#full of themselves and varying degrees of insufferable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wickedsmille · 11 months ago

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a social worker!jason & street kid!tim WIP

Unedited, unfinished, utterly self indulgent. 😎 Rated TT for I'm Trying but it still might be Terrible.

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If someone had told Jason he would be sitting at a desk in Gotham’s crumbling Department of Families and Children building, he would’ve believed them wholeheartedly. That’s been a universally accepted fact ever since he saw a CPP social worker get down on one knee and hug a street kid so full of filth they were more garbage than human and promise them safety and warmth. As a newly homeless eleven-year-old, he’d desperately wanted the affection and safety and warmth promised to the young girl being cradled so carefully, so gently. But he’d run away, too fearful of discovery and the possibility of living out the more common worse case scenario for kids who went into Gotham’s ravenous foster care system.

So, maybe he wouldn’t get the happy ending he liked to imagine while he lay awake on his ratty, bed bug ridden mattress in the condemned hotel he’d squirreled himself away in. That was okay. He was okay. There was a group of boys, rough around the edges but ultimately the champions of homeless whelps like Jason, who would look out for the kids without a home or forced out of it. They’d taken Jason in immediately. Made him into one of them. Then he was another champion, another source of light and life and protection for the ones who couldn’t protect themselves.

After the whirlwind a couple years later, complete with a tire iron to Batman’s midsection then being thrust into the upper echelons of fame and wealth from a surprise adoption by one billionaire Bruce Wayne, Jason got the idea to become a social worker. The idea only grew exponentially with every night he went out into the streets as Robin. The things he saw, the bad and ugly, solidified his resolve to do better, be better, to help in a more concrete way than punching the daylights out of creeps and criminals.

Then the Joker happened and Jason escaped with his life by the skin of his teeth. Sort of. He didn’t have many teeth left after they were knocked out of his skull. Bruce hadn’t seemed too angry over Jason’s need for emergency, reconstructive surgery. Surprisingly, he’d been happy. Or, at least, a melancholy and droll joy brought out by Jason’s continued breathing even after they’d removed the breathing tube after Jason awoke from his coma sweating and shaking and so fucking scared what happened.

Bruce was there, and Alfred and Dick, for every painful day, long week and nearly insufferable month while Jason under went surgery after surgery, hours upon hours of physical therapy and even stayed when it all became too much and Jason lashed out. He’d never be Robin again, or a vigilante at all, but he could still dawn the mantle of champion and help the smallest in need.

Now, if someone told Jason he would be sitting in the bathroom of Gotham’s crumbling Department of Families and Children building, trying not to cry or hyperventilate or scream, he would’ve laughed right in their face.

It’s his reality, though. When faced with the reality, the endless files of abused and neglected children carrying a varying degree of scars mentally and physically, he doesn’t think anything he did as Robin made a real difference. At least, it doesn’t seem like it. Not with all the missing children yet unrecovered or the multitude of suspicious house visit reports lacking in details while children come out of the homes smaller, quieter, lesser.

He hates it.

He wants to change it.

Fuck it, he will change it.

Jason has come back from a beating and a bomb. He can tackle Gotham’s foster case system. Sticking it out, finishing his internship and his degree, is how he can help these kids now. Galavanting around the roofs in tights and a cape isn’t an option anymore but he thinks this may be better. By all accounts, Batman holds back the tide but he doesn’t offer a permanent fix to the inherently broken system that is Gotham. Doing this? Working from within, hands on in a way Robin couldn’t be, seems a lot more impactful than beating the shit out of men and women trying to make a quick buck to feed their families.

Taking a deep breath, Jason goes through a breathing exercise Bruce taught him when he was fresh out of the hospital and fearful of every tick and clink and shadow. Scraping up his resolve isn’t so hard when he thinks not on how he’s failed but how much good he can still do. The positivity feels foreign and wrong but to hell with feeling sorry for himself anymore. People need him. He doesn’t have time to wallow anymore. He’s had enough of that over the years.

When he returns to the bull pit filled to the brim with bustling bodies in varying degrees of unkempt, Jason plops himself back down at his intern desk and pulls his stack of files closer to himself. One person in particular speeds past before doing a double take and walking back towards him. Jason swallows hard when the CPP supervisor stops in front of him with her hands on her hips and lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re not folding on me, are you, Todd?” Tyasia asks him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jason replies, cheeky and charming in a way that feels wrong.

She rolls her eyes and plants her hands on his desk. “No shame if you need to back out,” she tells him seriously.

“Fuck no,” he spits out.

A grin works its way across her lips as she leans away again. Truth be told, Jason likes her. She’s stuck with CPP for nearly three years now when the average tenure of a social worker or CPP agent is nine months. Tough as nails with a take no shit and a presence that commands respect, Tyasia is the pillar that keeps the department afloat even as bright eyed, brushy tailed new recruits flit in and out when the job becomes too much. She’d taken one look at Jason, laughed in his face and wished him luck, not that he’d need it.

“Atta boy,” she praises. “Now, this is a weird situation and usually I wouldn’t let a fresh face do this, but you’ve got the-” she stops to wave a hand at his everything, “whatever, but I’ve got someone for you to handle.”

Raising a brow, Jason pushes his stack of files away again. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

Tyasia fixes him with a sour look. “Don’t play dumb. It’s not a good look at you. And I could use the help.”

It’s probably true. She looks more ragged than Jason thinks he’s ever seen her. With her hair wild and eyes sunken, she looks worse than Gordon does most days. Which makes sense when he thinks about the corruption within her own department she battles with every day alongside the enormous case load she maintains and gaggle of well meaning but often ineffective bleeding hearts she oversees. He sort of feels bad for mouthing off.

“So what’s up?” he asks.

Rifling through the folders tucked under her arm, she slaps one onto his desk. The tag says Timothy Jackson Drake and Jason feels like he’s fifteen again, on the hunt for a kid freshly orphaned and in the wind. They never did find Tim. Paging through the file, skimming its contents, it seems CPP has had a few run-ins since Tim’s parents died and he went on the lam.

“I’m confused,” he admits.

Tyasia laughs and pulls an empty chair away from a nearby desk to plop it in front of his own. “You’re going to meet him, talk to him, write up the report and get him to agree to temporary placement in juvie till he ages out in a few months.”

“Like hell am I doing that,” Jason says resolutely. In his opinion, it’s cruel and unusual to send a kid into Gotham’s JDC. “You know what it’s like in there and Drake? I remember hearing about it on the news. He’s as blue blood as they come and ain’t no time on the street going to make the sharks in there forget it.”

