#ive been brain rotting over this since i had the thought this morning(?) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission��s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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badatjokezz · 4 years

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Haikyuu!! Rare Pair Fic Recs

i’ve been so hype about some Hq rarepairs lately now imma list some of my fav fanfics, mostly OiSuga mwehehe....

(probably gonna add some more in the future)

Oisuga (Oikawa x Sugawara)

1. Stuck in the Middle With You by overlymetaromantic

It's not the kind of blossoming relationship either of them would expect, but maybe, just maybe, it could lead to something good.

1. In which Suga and Oikawa run into each other on a late night convenience store run.

2. In which Suga and Oikawa inadvertently switch bags and end up with the other’s uniform.

3. In which Suga gives Oikawa the lecture he doesn't want but probably needs, and Oikawa might accidentally be a little in love.

4. In which Oikawa won't shut up about Suga, and Iwaizumi plays matchmaker just to make him stop.

5. In which there is not a date, and Suga likes spicy things much more than sweet.

6. In which Karasuno and Aobajousai hold training camps in the same neck of the woods, and the trip back proves to be more revealing than it probably should.

7. In which there might just be a future to this after all.

(Dis is so fluffy i might die)

2. moving on (growing up) by _helios (neocitz)

‘I’ll do it,’ Suga says, walking into their prep school and dropping his bag on the floor next to Oikawa. He shoves the melon bun and drink forward into Oikawa’s hands, and stands there looking down at him because he knows that he needs to not chicken out.

‘You’ll do what?’ Oikawa looks up through his glasses, eyes wide and confused as the other students stream in around them.

‘The fake dating thing, I’ll do it.’

‘Fuck. Yes.’ Oikawa says with a fist pump.

(It’s been AGES since i read Fake/Pretend Relationship fic, this one is goood)

3. how strange, to be remembered by venusintwelfthFandoms

"He is not formed of the type of dust that makes up stars. Suga is not the type of person that stays in the mind of one like Oikawa Tooru, ten years later. He is formed of the type of dust you shake off, the type that settles into the ground."

Ten years after Suga last steps off a high-school court, Oikawa recollects a "Mr. Refreshing" in a post-game interview, and Suga is left scrambling.

(Cute one-shot, Oikawa still remember Mr. Refreshing from Karasuno)

4. all the small things by Authoress for lemedy

Sugawara Koushi.

Oikawa’s brain supplies the name of the person standing at the other end of the aisle before Oikawa can even register him, attuned to spitting out facts about other volleyball players on a second’s notice, even after all these years. Karasuno High vice-captain. 174 cm…no, more like 176 now. Skilled at raising morale and bringing an element of surprise to their strategy. Troublesome. Refreshing. Setter.

The enemy.

(Single Dad! Oikawa, cuuutee ugh)

5. Win Some by kingdra (aroceu) for Icie

Tooru does not have a problem, its name is certainly not Sugawara Koushi, and he is not going to the Karasuno practices just to watch him. Regardless of whatever Iwa-chan says.

(High school romane~)

6. Even as bright as you are? by BKAKCANON

That night when he goes to sleep, he includes "the safety of fairies" on his prayers, making a promise to whoever was listening him, that he'd protect all the fairies and keep their secret safe forever.

[Where Oikawa meets Suga when they are kids and Oikawa believes Suga is secretly a fairy and decides he has to protect his secret all costs.]

(This is basically matches my headcanon)

7. getting to know you by oisugasuga

Suga feels like he’s back on the court then, his heart thudding hard in his ears… so hard he almost misses what Oikawa says. Unfortunately, though, he doesn’t.

"My, my. What a surprise," Oikawa Tooru says. And then… "Hello, Mr. Refreshing."

(Haven’t finished yet but DAMN I LOVE OIKAWA AND SUGA IN HERE, single dad! oikawa, and Suga babysitting oikawa’s kid, def slow burn. Imma follow this fic till death)

8. Dear Reader by hyirule

No one seems to read the paper anymore. But Oikawa likes to for the sports section. One day he finds himself reading a section called "Dear Reader" and finds a submission he can relate to.

Basically messages sent through a page on a newspaper brings to unlikely souls together, who maybe have more in common than they first thought.

(Cannon compliant, simple and... refreshing(?))

9. rest by shicchaan

Tooru looks at the sleeping person beside him as he waits for the lights change into green. The growing fringe of his husband started to cover his eyes but he can still see the beautiful birthmark under the silver haired's left eye.

(Established relationship, fluff fluff!!!)

10. long is the road (that leads me home) by ichweissnichtauch

He thinks about himself, deleting contacts from his phone and throwing coffee cups away without even looking at the string of numbers scrawled in Sharpie ink underneath, and he’s tired of hiding, tired of carefully treading the lines he’d drawn for himself all those years ago.

Just this once, Tooru wants— he thinks he wants to be brave.

Oikawa Tooru is not a stranger to wanting.

(like... 20% Oisuga but i like the way this story follows the Cannon till he get to Argentina)

11. It's Always Been About You by mintycarrots

Every time Tooru had envisioned meeting his soulmate, it was a confession of love, filled with tears of happiness and a lot of making out. It would be a faceless petite girl that would support Tooru in whatever he chose to pursue and would understand when Tooru prioritized volleyball over all else.

It was never a boy on the rival team.

(Soulmate AU)

12. a play in three acts by venusintwelfth

"The first time Sugawara Koushi sees Oikawa Tooru play, he thinks that if he wasn’t so set on volleyball, he’d do well in theater."

the first seijoh x karasuno match through the eyes of suga.

(Kinda poetic i guess, well written af)

13. colors by dazeful

Sugawara Koushi's colorful life as an archer.

