sam’s eyes flicked from the fire to the man lounging next to it.

“Well, of course. But… is this what you wanted?” Daniel met Sam’s eyes. They were cautious as he asked. Vulnerable.

Sam thought for a second before he answered. He never looked away from Daniel. Daniel never looked away from him.

“Yeah,” Sam finally admitted. He saw the relief flood Wagner’s hazel eyes. Sam’s chest ached once more. “Yeah, it is.”

+++

@i-choose-the-road @ofthecaravel @doodle417 @sammykiszkasunusedshoes @jmks-housewife @alwayssotiredbutneverofyou @ageoferin @etoilesnoor @ascendingtostardust @godlygreta @s0livagant @gretavanflowerpower @morganic-goods @baguettejuliette @fan-girl-97 @gaby-gvf @age-of-nyahh @mzbrightside @myownparadise96 @xserenax-13 @sammysvanfeet @strugglingtodoshit @loofypoofy @chalametpwk @seventieswhore @razorbladekiszka @unfortunatelykristin @welightthefire @gretavanfleas @sammiejane22 @satanplayshisfluteforhim @starsasone @writingcold @tearsofbri @teddiie @GardensGateDaisy @sparrowofthedawnsworld @angelbabyyy99 @whollyfreeamongststars @gretaswhore28 @l0rdoffli3s @kay-jordan @lightmyloverry @kenzie18 @gotavansleep @roosterbbradley @freckled-wonder @flower-power-anthem @Gabyvanfleet @Sarakay-gvf @Mamalikes-gvf @josh-iamyour-mama @st4rdust-ch0rds @fallonfatality @earthlysorrows @jessicafg03 @rossy1080 @hippievanfleet @spark-my-nature @hayley1623 @schleeble @gretavanflipflop @mehboihourz @jakeydoesit @BusyBeingTrash

#greta van fleet #greta van fic #sam kiszka #danny wagner #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #sammy gvf #danny gvf #josh gvf #jake gvf #sanny gvf

24 notes · View notes