“I don’t have any other options,” she replies firmly. “You saw the budget forecast, yeah? A 12% cut across the board for the department. I can’t get him emergency housing and everywhere else is full up after we revoked the Greenway’s and Hanby’s foster licenses. We shut down the 4th Street youth shelter after Crane blasted the block with his bullshit.”

“So where’s he supposed to go?” Jason finishes for her, sounding tired and defeated. He’s starting to get why social workers don’t last in Gotham.

She nods grimly. “And you and I both know what can happen to people on the streets, underage or not. At least at Alpena he’ll have a bed, regular meals and I can try to swing for a single bed for him.”

Jason hates it but, considering what he’s picked up over the months he’s been interning and what he remembers about Timothy Drake’s background, it’s the least worst option. Of course Tyasia would stick him with an utter shit job for his first foray into the bittersweet world of real social work. So, reluctantly and with a scowl, he nods his head and she nods back. She whirls around and presumably goes to fetch Timothy. Oh joy of all joys.

Still, this is what he came here for. This is what he wants to do. Capes and masks be damned. He’s going to make real change starting with Timothy Drake and making sure he sees his eighteenth birthday without becoming another statistic.

The file has a picture of Timothy, obviously younger than the seventeen he is now, but the kid across from him looks so much different. In the photo, his wide eyes are bright and his hair is cut short. Although the collar of his t-shirt is ripped and stained on the shoulder, it looks workable. He could pass for any kid coming from a down and out family anywhere on the East End.

The Timothy in front of him is narrow eyed with his mouth pulled into a tight line with long, messy hair falling in his eyes. There’s even a leaf stuck in his hair. His clothes look worse for wear with gaping holes in the knees of his jeans showing off the scraps and bruises there and his shirt is three sizes too big with the seams already popping along the bottom. With dirt smudged on his face, Timothy looks like he’s seen better days. Jason has to wonder if they plucked him from the tender mercies of the GCPD and plopped him right down in the lobby. Probably behind a locked door because Timothy looks ready to bolt.

Clearing his throat, Jason awkwardly starts, “Hi, Timothy, I’m-”

“Tim,” the kid interjects curtly.

Jason refrains from snapping back and grits his teeth. “Tim, I’m Jason and I’m here to help.” Tim scoffs and kicks the front of the desk Jason’s sitting at. He can’t tell if it’s because of Tim’s fidgeting or an act of defiance. “Do you want the good or the bad news?”

“Isn’t there a kitten stuck in a tree needing your attention?” Tim asks.

If it were socially acceptable to throw his hands up, he would. “Why would I do that?”

Tim shifts in his seat, body language reading as uncomfortable but there’s something else there. The detective in Jason latches onto it as he stares Tim down. Admirably, Tim holds his gaze and doesn’t back down. There’s a quiet fire in his eyes. On some level, Jason feels like he’s the one being picked apart under Tim’s assessing stare. Eventually, Jason has to blink.

“You lose,” Tim proclaims.

Caught off guard, Jason blinks again. “What did I lose?”

“The staring contest.”

“I didn’t know we were having a staring contest.”

“Obviously we were,” Tim asserts.

“What are we, twelve?” Jason says tightly.

“No, I’m seventeen,” Tim shoots back hotly, “and I’ll be eighteen in three months. I’m almost an adult so you and all your good intentions can go to someone else.”

“Say it like you mean it,” Jason says tersely.

“Okay,” Tim replies nonchalantly, “fuck off.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Are you always this antagonistic?” Jason groans.

Tim laughs, something real and light that startles Jason and makes his stomach clench. “Didn’t you read my file?”

“Have you read your file?” Jason questions.

The small smile on Tim’s face gets wider, sharper. “Maybe I have.”

And Jason has no idea what to say. He was not prepared for this. Whatsoever. He’s lost the plot entirely. With no idea how to handle the absolute gremlin in front of him, Jason closes his eyes. He thinks of calming ocean noises, the smell of lavender and dryer sheets, all the things he turns to when the world is too much and he needs a break. While the situation isn’t on par with a flashback, he doesn’t want to get in a fight with a kid he’s supposed to be helping.

Right, help.

Loudly, Jason clears his throat. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m here to help and good news is we have somewhere for you to go. Bad news is it’s Alpena.”

Tim’s expression turns murderous before Jason’s even done speaking. “No. No way. Not happening.”

“Too bad,” Jason grumps.

“I’d like to see you make me,” Tim challenges and Jason has a couple seconds to have an uh oh moment.

Once those seconds are up, Tim is out of his chair like a shot. Despite the duck tape holding his shoes together, Tim moves quick. He weaves between the staff milling about the office, expertly evades the officers who make a half assed attempt at grabbing him. Too bad for Tim, Jason recalls enough of his training to give chase. It’s not easy. A dull ache in his hip from a badly healed fracture makes itself well known but Jason will be damned if he fucks up his first real assignment.

Tim has had some practice and Jason is out of practice so he isn’t even close when Tim is nearing the door. There’s only about ten feet of space in the waiting room outside then he can hit the main doors and disappear out onto the Gotham streets. Who knows if they would find him again. It’d be just as likely to find him in a shelter as it would be to come across his body in a dumpster. Jason is not letting this kid one up him again. His pride wouldn’t survive it.

Turns out, Jason didn’t need to worry so much when Tim’s mad dash to freedom ends with him colliding painfully with an officer coming through the door. Smashing into the guy, Tim falls back on his ass. Jason comes to stand over him, chest heaving even though he’s trying to cover it up to ease some of the embarrassment he’s feeling at being so out of shape. Relatively speaking. He keeps up with his physical exercises and makes good use of the training equipment in the Cave but it’s no running rooftops six to eight hours every night.

“Gotcha,” Jason huffs.

“Hardly,” Tim drawls. In defeat, he lays on the ground and glares up at Jason.

Glancing up, Jason raises his eyebrows. “Thanks for the save, Dick.”

Dick looks mildly shocked as his eyes swivel between Tim and Jason. For his part, Dick takes the odd turn of events in stride and tips his hat. “Happy to help, Jason, but what’s going on here?”

“Child abuse is what,” Tim grumbles.

Jason gives him a poisonous look. “I was trying to get him to a place with three squares and working heat but no. It’s not good enough for Mr. Upper Echelons.”

“Because Alpena is such a treat,” Tim says sarcastically.