(this is like the perfect oisuga one shot ive ever read)

___

IwaSuga (Iwaizumi x Sugawara)

1. And so the moon cried by iwriteinpenFandoms:

The hillocks are the domain of unearthly creatures. Creatures of rot and fog, of music and dance. Like ghosts in the night they travel without leaving footprints, they disappear in a flurry of long dresses and pale hair. Those who are fated to see them risk curses far worse than death. You may hear them, a giggle in the wind. You may smell them, the smell of the fog rolling in through the trees. You should pray you never see them. Iwaizumi Hajime is a simple man. He works a simple farm job and enjoys simple things. After one morning where he woke next to a perfect circle of death and only the memory of brown eyes and cold hands, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the forest. Will the tales of his childhood play out with him at the center or will he have to disregard all reason?

(Danish Folklore AU)

2. Cry Just A Little by DreadfulMind

Suga was whistling a tune to himself as he opened the door to the bathroom, so he didn't hear the muffled crying through the door. But he could hear it clearly once he was inside. He heard the sharp sob of someone trying to stop.

"Iwaizumi?" He asked, "are you sure you're alright?"

(Simple but c u t e)

3. Generations by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor), mozaikmage

Professional sports blogger Sugawara Koushi writes an article about a volleyball match that bears special meaning to him and his former kouhai: a showdown between Kitagawa Daiichi and Yukigaoka Middle School, ten years after the teams faced off for the first time. He doesn't plan on capturing the attention of the world of sports journalism, and he certainly doesn't expect himself to end up having a thing for one of the coaches involved, one Iwaizumi Hajime.

(Time-Skip, I loved it)

___

KuroTsuki (Kuroo x Tsukishima)

1. Invictus by Chiru

Kuroo T. » So let me get this straight (gay?) Kuroo T. » You want me to pretend to be your perfect and fabulous boyfriend, so that your little freckled friend will stop trying to set you up with cute little highschool girls? Tsukishima Kei » yes Kuroo T. » Aha. Tsukishima Kei » you'll do it? Kuroo T. » I don't know. I missed the part where I get something out of it. Tsukishima Kei » you get to annoy me. Unfortunately Kuroo T. » Tempting, Tsukki, very tempting indeed.

(Fake/Pretend Relationship, some fluff, some angst, i read this in the middle of the night and cried, fortunately happy ending)

2. hold onto hope if you got it by nekolyssi

"Now, in the beginning of their third year of high school, the obnoxious hollering and incessant spirit of his teammates became normalcy to Kei. And now, normalcy is this. Weekly psych meetings. Pharmacy waiting rooms. Prescriptions. Refusal of prescriptions. More prescriptions."

(Not finished yet but yep prolly gonna put this one to one of those best haikyuu fics ive ever read. I wasnt so interested at first but i really like the idea of mental ilness etc, this is g o o d!!)

3. [KuroTsuki Fest Week 2017] Traces by Heartythrills

Kuroo’s disappeared for a little over a week now, and suddenly a 4 year old who looks like him appears before Tsukishima’s apartment.

(Age regression, fluff)

4. I swear by xArtemisx

Like the shadow that's by your side I'll be there

"What are you doing here, Tetsu? It's cold." Kei asked softly. Tetsurou smiled. Hearing his name came out of Kei's lips is always music to his ears.

"Nothing. I just came to think that whatever memory we make, may it be happy or sad memories, the bright moon and the starry night sky is always there to be the witness. Did you notice?" The alpha answered and Kei nodded. He also noticed it.

"Yes, I did noticed it."

(I love agony and sad ending....)

5. Honeybee by ClosetGoblin

Tsukishima has trouble sleeping one night during a Third Gym Camping Trip. So, he takes his acoustic guitar and passes the time with some music, and gets a visitor. Maybe he doesn't mind Kuroo's voice as he does the screeching that Lev and Hinata call singing.

(Simple but sweet)

6. Say You Like Me by the_madame21

It's been three months. And Tsukishima Kei is going to see Kuroo Tetsurou.

(light angst and.. s m u t. Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamic)

7. trying to get to you by mytsukkishine

Everything came crashing down on Kuroo when Kei had left him alone with nothing but the moon shining down on him.

Wherein, Kuroo was struggling to move on and decided that he wouldn't mind being with Kei again.

(sad beginning? yes. sad ending? y e s. you’re a masochist? come get your juice)

8. Please Hold by ThemooncatFandoms

Kei was expecting Kuroo to do one of two things; Send a text to the office saying that they will have to call back another time and continue what they started, or excuse himself from Kei to answer the call, which was most likely. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Kuroo does neither of those things.

(short but hot. what’s hotter than quiet sex?)

___

Ushijima x Oikawa

1. This Insignificant Pride and Prejudice by Mysecretfanmoments, Pouler (poulerslashes)

Oikawa Tooru graduated high school with the burning desire to succeed in his college career. He'd hoped that might include taking down his arch-nemesis along the way, but when he finds that his college team hosts an offensively familiar face, he can't help but think that the universe might be conspiring against him. After all, what could be worse than playing on the same team as Ushijima?

(It was funny for me reading oikawa/ushijima fic with that “you should’ve come to Shiratorizawa” joke at first but somehow i found this one... endearing :3, cute poor ushiwaka)

___

Atsumu x Nishinoya

1. All the things I love about Yuu by KilluCoulomb

Atsumu Miya is fixated in Nishinoya. The way the boy acts, talks, plays. He Carefully observes from afar, but he slowly warms up to the Libero. Friendship becomes more and more intimate. Atsumu realizes Nishinoya is not that simple guy he met three years ago. And he loves it.

(pro volleyball players AU)

2. i'll see you then by noyabeans (snowdrops)

Nishinoya Yuu and Miya Atsumu build a rivalry and something more.

“Oh, it's Karasuno’s libero,” he says, mildly surprised to see Nishinoya’s face staring back at him from the brochure, grinning wide with his arms folded over his chest.

Contains spoilers for the current manga arc, up to chapter 380.

#oisuga #kurotsuki #oikawa x sugawara #kuroo x tsukishima #iwasuga #iwaizumi x sugawara #ushijima x oikawa #ushioi #atsunoya #haikyuu!!#fic recs

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pass3rby · 6 years

Text

Caught By Your Past

31st Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: So, first of all, I'm sorry for the 'There must occur an accident in order for them to get their act together' drama. It was not the point there. Instead, I wanted to address that horrible (for Altair a lucky, in the end, really) thing that happens in your life sometimes? The one where you pretend something to get out of whatever and your life throws it right into your face the very next moment. Like, I still remember my classmate missing one day at school. The next one, she attended and after the classes I heard her whispering to a group of her friends that she "just didn't want to go to school, so I've told them my grandma/aunt died." (not sure which one that was anymore). I cannot remember exactly (yeah, I don't remember A LOT) if it was the very next day or just a few after when I saw her shaken up and crying at school. Turned out her grandma/aunt just died. So... There's that. Dun dun dun dun. Sorry for ruining the mood, but I kinda felt the need to explain why the story ended in such a cliché manner. (Yes, you heard right.) So, without further ado...

Lucy loved cognitive neuroscience and all the mysteries and possibilities it had to offer. Think about the various studies which were only asking for substudies and evolution. Attending university, she inhaled any information she could get. She had ambitions.

As much as she wasn't stingy with her smiles and at least a few polite words, that wasn't what she studied for. As if that hadn't been enough, she had to watch as those in power and with opportunities to move her chosen field further didn't care about it one bit. All they did was patting each other's shoulders, while the real progress in the field was rotting in the corner just because a few elites weren't capable of accepting that the world was changing, evolving.

What wasn't as painfully obvious when she had loads to do and learn, turned into a nightmare now as she was basically forced into twirling her thumbs. As much as she enjoyed digging deeper into her chosen field, everything has its pros and cons. For example.

Be a “genetic freak” and there you have it – a lonesome life right there. There's simply no time for anything else and frankly, why would you waste your day on whatever when what you wanted to do was right in front of you? Her obsession proceeded to swiftly bite her in the hide, though, as soon as they kicked her out of the university.

Wait. They kicked her out? They...?

Beep beep beep beep.

Her eyes opened on reflex, her cheek suddenly pressed against a pillow. Her pillow. And her old alarm clock was blaring full force.

Damn.

Another morning.

***

Arriving at the hospital meant undergoing the same ritual she had done twenty-four hours ago. Then the coffee, the to-do list, the new patients and old; the stories. When it was a turn to check one Altair Ibn-La'Ahad's room and the patient himself, there was no telling what sight will greet her after the event from yesterday.

What she did encounter was atypical silence. Locating the reason of that wasn't hard. Taking in Altair's silent nod in greeting, her eyes immediately slid down to his hip and the extra heap of dead-to-the-world human.

Half-sitting on a chair, half-slumped on the side of the bed. Jet black hair. Male. Wearing the same clothes that he stormed the room in hours ago, his fingers partly threaded with those of their patient.

For the little time she had the... pleasure to know Malik Al-Sayf, she had no doubt that he must have been all-out knackered to allow himself ending up in such an undignified, hand-in-a-jar heap. As she looked back up, the brunette mouthed a “please, don't wake him”.

Giving a nod to signalize that she understood, she began the regular checkup of the IV and whether any of Altair's wounds reopened or bled through the bandages while quietly maneuvering her way around the sleeping visitor.

The bed's rightful occupant kept still – or at least much less animated now than what she had gotten used to. Not in a bad way, though. Nothing forced, stiff or that whipped kind of behavior, no. Somehow, the until-then very lively, socializing-addicted guy was more than happy to stay like that, silent.

Content.

That was the word.

In the end, it wasn't so bad to end up where she was. Contact with humans and not just the central organ of their nervous system had its perks. Instead of just picking at their brains, she got to talk to people or see this. That didn't change her opinion about the stuffed piñatas called higher-ups.

Almost done with the check-up, she carefully redressed one wound that seemed to be acting up a bit before getting her things and the old dressing, intent on soundless retreat to give them their privacy back. Only to be stopped half-a-step away from the bed.

“Hey, could you-” Altair whispered, pointing to his side table drawer messily, the gesture just barely clear enough for Lucy to understand what he wanted her to do. However, as he previously shared with her what secret the drawer held, she frowned.

“Are you sure?” After all, the other man was deeply asleep.

“Positive.”

“Shouldn't he be awake for that?”

“Absolutely not.” If anyone were to witness their back-and-forth whisper game, they would laugh for sure. She, personally, would. Also, she was starting to suspect that the room's dark stowaway might be actually dead, because the acoustic here was doing them no favors.

No, he was good; his chest moved just now.

“You know, I still think that doing this while he's asleep is kind of wussing out.”

“To the contrary, hun. Braver man has not walked this Earth.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” As if going through with this while the man was awake would equal intentionally running onto a scalpel... Well, considering the previous reaction, the thought of modern seppuku wouldn't be entirely baseless. Yet, “You're a BASE jumper.”

“Exactly. Excitement. Adrenaline. Hardly suicidal. Malik?” pointing at his partner as successful in that as with the drawer a minute ago, “Waking him up now, you might as well start thinking about what to write in my obituary. Now, c'mon, before he really wakes up.”

Not entirely convinced, she pulled the drawer, taking a small box hidden inside and passing it to the suddenly impatient patient. Not that he didn't politely thank her before diving into work.

“Fuck. Dammit.” Swearing in a subdued voice, he kept trying to open the box. Since he had one arm in a cast and the other bandaged heavily, rendering it a basically mummificated appendage, they were unsurprisingly, visibly and frustratingly close to no use in his endeavor whatsoever.

Before he could swear any further – and possibly also louder – she took the box away from him, opening it herself before returning it to its owner.

“Aw, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Ungracefully shaking the box upside down resulted in dumping its content into his palm.

“Now the fun part,” he chuckled and wasn't he right. Since his only hand that had a chance to actually do the deal was the one further away from where Malik lied, this was hands down going to hurt. Nothing that would pop his stitches open or setback his healing if done carefully enough, but it'll have a bite. Lucy watched as he stubbornly pushed through anyway.

He took a deep breath before turning his upper body towards the slumbering man as much as possible; reaching with his hand out...

Almost...