“Not good enough for you?” Jason snaps. “What about all the kids shivering out there and ready to gnaw off their own arm if it means they don’t feel hungry for an hour or two, huh?”

“Yeah, so go get them. I’m fine,” Tim spits back.

Dick puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder to push him back from where he’d unconsciously been looming over Tim. Despite the obstacles to his growth, Jason hit the genetic jackpot to tower over most others in height. The injuries set him back in muscle mass but he’s no still no slouch. Tim on the other hand looks like a stick figure. The delicate bones of his wrist stick out prominently and his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. He’s dirty and stinks and he’s so not okay it makes Jason want to bite his head off or scream.

“Maybe we should have this discussion not with him on the floor,” Dick murmurs to Jason.

Jason glances at Dick and feels the fight drain out of him. With Dick here, it doesn’t seem so impossible to get Tim to listen. After all, Dick has coaxed Jason into spilling every nasty insecurity and dark want in the rough moments he spent fresh out of a nightmare and shaking in the dark. Surely Dick can get one rowdy kid to stop, think and listen, too.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good,” Jason agrees.

Without a second thought, Dick smiles like he’s proud and the tight coil building in Jason’s chest comes undone. Dick extends a hand to Tim to help him up with a gentle, soft look. It makes Tim roll his eyes but he takes the offered hand and gets back onto his feet. A hand comes down on both Jason and Tim’s shoulders to guide them through the throng of Looku Lou’s watching the drama unfold. Jason goes a little pink around the ears from causing such a scene but one glance at Tim shows him totally unaffected. Little bastard.

Jason takes a seat at his borrowed desk, Tim takes the chair in front of it and Dick stands firmly in the middle of the two. Absently, Jason grabs Tim’s file and starts rifling through it.

“You’re pretty savvy with the streets, huh?” Dick says.

Jason is about to scoff and say Well, duh, former street kid here, of course I am when Tim piques up, sounding pleased with himself, “You tend to pick some things up when you’re out there.”

Jason tries to be subtle as he looks over the top of Tim’s folder, one eye on the words and the other on Dick and Tim. Dick tosses his head back and laughs, genuine and free. Tim smirks in return but he’s still tense in his chair with his arms crossed.

“True but I have to say, and don’t take this the wrong way, you move fast for being homeless,” Dick jokes but Jason knows it’s not really a joke. Hello, veiled Bat interrogation, funny Dick would bring it out.

“You’re the one who caught him?” Jason asks casually.

Dick hums in response. “And nearly lost him, too.” Ah, so that’s why Dick is sticking around to get answers. Even if he’s plain, old civilian Dick Grayson, he’s a trained officer and some of the Bat sponsored moves can be used without raising too many questions. The fact that a homeless kid could also lose the amalgamation of Dick Grayson and Nightwing? Scandalous.

“After you nearly ran into that wall,” Tim points out smugly.

It makes Dick laugh again. “Yeah, you got me good with that one.”

“What can I say, I’m resourceful,” Tim says pointedly.

Looking up, Jason catches Tim glaring at him again.

Don’t get him wrong. Jason understands. Better than half the staff in the office. While he can see how much they care, a lot of them have never been in the position Tim is and Jason was. Even Dick can only empathize but seeing it isn’t living it. Bruce has a foggy, third person idea. The others in the office, the do gooders taking up a fight they’ve never been forced to fight, see it every day and understand it but, well. It’s different.

So Jason understands why Tim is so angry and looks ready to shove Jason’s pen between his ribs. No one would take it very well if they were going to be shoved into jail under the guise of it being for their own good. It’s cruel. Jason gets that. But being dead is worse and he has plenty of experience with near death experiences and having one foot on the other side, a hairs breath from tipping over the precipice and straight into a grave.

It doesn’t help how long Tim has been on his own. Words like criminal neglect and no adult supervision are hard to miss in his files. Apparently, even before his parents died on a trip overseas, Tim was forced to be wholly independent. Then, when the vultures descended on his parent’s company, dismantling it and bleeding it dry within months, Tim had his safety net ripped away. After that, his inheritance was locked away tight and no placement was truly safe against those who’d take Tim just for access to his money with no regard for Tim himself.

“Look,” Jason says, exasperated. “I know. It sucks. If someone came to me with this bullshit when I was a kid, I would’ve kicked them in the nuts and never looked back.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” Tim replies blithely.

It’s Jason’s turn to glare but he doesn’t raise to the bait. “But, it’s only for a few months, not forever. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of and you won’t end up dead in a gutter.”

“I’ve been fine for years,” Tim refutes.

“And how many of the other street kids have you seen bite it? Or just disappear?”

Tim stays tellingly silent.

“You know,” Dick cuts in, “he has a point.”

For a second, it’s like Tim is thinking it over. He even relaxes, sinks down in his chair. His shoulders slump like he’s accepting defeat. The whole act totally fools Jason. He should’ve known better because one blink and the next, Tim is shoving everything on Jason’s desk at him and swinging around to punch Dick in the dick. When Jason said it, he hadn’t meant it literally but kudos to Tim for quick thinking.

Jason makes an indignant noise as paper and pencils and office paraphernalia rains down on him in a flurry while Dick groans and bends over Jason’s desk. Then Tim is gone, racing towards the door once more. Jason doesn’t bother getting up this time. He wasn’t fast enough last time, he won’t be this time with the way his hip is hurting. Dick is out of commission for at least another thirty second judging by the way he whimpers. Damn, Tim must pack a punch.

“Wow,” Dick wheezes.

“Yep,” Jason seethes.

“Timothy Jackson Drake” Tyasia booms.

The entire office goes still, Tim included. He has one hand on the door with it half open and about to step out into freedom. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Tim’s shoulders come up to his ears and he turns slowly. There, standing in the middle of the office with her hands on her hips and a thunderous expression, is Tyasia. Her cellphone is held tightly in her hand.

“What have I told you about minding your manners in my office?” she asks firmly.

Dutifully, Tim replies, “Not to antagonize the nice men and women doing their best every day to better Gotham.”

“And what did you just do?”

“Made a newbie hate his life choices and committed a gross misdemeanor,” Tim sighs.

“Yes, you did.”

Tim doesn’t look happy at the news. He mumbles, “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Cram it with the ma’am, get your butt into my office and stay there.”

Turning on his heel, Tim marches back to Tyasia’s office. Each step looks like it’s taking him closer and closer to the gallows. Once Tim is out of sight and sequestered in her office, Tyasia turns her disapproval towards Jason and Dick. Dick visibly shrinks under the weight of her stare while Jason starts picking up the scattered paperwork so he doesn’t have to meet her eye. Eventually, she breathes out, then in, then out again.