Almost-

Defeated, he was forced to lay down on his back again, eyes closed, mind obviously whirring. After a bit the amber showed again with renewed fervor shining through.

“Maybe if you held his hand up?” The thoughtful voice was soon covered in a layer of plea frosting on top. Lucy sighed but did as he asked, careful not to wake the dark-haired man up. It was much better option than him really ending up doing some serious damage to himself.

“I feel like I'm being a part of a conspiracy here.”

“Well, darling,” Altair moved again, painstakingly slow, the arduousness of the exercise easy to read on his face. Nevertheless, he kept up with the conversation despite the physical pain, “You basically are. But no worries, he likes it.”

“He's asleep.”

“He still likes it.”

She snorted. This man was impossible. While objectively a tempting specimen of a man, it was more of a relief that he was spoken for, because taming this wild being? That would be a hardwork. But clearly an ordeal somebody had under their belt already anyway.

After a few dozens of very dragging seconds full of hand-handling on her part and careful cooperation from them both, she could finally be a witness to Altair painstakingly – if shakily and quite gingerly – putting a shiny new ring on the literally oblivious man's finger.

With the deed done, Altair wearily slumped back to his original position, eyes squeezed shut, breathing labored.

“Aw shit, that was harder than I thought.” She closely, if secretly, monitored his pulse slowing down back to normal. His eyes shone with quite a deal of pain when he blinked them back open again, though. She went to re-read when was the last time he had something for pain.

“I presume you're not talking about the nerves.” She noted dryly, humor on par with his. Hmm. She'll check up on him in an hour again and if he'll want, she'll have it ready.

Altair's shit-eating – if tired – smile was answer enough. He was obviously satisfied with himself.

“That was the least romantic proposal I ever saw.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The proud grin never ceased.

Gie was starting to understand why Malik was so exasperated with Altair at times.

Let's start with that fake episode with cast and brace... he even had the gall to ask her to pinkie-swear! The offer alone was utterly ridiculous, since the only one getting something out of that deal would be him; she wasn't in any danger from Malik finding out.

Although he and Malik seemed somehow gotten over the matter the morning Altair left again, the experience could be hardly forgotten. No wonder that the drive to the hospital looked the way it did.

Since Malik was the one driving, there was enough space in terms of opportunity to notice things. Things like Malik not being stressed. As in really not stressed. At all. Even her brother had certain tells, but none of them were showing. If anything, he seemed irked. When she asked if he was alright, the answer was a curt “Perfect.”. Go figure.

Now, Altair had been hospitalized, seriously hospitalized and while in no way would anyone plan that, it was heck of a timing to get into an accident anyway. All Gie was saying here was that even though she loved them both, she could finally see where Malik was coming from. Altair tends to do dumb shit and when something really happens...

This, though; this was truly something else. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad worked fast. There was no question about that. Awestruck, she just stood there, in the hospital room, her eyes firmly held and fixed by the metallic shine coming off her slumbering brother's finger. Ring finger. Left one.

Her eyebrow went up.

Altair's wiggled in answer.

One leaves for a couple of hours to preclude an end of student privileges and obligations only to return to a completely different world. One she never even imagined that she'll find herself living in for how far off the concept was. Strange to see but great all the same.

Time didn't wait around even then, though, and so it happened that Malik – engaged Malik? – started to gradually wake up. Taking stock of his surroundings, nose wrinkling... his fingers gave a strange kind of spasm upon encountering steel andwaitaminutethere. Did she imagine it or-

Don't tell me...

Gie didn't even get to decide how she felt about the revelation before Malik's head went up, eyes forcefully blinking the sleep away. Not daring to even imagine what will Malik do when he finds out, her eyes hunted down the amber hue.

Unapologetic in all its glory.

For the love of- that man was an accident waiting to happen combined with utter disregard for basic principles.

No matter the amount of desire to kick someone in the shin, they both stealthily watched as Malik was little by little shaking off the fog of sleep, in silent truce. True to his fashion, Malik was a bit slow in the mornings without a proper kickstarter – a very useful knowledge to wield – and today was no different.

Not fully focused, yet his littlefinger and middle finger kept subtly, inconspicuously brushing over the new adornment, evaluating the situation for sure. He didn't take a look – he was too awake already to be that obvious. Shame that she and Altair were focused exactly on that particular area, rendering all his efforts vain. But they better come up with a cover up themselves, because Malik was bound to look up any moment.

What's your plan now?

“Morning.”

Cheery, huh? Satisfied with the evidence that Malik noticed the ring much? He might've notice it way easier, if you gave it to him when he was conscious.

On one hand, she recognized the daring person, on another she couldn't believe that his ability to think quick on his feet failed him so bad. Neither of which meant she was thrilled. She inclined more towards-

“Hmph.”

Well, that's one way to say it.

“More like noon.” Opposing with pure facts straight away was an automatic reaction. One of which Malik would be proud. It wasn't her looking for a fight per se, as much as Altair deserved a good smack, no. More like a 'what the hell' statement of her inner self if anything, only continuing with the topic where it was left off. Whatever. She might as well play distraction so as to give Malik an opportunity to take a good look with his own eyes.

“Semantics.” Altair winked, taking cue from her and intentionally switching his full attention her way.

Forcing a frown on her face, she ignored it. She was trying to stay mad at him here. She was doing this for her brother, not confirming their renewed conspirators-in-arms status. Nope.

“Did you take a look who we're talking about?” Speaking of which, Malik was yet to take a look. What? She was his sister, she had to check! But he did stop with the ring nudging, fingers idle again; there was no way he didn't realize what the constricting band around his digit was and its meaning.

Nothing.

No reaction.

“If you want to bicker, there better be a coffee available.”

Except this one.

Malik got up from the chair to stretch, his joints cracking unnaturally loud.

“It is. In the hall. The vending machine is fully operational.” Okay, maybe she was starting to get annoyed by both of them this little bit. Is he really not gonna say anything?

“Ever helpful, little sister.” And here they were, back to the dry ribbing – as if she'll back off.

“Don't mention it.”

“I won't.” He checked for his wallet before heading for the door.

What the-As he was leaving, Altair gave Gie a beaming smile.

“Unbelievable.”

A/N:

Well, this is it, guys. Now, please, if you give me a minute of your time, I'd like to explain this whole thing (CBYP in the form it is). Aside from my obvious weak spot for AltMal, in overall, I just wanted to include all the situations that happen in stories and completely ruin them for me just because they are written in that soap opera-ish manner, you know the kind of thing? Namely, I'm talking about:

1) love triangle between siblings and a third person 2) accident being all relationship trouble solution (okay, now, I know I'm walking a very thin line here, but you gotta admit that eventually Malik and Altair would be able to solve their shit even without Altair falling with no hay safeguard) 3) way too feely, overdramatic reactions to everything happening in the story. (what I mean is feelings are good, but that overplayed kind I'm having serious trouble with)

So, I've decided to give them a try myself to draw them differently. Because I believe all of these can happen. What I also believe in is, that they don't have to necessarily result in Esmeralda field of doom if there's a valid explanation at hand.

What do you say, how did I do?

Also, you didn't believe I'd left you hanging like this, did you? (actually, you could and you probably did, fuck. x.x) Anyway, be prepared for an epilogue the next week! ;)

#cbyp #assassin's creed #altmal

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call-me-rei · 3 years

Text

Chapter 28

“It’s all because I dreamt of you and woke up alone.”

---

Opening my eyes was the hardest thing I had to do. The lights were too bright; there were too many noises. This wasn’t like the white nothingness I was in before. I wanted to go back just to get some peace and quiet.

But something brought me back from there. And I wanted to see it in person.

I tried to lift my eyelids but ended up fluttering them. The little vision I had was unfocused. I couldn’t make out anything around me except for bright lights. I was really getting tired of them. I squeezed my eyes shut when it became too much and tried focusing on the sounds around me instead.

Those damn beeps were still going; there were still people talking but in hushed voices. I could hear some game show on TV.

One voice stood out though, and it was right next to me.

“Kellin!”

I tried once again to open my eyes. I slowly blinked and centered my gaze on the white ceiling tiles above me. Once I was able to focus and my vision wasn’t as blurry, I turned my head slightly to my right. I saw Vic there with tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered.

I opened my mouth to speak but my throat was so dry. I sputtered out a cough; Vic was quick to place a cup of water with a straw in from of my lips. I sipped the cool liquid and took a deep breath.

“How are you feeling?” he asked when I regained composure.

I sighed. “Like I got hit by a bus.” His demeanor changed from relieved to one of sadness.

“Do you know where you are?”

I looked around me. I saw various machines around the small bed I was in, one of them being a heart monitor. I looked down at my right hand that had an IV in it. I looked at my body that was covered in cheap, thin sheets. Underneath the sheets was the paper gown I was wearing.

“I’m in a hospital,” I answered. Vic nodded. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

I thought about it. “You and I were FaceTiming and then Rick broke in...then there was a lot of fighting...” I trailed off. My memory got spotty there.

Vic sat down in a chair next to my bed. He rubbed his hands over his face. I looked at him quizzically. Did I miss something?

He blew out a breath before he spoke. “I don’t know if I should tell you now. I mean, you just woke up.” He seemed to be talking to himself more so than to me.

“How long was I out for?” I asked, bringing him out of his inner turmoil.

“About sixty-two hours,” he replied. My mouth hung open in shock. I was out for that long? I looked at my body, trying to assess how I was feeling. My head hurt and so did my chest. I looked over to my left side, seeing that my arm was in bandages. Now I really needed to know what happened to me.

“Vic,” I started. He didn’t let me continue. He sighed and saw the look in my eyes, the look that told him he shouldn’t keep this secret from me. He licked his lips before he spoke.

“Okay, but please don’t freak out. You just woke up and you’re stable. I don’t want you ruining that.” I nodded. Another sigh and a long pause came before he started.

“I’m not sure what happened in your house, but we were FaceTiming and yeah, Rick came in. It sounded like he was breaking shit; he was mad. I’m not exactly sure what you did because you put your phone in your pocket, but I’m certain you went to fight him. Obviously he had the upper hand because well...” He gestured to me in the hospital bed.

He took a deep breath, looking at me for a signal that he should keep going. I nodded at him.

“Anyway, I heard your mom yelling and that’s when I told Mike to call the cops. He and I drove to your place while we were still on FaceTime. When we got to your place, I heard your mom telling you to stay with her then I heard her yell.” He paused, wiping unshed tears from his eyes. “I wanted to go in there so bad, but Mike held me back. We waited for the cops and they took Rick out in cuffs and you and your mom went out in stretchers.

“They wouldn’t let Mike or me ride in the ambulance with you since we weren’t family, so we followed behind. Shit, they wouldn’t tell us anything once we got here. It was all, ‘You’re not family or next of kin’ bullshit.”

I could tell he was getting frustrated at the memory. I put my hand on top of his in an attempt to calm him down. He smiled slightly.

“I did find out some things from a really nice nurse,” he continued. “You got messed up pretty bad. You had some internal bleeding and a couple bruised ribs. Rick broke your arm. Well, more like shattered it, but they haven’t operated on it yet.”

I looked at my left arm in the bandages. The memory of Rick stepping on it came back to me. I shivered.

“You also got hit in the head. A lot. I’m not sure if you have a concussion or not. They wouldn’t tell me that.”

I nodded slightly. “Is that all? How’s my mom?”

Vic sighed. “From what the nurse told me she’s okay. You’re actually worse off than she is. I’m not sure what that means but the nurse said that she came in awake and she’s stable.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness my mom was still alive. I’d never forgive myself if I failed at trying to protect her.

“Do you know anything about Rick?” I asked. I watched Vic’s muscles tense and his jaw clench.

“Fuck him,” Vic seethed, clenching his fists. “I don’t know what happened aside from the fact he’s locked up. I hope he rots in prison for what he did to you. He’s lucky I didn’t go in there.” I reached my hand out to him which he took. I rubbed my thumb across the back of his hand. He seemed to calm down from the gesture.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said softly.