“We’ll be talking about what just happened,” she says calmly.

“Best of luck, Jay,” Dick consoles.

Tyasia snaps her head towards Dick. “Oh no, don’t think you’re getting out of this, Grayson. You and me will have some words, too.”

Dick pales and Jason tries to hide his snickering. At least if he’s going to get scolded, Dick will, too. It’s a small victory that does little to make the day less shitty.

Comparatively, the talk goes better than Jason has anticipated. Tyasia was far but stern, letting him know just how poorly he’d done, how Dick shouldn’t have welcomed himself into the conversation, but gave him sound advice on how to do better in the future. She congratulated him for at least not handing in a resignation after dealing with Tim. Apparently it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Jason should’ve read more into Tim’s file before tackling the devious little troll. Dick took his chastizing with grace before sheepishly bidding them both goodbye.

Jason didn’t see Tim after that. Although, walking out of Tyasia’s office, he did resolve to do better by Tim. From what he’d read, a lot of people had given up on Tim. He wasn’t about to add himself to the total so he begged, pleaded and dug down deep into the well of wishy washy but not outright toxic foster parents to scrap up a place for Tim to go till he ages out. The information was passed over to Tyasia who looked equal parts fond and exasperated. Jason got that a lot but he stood his ground and demanded she do it. If he was going to do good, he needed to start somewhere.

He’s a little surprised when Tim’s file ends up on his desk again with Tyasia looming over him much like the first time.

“House visit,” she tells him.

Jason swallows but agrees. He asks if he should bring an escort and she laughs at him, saying it’s fine. He’s not so sure about that.

He goes as instructed and knocks on the door to the dilapidated brownstone in the middle of New Town. It’s an older building squashed in between newer development and boarded up shacks. The siding is hanging off in the front and one of the windows has a piece of cardboard taped over it. When the door opens, it creaks so loudly Jason thinks he can feel it in his bones.

The woman standing before him has a cigarette in one hand and a dour face. “What?” she rasps. “We don’t take solicitors.”

Jason shows her his badge and her eyes widen. “House visit to check on Tim Drake, Mrs. Fields.”

She fiddles with the door knob and nods. “Right. Yeah, yeah, let me go get ‘im.”

Leaving the door open, she disappears into the house. He takes the invitation and steps inside to get a look around. It’s not the ritz but he’s seen worse. The inside is at least clean even though nothing is in good repair. The furniture looks ready to fall apart and there’s a couple holes in the walls but there doesn’t seem to be anything truly wrong. Mrs. Fields comes back quickly, an arm around a young boy.

“Here, Timmy, why don’t you tell the nice CPP man how much you like it here?” she coos at the kid.

“Uh, yeah, yes, super great,” the boy stammers.

Jason's brain blanks out entirely because standing in front of him is decidedly not Tim Drake. The boy has blond hair and brown eyes, is maybe fifteen if not younger. He looks mildly well cared for, clean with decent if cheap clothes, but none of it changes the fact that he’s not Tim. And Mrs. Fields is trying to pass him off as the real deal. She knows she’s caught when Jason turns his slack jaw face in her direction.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says in disbelief.

Mrs. Fields bristles, “Okay, okay! It’s not my fault he ran off!”

The boy next to her fiddles with his sleeve. “Can I go now?” he asks quietly.

She tightens her hold on his shoulders in a half hug before shooing him, surprisingly kind. Coming back to Jason, she purses her lips. “I don’t treat my kids bad. I do my best, I do, but those checks aren’t enough and I’m getting on. When he took off, wasn’t much I could do about it. Ty gave me the rundown on ‘im. I’m not surprised.”

Her monologue doesn’t make it any better which he’s all too happy to point out. The assertion gets the door slammed in his face and Jason doesn’t know what to do. Call it in, probably. Tyasia then the police to report Tim as missing. Again.

“So you pretend that kid is Tim?” Jason asks, voice a step away from hysteric.

Of all the things he’s seen and experienced, this one right here where a foster parent is doing a bait and switch on him is up there in ridiculousness without Rogue involvement. Funny how civilians can throw him for a loop but he’s used to the likes of the Riddler. It’s ass-Bat-wards is what it is, he decides. Who needs a cape and short shorts when all he needed to do was expose himself to more tried and true Gothamites with no shame and their own flair for the dramatic. Not Jason. He’s currently got his hands full with a missing teenage Houdini wanna be.

“What the fuck,” Jason says, with feeling too. Mrs. Fields takes a step back and then another as the fog of this-cannot-be-happening lifts and leaves him feeling the familiar itch of anger skittering under his skin. “When?” Jason demands.

Mrs. Fields narrows her eyes. “I’ll tell you if you don’t report me. I do good.”

The this-cannot-be-happening feeling comes back, filling him with a volatile cocktail of incredulity and irritation. “Are you bargaining with me right now?”

“Are you from Gotham?” she scoffs.

“You know what, whatever. Sure, yeah, of course I won’t report this,” Jason bites out. “Now tell me when he left.”

Finally, Mrs. Fields lets up and starts to turn away. “Three days ago. One of my older kids comes to visit sometimes, says he sees him skulking around in the Alley sometimes.”

Jason is taking off before the door is even shut yet. There is a formerly rich idiot running around Crime Alley. Granted, Tim must be well acquainted with the trash laden streets housing the majority of the human garbage of Gotham, but Tim hasn’t lost his Bristol accent. He’s been on the streets for four years now but still. Jason feels like this is his fault. Like if something happens to Tim he’ll need to carry it on his conscience alongside all his other failures. He’s had enough of those.

Crime Alley isn’t big, not really when it’s compared to the vast size of Gotham as a whole. One kid isn’t going to ghost him. He is Jason Todd, former Robin, current badass, thank you very much. Jason knows the best dumpsters in the Alley to pillage for most likely not spoiled foods, which buildings are livable if you squint and turn your head to the side, how to find the little figures scurrying into innocuous piles of trash.

Luck must finally be showing Jason some grace because he makes it the few blocks to the Narrows without feeling like he’ll melt into a puddle of pain and sweat. Even better, he’s leaning on a street light, head hung low as he tries to catch his breath, when he sees the telltale shift of a garbage can in the alleyway across from him.

Part 1 of 2? Maybe??