Vic nodded, not saying anything about it. It was obvious he was more than upset about everything that happened. Funny, I didn’t think he’d be this invested in me.

I took a moment to take all of Vic in. In my limbo dream Vic looked exhausted and stressed; that hadn’t changed since I woke up. His eyes were red and he had bags under them. His hair hadn’t been combed but I could tell it was clean. Maybe he went to take a shower while I was out. That’s when I noticed a duffle bag behind him. “Did you sleep here?”

Vic rubbed his neck. “Yeah, kinda.” I blinked at him. “I just…I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

I smiled. “Aww you like me,” I teased.

“Shut up, Quinn.” I giggled. “But yeah, I’ve been here since you got out of surgery Saturday afternoon. Mike was cool enough to bring me clothes and shit. I’m really glad you have a full bathroom in this room.”

I rolled my eyes and rested my head back against my pillow, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t deny that waking up after thinking I was dead was a relief, even better was having Vic there with me. I’m not sure when it happened, but I felt like I was safest with him around.

Something brushed against my knuckles. I turned and looked at Vic who was looking down at our hands. We were still attached, Vic rubbing his thumb across my fingers. I made a move to intertwine our fingers, but he moved his hand away and sat up when the door opened.

“Mr. Quinn, glad to see you’re awake,” a doctor spoke. I nodded, not knowing if I needed to respond. “How are you feeling?”

How was I feeling? A little rejected since Vic took his hand away, but I replied with a “I’m okay,” and let the doctor tell me what was wrong with me.

Vic got up and left the room before my doctor started going over everything. I frowned. If I didn’t feel rejected before I sure did then.

I tried to focus on what was being told to me. I had already had surgery when I came into the hospital after the attack to fix the internal bleeding, but I needed another surgery for my shattered arm. That would happen tomorrow. Today they were going to monitor my brain and make sure I didn’t have a TBI or concussion.

“Let me or a nurse know if you need anything.” I nodded and thanked the doctor before he left.

I laid back and huffed, still thinking about what Vic did. He was being so sweet earlier then he pulled away and walked out. Why would he do that? He’d been in this room with me for two days! What changed? Was it easier to be around me when I was unconscious and not as clingy?

Maybe I was overthinking as I usually did. Maybe it was nothing and I was making it out to be something. It sure did feel like something though.

Vic came back in a few minutes later. “I went down and told a nurse you were awake. I think someone should be here in a bit with some food.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. He nodded back at me and started putting things in his duffle bag. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah,” he answered, not looking up at me. “I’ve been here for two days; I need to go home. Besides, school’s started again and I need to go. My parents will be pissed if I don’t.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. Not that he was looking at me to see my action. He was being so cold all of a sudden. What did I do to deserve this?

“Well will you come back tomorrow after school?”

“Not sure.”

“Oh.”

He zipped up his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I’ll check in later. Get some rest.”

I nodded. “Okay.” He gave me the slightest smile and patted my shoulder. Without another word he walked out of the room.

I sighed and rested against the pillow. My mind was racing with doubts. Maybe seeing me in this state turned Vic off from me. I wouldn’t blame him. I was broken and bruised, I had an abusive stepdad, and I was feeling - and probably being - clingy as fuck. Maybe this weekend brought those things to light.

My thoughts were interrupted with a nurse bringing in my dinner. I ate it in silence once she left. I stayed in silence after someone came and took my empty tray. I stayed silent when someone came to ask what I’d want to have for breakfast the next morning. I stayed silent through everything, but my thoughts were anything but silent for the remainder of the night.

#Blackbear - Hell is Where I Dreamt of U and Woke Up Alone #Vic Fuentes #Kellin Quinn #Kellic #Pierce The Veil fanfiction #Pierce The Veil fanfic #Fanfiction #Fanfic #Playlist Love #Kellic fanfiction #Kellic fanfic

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anoldwound · 7 years

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A Time To Be So Small - Adam/Mohinder [Heroes]