#idk but here it is #I just wanted it #tim drake #jason todd #dc comics #wicked writing

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trimaplenut · 8 years ago

Text

Title: The Language of Flowers

Pairing: Naegiri

Words: 2222

Rating: T

Based on this prompt

i dont know shit about police stuff or law dont quote me on any of it

“How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flower?”

Makoto’s mouth hangs open, unable to reply immediately. He’s had troublesome customers and some odd requests before, but he’s never had someone storm into his family’s flower shop, slam twenty bucks on the counter, and ask something with as much barely-contained frustration as this woman has.

He’s also never had someone come into his shop that immediately makes him think please go out with me.

The woman, who looks to be the same age as him—great!—lifts a hand to her head and threads her fingers through her locks. Her hair, long and straight and colored a soft, light lavender, slips through the gaps of her gloved hand, cascading down her shoulders and back. It mesmerizes him as she repeats the action over and over again, and his fingers twitch as he wonders what it would feel like. In contrast to the tinge of annoyance in her voice, her facial expression is a cold, hard wall that betrays none of her thoughts or feelings. But rather than pushing him away, it just makes Makoto more curious—what emotions are hiding behind that iron mask of hers, why keep them secret from the world?

And her eyes—dear lord, the things he could say about them. If her hair was soft and light then her eyes are harsh and bright, a vivid sea of amethysts shining and twinkling in the sunlight from the windows, staring straight at him as if they could see every inch of his soul, slowly filling with… confusion…?

Makoto blinks.

Right, he’s in the shop. She asked him a question. He’s supposed to be doing his job.

How long has he been staring? He’s pretty glad the place is empty right now.

“U-Um,” Makoto stammers as his brain is harshly pulled back to reality. What was the question again? Something about swearing with flowers. His eyes dart around the shop’s shelves and survey the different species of plants they have on display. “There’s not really any one flower that means… that, specifically…” He’s sure he can think of something for her, though. He skirts around the edge of the counter—

Ouch, his hip! Gah, that table edge is a lot sharper than he thought!

Suck it up, don’t embarrass yourself in front of her!

He bites the inside of his lip to keep the pain out of his expression and scampers about for the different flowers he needs.

After several minutes, he now has numerous pots spread out across the counter, each containing flowers of differing species and a slightly varying color from the others. “But if you had a bouquet of these flowers,” Makoto continues, “I think that would work.”

She doesn’t reply immediately. Instead she inspects each pot of flowers, one by one, before finally turning to the florist standing beside her. “In all honesty, I hadn’t expected you’d be able to fulfill such a request,” she finally admits.

Makoto scratches his cheek. “Aha… I’m a bit of a dork when it comes to flowers.”

He freezes the instant the words leave his mouth. Idiot, why would you admit that to a stranger? A really, really pretty stranger?

“O-Or, well, that’s what my sister says,” he adds on quickly. “Or said. When we were… When we were younger…” His face flushes a little in embarrassment. Great recovery. Absolutely flawless. From now on, his mouth requires permission from his brain before he speaks a single word.

Her lips curve upwards and Makoto’s heart nearly skips a beat. “I’m thankful for it, regardless,” she replies. She tucks some of her hair behind her ear and lets out a sigh. “The previous three flower shops I visited weren’t able to help me.”

The smile drops from her face and it fills Makoto with unexplainable dismay. “W-Well, I’m sure they did the best they could,” he stammers. “I only know a useless thing like flower language because I was bored one night.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say such a skill is useless,” the woman argues, folding her arms across her chest. “You never know when that knowledge could benefit you in life. For a florist like you, if you know the meaning behind flowers and can explain it to your customers, it can add more impact to a bouquet or arrangement.” The small smile returns to her face. “And it certainly isn’t useless to someone who desires a certain meaning over color or appearance, such as myself.”

Makoto stares for a moment and then laughs. “I guess you’re right! Honestly, yours is the first time I’ve taken a request where the meaning isn’t a generic one of love or friendship.” He looks down at the ground to try and hide his flushing face. “I’m pretty lucky to know what I do, otherwise I wouldn’t really know where to start.”

She reaches out with a gloved hand and gently strokes one of the flowers’ petals. “So what do each of these mean?”

“Those are geraniums,” he answers promptly, “which mean stupidity. Foxgloves mean insincerity, meadowsweet is uselessness, yellow carnations mean ‘you have disappointed me’, and orange lilies are for hatred.” Makoto shrugs self-consciously at his knowledge. “It’s a pretty striking bouquet—full of color and loathing.”

He doesn’t think his face has cooled down yet, but he can’t avoid looking at her forever. Not to mention it would be pretty rude of him. He raises his head to see the woman smile with satisfaction. “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

“Can I ask who’s it for?” Makoto says, a minute or so later, as he hands over her purchase in exchange for the money. “It’s… quite a strong message.”

For a few seconds, her expression remains blank and he thinks he isn’t going to get an answer. But then her lips curl into a smirk and she gazes down at the flowers as if picturing something amusing in her head. “Someone who deserves it.”

Makoto lets out a small chuckle. “I’ll remember not to get on your bad side.”

The woman eyes him for a brief second before letting out a noncommittal hum. “Mmm.”

Was that the wrong thing to say? She clammed up all of a sudden but her response doesn’t give him a good idea of where he went wrong. He averts his eyes for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “Have a nice day.” As she reaches the door, Makoto suddenly gains confidence and waves at her. “Please come again!”

She doesn’t reply as she walks out the door. Makoto watches her through the store’s windows until she disappears from sight. He relaxes his weight onto his elbows and lets out a happy sigh. A dorky smile stretches across his face.

He really hopes she comes again.

“I would think that a detective like you would exhibit more attentiveness, especially after I made the effort to come all this way to this peasant hole.”

Kyoko bites the inside of her cheek, takes a deep but quiet breath in through her nose, and then breathes out. “I would think it’d be clear to you that—”

I have better things to do than satisfy your infuriatingly massive, attention-demanding ego.

“—I currently have a lot of paperwork that needs to be completed, and I would like to get home sometime before next Sunday,” she instead finishes. She just needs to keep up an act of civility. It’ll be worth it in the end.

“Do you think that excuses the delay? You are wasting my time. Unless those papers are related to the retrieval of my property, your prioritizing leaves much to be desired.”

But boy, does he make it difficult.

He being Byakuya Togami, one of the witnesses in her recently closed murder case. Originally, he was only involved as the employer of one of their suspects. Then it turned out that their original crime scene was a setup and the true scene of the murder was in an office building owned by Byakuya, committed by said employee. She managed to speak with him a maximum of three times during the case, and each time wondered what she was doing back in the same room as the insufferable smug bastard.

If she had her way around here, somebody else would’ve already given him back access to the office and she’d never have to see him again, but since he’s the heir to the Togami Conglomerate, one of the biggest and most influential businesses in the area, her boss had made it clear to Kyoko and her coworkers that he would be treated with the utmost respect—lest the police department suddenly find themselves short several thousand dollars of funding.

And that means leaving him in the company of the most competent detective in the precinct. Who is still immensely busy and no longer has the patience to deal with him.

And despite it, she still turns to him with a calm expression. “I’ve already organized to have the appropriate documents processed. I’m afraid all there is to do now is wait.”

Byakuya’s demeanor hardly improves, but he does recognize that continuing to belittle her won’t speed anything up, so he clicks his tongue and glares at a spot on the wall. An unfortunate officer walks in his line of sight and receives the full force of his fury. The officer stumbles for a moment, looks around to try and determine why she’s getting glared at, and then nervously walks away in a hurry.

Kyoko glances up, catching sight of the interaction as she reaches for her mug of coffee, before turning her attention to her drink. She takes several gulps of the hot beverage before returning to the paperwork.

“What sort of punishment will that plebeian scum receive?”

Or trying to return to the paperwork. Kyoko doesn’t look up as she replies, “It’s out of my hands as to what sentence they’ll give him. But he’s been charged with second-degree murder—I imagine he’s getting life with no parole for at least ten years.”

Byakuya’s lips twist into a sneer. “Let it be a lesson to him, and to anyone else who dares think of sullying the Togami name in such a manner.”

She can tell that most of the detectives within earshot are irked by his comment, questioning how he can put his family’s reputation over the fact someone was murdered. Kyoko’s personal opinion is slightly different—that the fact the truth was reached was more important than some flimsy sense of justice or status—but that’s neither here nor there. Not when the conversation topic offers her an opening.

“But, speaking of the case…” Kyoko reaches under her desk and pulls out a bouquet of flowers she’d purchased earlier. “Here.”

Byakuya raises an eyebrow. “What are those?”

Oh, the urge to respond with the obvious smartass answer is strong, but she can restrain herself on this one occasion, all things considered. “They’re as thanks. Your assistance was quite helpful, perhaps even vital to solving the case.”

He was helpful in that it saved her waiting for a court order to investigate his office building, but she would’ve gotten her way regardless of his level of cooperation.

They’re both distracted momentarily when another detective approaches Kyoko’s desk—he’s somewhat new but she can’t say she remembers his name immediately. He angles the folder in his hands towards her and says, “I’ve got the papers for Mr Togami, Detective Kirigi—”

Before he can even finish, Byakuya stands up from his chair and snatches the folder out of his hands. And then, just when she thinks she spent twenty dollars on a failed opportunity, the bouquet disappears from her grasp.

Case officially closed.

Kyoko turns to the detective and inclines her head. “Thank you for the papers, Detective.” The man flushes a little from the praise and tilts his hat down to hide his face. She turns her head as he leaves and focuses on Byakuya as he heads for the elevator. Only when the elevator doors obscure him from view does Kyoko’s expression transform into something smugger.

One of her coworkers, Yui Samidare, levels her with a look of confusion. “Kyoko, did you just give the asshole flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asks incredulously.

Kyoko smirks. “To let him know exactly how I feel about his attitude.”

She returns to her work as Yui starts yammering and blurting out whatever comes to mind—first of which is an accusation of attraction towards Byakuya, which thankfully doesn’t take long at all for Yui to change her mind about. Then she just demands to know exactly what Kyoko was up to with the flower gift—because if anyone has an ulterior motive to everything they do, it’s Kyoko Kirigiri.

Said schemer completely ignores what her fellow detective is saying. Her pen flies across the paper in front of her, but in all honesty, she’s not focusing on that either. Kyoko’s thoughts are solely occupied by the florist she met.

She wouldn’t have been able to carry through with her plan of subtle revenge had it not been for him. She’ll have to thank him for his assistance. Kyoko’s eyes wander across her desk until they rest on her mug. Perhaps she could ask him out for coffee one day. He was pretty cute, too.

#danganronpa #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri #naegiri #maple writes

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evolutionsvoid · 8 years ago

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As one should know from my earlier entries, Mancer Syndrome does not just effect the prime elements that we are familiar with. There are many other elements and niches that can lead to Mancer Syndrome, things that are outside of elements like fire, water and earth. We have already seen that beings like Apiaromancers and Psychomancers can exist, even though they do not wield magic that we would label as "elemental." This types of mancers are quite rare, as it involves a magic user to become consumed by this narrow field of specific magic. Many mages and sorcerers prefer broad types of magic, so that their arsenal is varied and their studies are vast. Not many wish to narrow down their field to such a slim margin. Thus, these specific mancers are not commonly created. One good example, is the Mycomancer. Mycomancers are magic users who are obsessed with mushrooms and other fungi. Some may find an appeal to all plant life, but their number one favorite will be fungus every time. The use of magic with mushrooms is a very specific field, and one that does not see much use outside of potion brewing and medicine making. So rarely does one actually use their mana on fungus, that one has to wonder how they become infected by such an element. Some may use their mana to speed mushroom growth, or to try and make new species of fungus, but that should not reach the levels necessary for mutation. They can use their powers to control the fungi, but if they are not on a battlefield or fight, that ability sees little use. This as led to some scholars theorizing that certain breeds of fungus or mushroom may actually affect the natural mana when consumed or inhaled. Perhaps their spores or natural juices somehow infect the natural mana of the human body, and aid in the conversion of a Mycomancer. This would help explain some things, but at the same time, not much has been discovered to prove this. Regardless, I would still advise any magic users to be careful when consuming shrooms. It may not mutate you into a rotting corpse, but it may cause one to hallucinate and end up burning down half their school.