Title: A Time To Be So Small Characters/Pairings: Adam/Mohinder, implied Adam/Hiro Rating: R Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 2x11; explicit sexual content Word Count: 2899 Prompt: #007 - Broken Summary: “He’s… well, he’s essentially gone insane. He was in there for quite a while, and the lack of oxygen to his brain killed a significant portion of his brain cells. Even with him, it appears it will take more time to gain the brain cells back, if they can come back at all.” A/N: For the slashyheroes15 Adam claim (here). Suffocated - didn’t know how many times - breathe? No, can’t do that. Brain‘s crawling out of ears, metaphorically speaking, with maggots, they’ve eaten your clothes, that’s not very good. Sunlight would be nice. Good to dream, good to dream. Maybe Saint Nicholas will dig you out, what a nice fellow, on those Coke bottles. Red - blood, stained with white, white stained with red, and it’ll go back where it came from because that’s how the machinery operates. Cracks - whiteness? Was it over now? Couldn’t be, too much to wish for, must keep it simple, like two maggots leaving or for his ear to stop itching. More white. Hallucinating, was what he was doing - wasn’t the first time, he had seen other things, like grateful waterfalls to drink from and fish swimming around in his little birdcage… Too white - --- “Mr. Monroe?” Monroe… one of his aliases; he’d always thought it’d had a sort of dignity to it, he loved stealing from dead historical figures. “Mr. Monroe? Can you hear me?” He opened his eyes - funny, he hadn’t known they’d been closed - and there was too much white, still, but he could make out some sort of dark shape. Too much effort to say anything - useless, anyway - he closed his eyes and fell asleep. --- There was some sort of conversation going on. “How has he been progressing?” asked one voice, it sounded vaguely familiar. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” said another - the one from before, the “Mr. Monroe?” one. “We had prematurely assumed that once he was out in the air again, his cells would begin to regenerate, and although that has happened to some extent… the damage done to his mind might be beyond repair at this point.” There was a pause. “How do you mean?” asked the first voice. “He’s… well, he’s essentially gone insane. He was in there for quite a while, and the lack of oxygen to his brain killed a significant portion of his brain cells. Even with him, it appears it will take more time to gain the brain cells back, if they can come back at all.” “So… he’s a clean slate, you’re saying.” “No, not exactly. It‘s a bit more complicated than that.” “Very well. Let me know of any more progress.” Clacking heels left the room, and the blipping of a heart monitor reverberated. --- Water dribbled into his mouth - blessed water, smooth and lovely - and he hacked on it a bit but he managed to get it down. “Good,” said the voice, the nice one, with the soothing lilt. “Your body’s almost finished regenerating, Mr. Monroe. You’ll be up and about in no time.” He opened his eyes a crack - still too white, bright, searing, but he could make out more of the dark shape this time - the outline of curls, the contour of a face. He tried to say something - didn’t know what he would have said - but he couldn’t; it hurt too much. “Here. Have some more water,” the voice said, and helpfully poured more of it into his mouth. It took another few tries, but then he could feel his vocal chords knitting back together, could feel them healing, regenerating, until they were whole again, and God it felt so good. “The maggots,” he rasped. “The… the maggots?” “They took my clothes, and they tore them up, you see. They used them in their sacrificial rituals…” There was a bit of silence, until the voice said, “Perhaps you’ll start making sense in the morning.” --- Dear God, the hunger. He clenched his stomach - pain - he might’ve shouted something; he didn’t know what - There was a startled shuffling from the corner of the room - scrambling - and some food was placed before him, which he gobbled up instantly. “Are you okay?” asked the voice, concerned, and he nodded, although he wasn’t. “Are you sure?” He nodded again. “Very well.” The voice walked away - he looked over, finally, and managed to catch the back of his head before he left the room. It was easier to see now - the man had too many curls, black and silky. He laid his head back down and gazed listlessly at his empty plate, at the gray walls and the wheels on the bottom of his gurney. He could escape easily, if he wanted to, but it was nice here, and the man with the soothing voice gave him odd comfort. He was slowly regaining sense - it couldn’t have been more than two days since he’d gotten here (not that he could tell, really, time had become a sort of illusory thing to him), and his brain didn’t feel quite so curly and crawly and maggot-infested. He still had fish hallucinations from time to time, however. There was one waving at him from the doorway, and he turned on his side to ignore it. What a bothersome little pest. --- “I don’t even understand why we’re keeping him alive.” “Dr. Suresh - ” “Do you really think putting him back in a cell is going to stop him? If he tried to release the virus, who knows what else he’s capable of doing?” “I assure you, we have contingencies. Adam’s going to be locked in a completely isolated cell this time - no one is even going to go near him except for a few select, trusted people… one of which will be you, doctor.” “Me? Why?” “We’re going to need you to monitor his progress, to see if he ever fully regains his memory. Though I must warn you - Adam is very manipulative. If you even suspect for a second that he’s faking his insanity, you tell me right away. Don’t get sucked into his delusions of grandeur. Okay?” “Of course.” “Good.” The fish was smirking. He glared at it. --- His eyes were fully adjusted now, and he watched this Dr. Suresh periodically walk in the room, check his heart-rate and do other sorts of clinical things, with an idle detached-ness. How long would it be until Dr. Suresh betrayed him - didn’t mercifully kill him, and instead let him rot in another prison cell like the other person wanted (he thought it was Bob, but he couldn’t be sure). Although, he wasn’t certain if it was even possible to kill him, short of chopping off his head. Maybe he could even resurrect from that. You could never truly rely on a hypothesis until it was tested, after all… “How are you feeling?” Suresh asked, as was routine. “Keep an eye on the maggots,” he replied, as was also routine. “They’ll grow into cockroaches.” --- “How’s the patient?” “He’s been improving at a rapid rate. His body has finished regenerating, although I’m not sure his mind has completely healed itself yet. He is speaking more coherently, although what he’s saying is still nonsense. He keeps talking about maggots turning into cockroaches.” “I don’t trust it. Adam would be just the type to fake insanity in order to garner sympathy, or for some other reason. I say we put him in the isolated cell tomorrow.” Suresh said nothing, but Adam saw him give a small nod out of the corner of his eye. I wish you would just kill me, he thought, but didn’t say, because clearly no one was ever going to allow him just this one small favor. --- The fish had decided to lay down in the corner and stare at him all day, now that they were both trapped in this isolated cell far from human contact. Except for Suresh, who popped in every once in a while. For someone who wanted him dead, Suresh seemed oddly concerned about his well-being. He brought him food and asked him how he was and made sure the sheets were changed now and again. Adam didn’t feel quite sane yet - he never was, he thinks, and he never will be - but he was a little better, and now that he was, he needed to think of some way out of here. It was better than before - of course it was, anything was better than the place that will not be named - but still not enough, too boring, and no one to talk to besides that bloody fish who never talked back to him anyway. Of course, that’s when the thing decided to say, “You should be here. You’re too dangerous,” and of course