When those who study fungi become afflicted with Mancer Syndrome, they will become obsessed with the organisms to an unhealthy degree. An admiration for the organisms will occur, with the infected host seeing them as the perfect organisms. Any other plant, creature or being pales in comparison to the mighty fungi. The infected will begin to grow the fungus on everything around them, desiring their company at all times. Mass consumption of these organisms will commence, as they choose to only feed on what they can grow in their rotting gardens. The infected will reek of rot and decay, and hygiene goes right out the window. As time goes on and the sickness worsens, the fungi will appear to grow more and more on their body. At first they will sprout from their clothes, but eventually they will burst from their flesh and orifices. When one becomes fully consumed by the infection, they will have become more mushroom than man. What emerges from the final transformation is a rotting corpse that is swallowed by fungal growth. Flesh will rot to a putrid liquid, bones will be exposed and organs may become simple vessels for fungus. Limbs will melt down to thin twigs, as their bodies become covered in large growths. Most of the time, their heads will develop mushroom caps themselves, covering their horrible rotted faces. The mushrooms and mold will have reached a point to where they are one with the mancer. Everything that bursts from their flesh is a part of them, all linked together by some organic network. Things like food and water will no longer be a concern for them, as they feed off the nutrients their overgrown bodies provide. All they will concerned about, at this point, is their beloved fungi. When one becomes a full blown Mycomancer, they will do nothing but grow fungi. They can grow gardens as big as a village, and it still wouldn't be enough. They need to be fully surrounded by rot and mold, rearing and breeding new types to infest their gardens with. They will seek out isolated areas that will suit their needs, a place far away from the vile, ignorant humans. A nice place of dark dampness, so that their fungal beds can be "happy" in a perfect environment. That is another thing that will come from the transformation, an apparent "communication" with the fungi themselves. There is no way to tell if this is a real power, or if the mind is so far gone that they simply imagine the voices that talk to them. Mycomancers will do everything they can to provide for their fungal friends, making sure they get everything they need. If their beautiful gardens are endangered, they will not hesitate to unleash waves of rot and clouds of spores upon their enemies. Due to their isolated nature, Mycomancers do not pose an immediate threat. It is only when their gardens begin to overflow towards civilization that you should begin to worry. Mycomancers do not care about humans or others, so if their flesh eating fungus gets loose in a town, they don't really think too much about it. In fact, they will usually take the fungus' side and get angry when the humans seek to exterminate them. That is another way a Mycomancer can become dangerous, if someone harms their fungal beds. If a band of adventurers or angry town folk torch their fungal friends, than the wrath of the Mycomancer will be unleashed. They will go after the offenders, looking to use their corpses as the fertilizer for their new breeding grounds. When fighting a Mycomancer, one should make sure no skin is exposed. They rely on spores and mold to infest enemies, spreading throughout their bodies so that they may eat away from the inside. From their mouths, lungs or other exposed orifices, they can spray streams of liquid rot that can cause instant infection in any wound they touch. Mycomancers will also summon the help of their fungus when in battle, directing the devouring hordes to surround and assimilate those who defy them. So if you seek to fight one of these mancers, be sure to either get them away from their fungal beds or destroy them. The use of fire and ice can eliminate these breeding grounds with ease, so that you may focus on the main body. Heat and cold also helps when fighting the mancer head on, as they are vulnerable to these elements. Fire spells are especially useful for burning away the clouds of spores they release. This is critical for when you wound the mancer. Since they are consumed by fungi, any strike to their body will usually result in a splash of rot or a puff of spores. This is powerful ability that many forget about, and usually brings victory to the Mycomancer despite a losing battle. Some barbarian will lop their head off and call it a victory, only to get hosed down by the rotting blood that spurts from their stump. The Mycomancer will pull themselves back together, as the once victorious warrior melts into a pile of sludge. That brings up another point, as Mycomancers are practically immune to physical damage. Lop a limb off, run a spear through them or grind their head to a pulp, they will still fight back. The fungi is so prevalent within their bodies, that destruction of their head or organs will do nothing to them. To fully defeat them, you must burn them to ash or seal them in a tomb of rock or ice. While Mycomancers can seem short sighted in their goals, they may be the one mancer class that has truly succeeded. Mycomancers seek to spread the growth of fungi and create a perfect world of mushroom and mold. Some say that this scenario would be the end of days, but others believe that they have already won. Though Mycomancers put a lot of care towards fungi, they do like plants. And what other species walks about this earth with such a pronounced head cap? Scholars and researchers have talked on end about this, but we believe that the dryad species may have been created by ancient Mycomancers. Their power over fungus could be strong enough to craft the species and bring them to life. How else would you explain their prevalence on this planet? What else would explain their amazing adaptability and their numerous sub-species? It makes perfect sense. Some Mycomancer, long ago, sought to make himself a companion, and thus created the dryads. Their kind then went forth and multiplied, coating the world with many different forms and kinds. It would explain why so little is known about their history or origins. The resemblance is also impossible to ignore. And maybe that is why they are so insufferably cheery and upbeat. Mycomancers are so enamored with their craft and kind, that they are just a bunch of grinning fools. Makes sense to me..... Cavarious Shaid

#fungi #fungus #monster #creature #mancer #mage #wizard #art #drawing #mushroom #mycomancer

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thatishogwash · 8 years ago

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Stretch Your Wings

KuroDai Week 2017

May 7, 2017

Day Two: Same Highschool AU

Summary: Sawamura is feeling a bit off but Kuroo knows the best way to cheer him up.

Warnings: None

AO3

Sawamura wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up in an altercation with the captain of the basketball team, though he wasn’t all that surprised. The Oni in the school tended to flock towards the basketball team and Sawamura for his part steered clear of them but they were always the first one to the cafeteria and they bought all the food before anyone else could. This wasn’t a huge problem for Sawamura, who mostly brought his lunch from home but he couldn’t stand by as the captain of the basketball team shoved a boy, who probably weighed as much as his thigh, out of the way of the food.

It was surprisingly Kuroo who pulled them apart, pushing into the Oni’s space and whispering something that made the tall boy go pale and scuttle off. Sawamura didn’t feel too bad, the boy would be back to his horrible behavior by the end of lunch. But Sawamura was still angry, felt something hot and unpleasant itch just beneath his skin. His back, neck, and shoulders all hurt and he was fighting a losing battle against a major migraine. He had wanted to punch something and Kuroo had gotten in the way of that.

Sawamura wasn’t usually a violent person.

“I had it handled.” Sawamura turned away from Kuroo, moving down the hallway quickly. He had only come out of his classroom to get away from the chatter that seemed to rub against his senses in all the wrong ways.

Sawamura wasn’t usually so quick to anger.

“I know, I wasn’t stepping in to protect you, he was about three seconds away from being beaten.” Kuroo kept pace with Sawamura easy, damn his long legs. “You usually don’t let the Oni bother you.” Even though Kuroo was right Sawamura still found it annoying.

“I’m fine.” Sawamura said in a tone even he recognized as snappish.

“Hey-” Kuroo reached out, pulling Sawamura to a stop and Sawamura moved away from him, flinching at the sharp tug on his back. “You want to get some fresh air?” Sawamura was tempted to tell Kuroo off but something stilled his tongue. Kuroo wasn’t given to bouts of seriousness often and Sawamura guessed if he blew Kuroo off now that it would do some real damage.

So Sawamura held his tongue and motioned for Kuroo to lead the way. Kuroo lead him out of the school building, past the courtyard where most of the students were milling about on the cool spring day, past the first two gyms and to the back of the third. There was a big willow tree near the third gym. Most people avoided it because of the ghost of the dead boy who hung himself on the tree was extremely unpleasant, and rather rude. Though Sawamura guessed he’d be angry if he attempted to kill himself and was stuck in the one place he was trying to get away from for all of eternity.

Ghosts tended to stay away from Kuroo though. Sawamura wasn’t quite sure what he was, there were all sorts of rumors. Some thought he was a Bakeneko or a Nekomata, there were a couple whispers about him even being a Kasha but it was considered rude questioning a Yokai’s heritage and no one really wanted to get on Kuroo’s bad side. Especially if he was a Kasha.

Though Sawamura had the sudden insight that if he asked Kuroo what exactly he was, he might just get an answer. It didn’t matter much to him though, Sawamura himself was from a long line of Tengu’s and the misconceptions he heard were enough to make him wish others didn’t know what he was.

They had been going to the same high school for the past two and half years, now well into their third and final year. Sawamura had disliked Kuroo at first. He was cocky and manipulative and enjoyed riling people up. He was intelligent and used that wit against people also. But he was also loyal and given to bouts of kindness when he thought no one was looking.

Sawamura wasn’t sure when Kuroo and he became friends, just that it seemed like a natural progression. At some point he stopped turning to his side to wonder why Kuroo was there and started thinking why wasn’t he there more often. It was a dangerous road to go down and Sawamura had enough issues to deal with.

“So are the bindings hurting you?” Kuroo asked, tilting his head to look over Sawamura’s shoulders even though there wasn’t much to see.

“My secondary wings grew in,” Sawamura explained, or half explained. A Tengu’s wings, at least for his family, came in sets of two. The secondary wings were always there, but until they reached adulthood they tended to be small and unusable, hidden beneath their primary wings. Sawamura’s had grown in early and the bindings required to hold down the wings under their clothes were expensive and custom made, so he was forced to wear his old ones that were clearly too small.

“Can I see?” Kuroo asked, hands buried deep in his pocket and looking bored of all things. Sawamura hadn’t shown his wings to anyone who wasn’t a Tengu before, and most of those were his family members. “You need to stretch them out anyways, right?” Kuroo was merely guessing but he was right.

Sawamura glanced around and realized that it must have been Kuroo’s plan all along because they were in a deserted place. They were even guarded from the windows of the school by the gym building and the large willow tree.

Sawamura decided to ignore the blatant manipulation and started to take off his school blazer. Everything was bought a size bigger to accommodate the wings, but with his secondary wings everything felt tighter, restricting. At home Sawamura hardly bothered with a shirt, much to his mother's constant disapproval.

Kuroo hummed a softly melody as he looked away, but not before Sawamura saw the pink tinge to his ears. It was neither too cold nor too sunny for the weather to have affected him like that, and Sawamura felt suddenly in a better mood.

Sawamura groaned as he pulled off the bindings, letting them fall to the ground on top of his uniform as he shook out his wings. Kuroo’s soft humming died off as he looked from one tip to the other. Sawamura contained his grin as he spread his wings out to their full length, giving them a good stretch while simultaneously giving Kuroo a show. Sawamura was fully aware there was nothing special about the color of his wings, mostly they were varying degrees of black and dark gray but they expanded quite a bit, spreading out far behind Sawamura. The newly grown secondary wings added to the volume.

Sawamura curled his left wing in, hitting Kuroo gently with it and watching him jump like a frightened cat.

“Thank you, this was a great idea.” Sawamura said before Kuroo could whine about Sawamura scaring him. Kuroo shoved his hands deeper into his pocket, looking suddenly flustered.

“Can’t have you go beating people up because you’re all tense, how do those even fit beneath your uniform?” Kuroo stepped closer, eyes still scanning Sawamura’s wings as he settled them comfortably behind him. “Can I touch them?” Sawamura felt his heart pick up a beat, his skin felt suddenly warm even though he knew, he knew that Kuroo didn’t know what he was asking. Not really.

Touch was very important to Tengu in the sense that you only really touched your family and close friends. Touching someone’s wings was almost downright a proposal. Not even Sawamura’s parents touched his wings. But curiosity was getting the best of him so he nodded, face warm, and turned around. He felt vulnerable like that, exposed in a way that had his heart beating a quick tempo inside his chest. His wings rustled with his nerves.

Kuroo started by touching the very tips of his feathers, a barely there pressure. Sawamura hardly felt it, the further feathers out weren’t all that sensitive, the closer the feathers got to his back the more he felt from them.

“Are they heavy?” Kuroo asked, voice soft.

“I’ve gotten use to it, the secondary wings throw off my balance right now.” Though Sawamura knew once he worked up the muscle in them they would help him fly faster and farther without tiring. Not that he had much opportunity to fly very very. “I think it’s like-” Sawamura’s voice cut off on a sharp inhale as he felt fingers burying themselves into the feathers nearest his back.

“They are softer on the lower wings.” Kuroo commented, as if he had no idea that Sawamura was having a mild panic attack. It turned out his secondary wings were very sensitive. The warning bell was Sawamura’s salvation before he did something truly embarrassing, like moan or confess. “Let me see the bindings, I think I’ve got an idea.”

Kuroo somehow made the bindings fit a little looser. They were still too snug but it no longer felt like every move Sawamura made was ripping out feathers. Sawamura quickly got dressed after that, peering up into Kuroo’s eyes. The taller boy was back to humming a soft melody, but his cheeks were pink and his fingers kept twitching, as if in memory.

Sawamura grinned, moving quick to place a feather soft kiss on Kuroo’s cheek before walking back towards the school.

“H-hey! Wait!” Kuroo stuttered behind him. Sawamura knew it was only temporary, Kuroo would be back to his smirking insufferable self in no time but right then Sawamura had the upper hand and he enjoyed it.

#kurodaiweek #kurodaiweek2k17 #my writing #fanfiction #haikyuu #sawamura daichi #kuroo tetsurou

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