the thing sounded exactly like Hiro, and he wanted to throw something at it but there were no throwable objects in the room, so he just glared and turned over on his bed. “Mr. Monroe?” The light outside turned on, and Suresh stood in front of the large window, clipboard held faithfully at his side. “Yes?” He sat up, and ignored the petulant looks Hiro-fish was giving him. “We need some of your blood,” Suresh said, and he seemed almost apologetic. “Someone has been severely injured on an assignment, and we need your blood to heal them.” He shrugged. “As though you need my permission. It’s the only reason you’ve kept me alive, isn’t it?” Suresh pursed his lips. “It would appear so,” he said, as though he disapproved of this, but he kept his opinions to himself and pressed the button to enter the cell. “How long has it been, Dr. Suresh?” Adam asked as Suresh took a needle out of his pocket. “How long has it been since I’ve been in here? I’ve lost track of time.” “Four months,” he said, and looked at Adam’s arm expectantly. He held it out, and Suresh began the preparations. “Four months. Not too long, then. My mind seems to have slipped away somewhat. Wonder where it is… perhaps it’s only popped out for a bit, and it’s going to come back later. When do you think it will be back, Dr. Suresh?” “I’m… I’m not sure. It might never return, if it hasn’t fully healed at this point.” He bit his lip, and Adam stared, old desires frothing back to the surface. “That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed having a semblance of sanity. How does it feel to be sane, doctor? Does it feel good? I wish I could remember.” Suresh didn’t reply, and began to draw Adam’s blood into the needle. “We’ll be putting this in an IV later.” “Jolly good.” Adam hummed to himself as Suresh continued to draw the blood, fairies dancing on his brain. “You always ask me how I am. Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?” “How are you, Mr. Monroe?” Suresh asked obligingly, now done with the needle and pulling away. “You can call me Adam. And the maggots have left, but the fish is still here.” “That’s nice,” he said absently. He looked at the large window for no apparent reason, and said, “I should go.” “Won’t you stay? I do enjoy companionship,” he purred, desires now pouring over the surface. The fish swam further into the corner and closed its eyes. Didn’t want to watch, the prude. Suresh faltered. “I… no. That’s not a good idea.” “It would be completely innocent, I assure you.” “I’m sorry. I have to go.” And he did, the tease, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. Adam fell back against his pillow, a tad frustrated. The fish snickered at him quietly. --- God, he wanted. He was sure that it was unintentional on Suresh’s part, but with every flick of his eyes, every casual brush of curls out of his face, every mild sigh - it sent him ablaze with want, and no matter how hard he tried, Suresh wouldn’t succumb. The Hiro-fish tsked at him from the corner (God, even a fish with Hiro’s voice was trying to be his conscience) as he got off with a whimper, and he politely told the fish to go fuck itself. Or him, if it was feeling generous. The fish declined, and he felt disappointed, because even fucking a figment of his imagination with Hiro’s voice would have been nearly as good as the real thing. Although the fact that it was a fish would’ve been mildly disturbing, but it was his warped mind that was creating these images and he could turn the fish into whatever he damn well pleased. He concentrated, trying to turn the fish (oh God, it was a carp, wasn’t it?) into a submitting Hiro-human, but the fish stubbornly continued to remain a fish, and Adam was kind of getting tired of all of this fish nonsense so he started wanking again. And of course Suresh comes walking in at that precise moment, a completely shocked expression on that pretty face of his. “Want to join in on the fun?” Adam suggested, looking up, stroking himself faster. The pleasure came through in shockwaves as he watched Suresh watch him - Suresh couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away; his pupils were a little dilated, and dear God it was all making the want even worse - better, even. He moaned loudly, his cock throbbing, his head thrown back, still watching Suresh, who was gulping and seemed to be rooted to the spot. “Don’t be shy,” Adam said softly. Suresh clearly wanted to say something - but no noise made its way out of his mouth. He jerked himself closer, almost involuntarily… Adam moaned again and stroked harder, the conflicted look on Suresh’s face making the pleasure shoot through his nerves, almost making him fly into some other plane of existence. Suresh seemed out of himself as well. His fingers slowly fumbled at his fly, un-zipping, and he began stroking himself also, and Adam was about ready to explode - which he did, in a sense; he came all over the bedspread with a shout, which made Suresh groan and swallow and his knees buckled a little bit. “Get over here,” Adam commanded hoarsely, shaking with anticipation. “I - I can’t,” he gasped. “Fine.” He stood up, still shaking, and walked over to Suresh, slamming his lips against his, wrapping his fingers around the hand that was stroking Suresh’s cock. “I can’t - do this - ” Suresh said brokenly, but Adam shushed him, and rubbed his cock against Suresh’s inner thigh, making him convulse and gasp again, such a pretty sound. Before long, they were on the bed - shouts - skin sliding against skin, heavy pants and long, drawn out moans, curls tangled in slim fingers and come everywhere - smooth, naked - ecstasy that rose up from down there into chests, releasing itself through cries of more and groans and groans and whimpers. The fish seemed to have disappeared (good riddance, the pest), and Adam fell panting against the pillow when it was all over, Suresh lying next to him, thunderstruck and in disbelief, but pretty disbelief, curls sticking to his face. “This cannot happen again,” Suresh said. Adam didn’t answer, just said, “What’s your name?” Suresh hesitated. “Mohinder,” he said, and Adam smiled. Getting out of here was going to be a piece of cake. --- “Tell me, Mohinder,” said Adam when Suresh came back the next day with some food, determinedly not looking at him, “do you ever get the feeling that the Company may not have the best of intentions?” “I don’t appreciate your attempts to manipulate me, you know,” he said, still not looking at him. “I’m not manipulating you. It’s just a simple question.” Suresh finally looked at him, an angry, pulsating fire in his eyes. “Really? Then why are you asking a question that could easily lead to me doubting whether what the Company is doing is right, which of course works in your favor, and would most likely eventually lead to me siding with you completely and breaking you out of this cell? I know what you did to Peter, and I know what you’re trying to do now. Don’t think that because I had a moment of weakness yesterday means that I’m under your thumb. You deserve to be in here.” Adam quirked an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that you wanted me dead, doctor.” “Killing you would be too kind, I think.” With that, Suresh left, and the air hung heavy in his wake. --- It wasn’t too much of a loss, really. So, he was alone again. It wasn’t the end of the world. How many times had it happened now? Too many to count on two hands and two feet. Alone - yes, alone - Even the fish was gone now, and the maggots (they turned into cockroaches and ran away), and now Mohinder Suresh was gone too, because he didn’t come by and leave him food anymore, it just arrived mysteriously every time he was hungry (must be a trick of some special that he didn’t know about). It was fine, fine. Adam was used to being alone. He had come to rely on it, it was one of life’s constants. It was fine. Fine fine fine fine fine - He fell into sleep, and even in his empty dreams he was alone, searching, empty. His brain started crawling and folding into itself again, days passing by unmarked, and he found himself not caring anymore.

#fandom: heroes #ship: adam/mohinder #ship: adam/hiro

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