Blood Stains And Butterflies

blood stains and butterflies

includes: Soap, Ghost warnings: PTSD, panic attack, vomiting, gore length: 4,000 some words summary: Ghost isn't all too happy that Christmas showed up months early. A/N: uh... Boo. I'm alive! Anyways, new obsession time. Also, ik tumblr goes crazy with bots but where did they all swarm me from?? Enjoy though, and please give me feedback.

Ghost stumbles, nearly slipping in the pummeling rain. His gloved hand hardly catches traction on the slick side of their stupid fucking safe house that's spat up 30 miles past bum fuck nowhere.

The sky is as dark as the field that surrounds him, clouds hiding the moon away like it's something shameful.

I'm shameful, Ghost's brain spits as he gasps as quietly as he can. He can feel his throat closing up tight- too tight- tighter than anything he can handle.

Oh sure, because waterboarding and gasoline is nothing compared to stupid, god awful-

"Creepin' Jesus, L.t.-"

Ghost hardly has the wherewithal to yank his mask just over the bridge of his crooked, fucked up nose before he's spilling what little bit of lunch he ate before they were sent on this lousy mission.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Johnny gives a lopsided smile that makes his eyes shine. "Of course, Simon."

whoops lol

I forgot to tell y'all- I never post on Tumblr anymore because I'm active on ao3!

Waking Up With Ukai

includes: ukai, y/n

warnings: PG-13 (?), suggestive content, but nothing explicitly stated. minors dni

length: 1,220 words

summary: you wanted to kill him, but you had a better, more legal, plan.

A/N: Dear God, spare me- Never in my life have I written anything like this, and it's not even much. As always, any constructive criticism is more than welcomed!

A short-lived yawn left your lips as you made yourself two cups of coffee, one for yourself and the other for your boyfriend. It was early in the morning, far too early to be conscious on a Saturday. Much like yourself, a few birds were just beginning to wake; you heard them through the thin walls of your shared home. The reason you were awake right now? Ukai has an online meeting with the volleyball team and apparently, it would kill him to get ready quietly.

The volleyball boys were nice kids, on the inside at least. You were the assistant coach, and the high schoolers had quickly learned to feel comfortable around you. You often joked around with Tanaka and Hinata, playfully picking on them about either their haircut or height. Sugawara and Daichi had a special place in your heart, Asahi’s sweet personality safely nestled there as well. How could someone that large seem so timid? You and Nishinoya agreed that it was amusing. You even gave Kiyoko and Yachi advice on clothing and complemented their makeup from time to time.

You thought the real character was Tsukishima. Once after practice, you overheard Kageyama chuckling at the middle blocker as Tsukki desperately tried to figure out a way to ask Yamaguchi something.

“It’s the emotional constipation for me,” Kageyama snickered. He learned the phrase from Sugawara, something Daichi wasn’t too approving of.

“You’re one to talk, your highness.” Again with the nickname. "When’s the last time you have hopped off your high horse to do something productive for once, instead of ordering us peasants to do it for you?” Tsukishima’s remark made Kageyama growl in agitation, but Ennoshita had threatened them with extra receives after practice to shut them up. The last thing he wanted was Daichi getting involved and all of them suffering.

You later found out by Tsukishima himself that he didn’t know how to ask Yams to stay the night at his place and watch Jurassic Park and listen to him spew facts about the dinosaurs in the film. Sure, the high schooler was rather stand-offish about asking, even giving a few of his infamous backhanded compliments. He said something about how you should know a thing or two because you somehow managed to score their coach.

Ah, right. You had almost forgotten.

You grabbed the two cups of coffee and set them on the kitchen island, fixing yours the way you liked it. You thought about drinking both coffees and leaving Ukai with nothing in means of petty payback for waking you up so early. You were quick to abandon the idea, a grin tugging at your lips as you made Ukai’s how he favored it.

You had a rather enticing dream about your lover before your sleep was disturbed by the man himself. The fleeting memories of it were still fresh in your mind. You had to bite your lip to calm yourself down. It was far too damn early. At least, that’s the excuse you stuck with as you made your way to his small office with the mugs in hand.

Your foot gently tapped against the wooden door frame as a way of letting Ukai know you were coming in before using your shoulder to push open the cracked door. As your eyes briefly adjusted to the room’s light, you caught him mid-stretch, simply waiting for his team to join a Zoom call. He had taken his piercings out, the glint of metal drawing your eyes to the earrings next to his computer. It made you smile softly. You admired how he tried to make himself presentable for the boys.

Yet as he dropped his head back, your smile faded ever so slightly. His white tank top, which was underneath an unzipped Karasuno sports jacket, had ridden up his lean torso. It almost seemed to be proudly showing off his sharp V-line and defined abs as you caught yourself staring. You swallowed thickly as he sighed, your dirty little dream coming back to the forefront of your mind before Ukai grabbed your attention once more by rolling his shoulder with a grumble.

Chocolate brown eyes glanced at your face before darting to the mugs in your hands. He waved you over with a grin. “Good morning, doll face,” he purred, his morning voice just now fading away.

“Good morning?” you questioned playfully. “Kei, it’s too early to be alive right now.” He liked the nickname, despite him pretending not to.

“I agree with the pretty one,” a tired voice sounded from the speakers of Ukai’s laptop, slightly startling you. “Coach, why so early?” It was Suga, his silver hair a tumbled mess as he just now attempted to fix it with his fingers.

“Sugawara,” Daichi’s slightly stern voice came next, lecturing his fellow third-year already. “That is not how you should talk about our assistant coach.”

You chuckled under your breath as you set his coffee down and blew on yours softly to cool it down. It was a bit entertaining to listen to their antics.

As everyone filed in, Takeda excluded because of a small family issue, you moved from the camera’s line of sight. Leaning against a wall off to the side, you listened in and enjoyed your drink. Keishin sighed softly as he rubbed the back of his neck in thought, a habit you had noticed a while ago.

“Kageyama and Little Red have practice with my old man later today. This was the only time all of our schedules lined up.” He paused, and you saw his face contort into confusion as stifled chuckles sound from the device. “Nishinoya, is that a gun made of Monster cans?”

The teen seemed to chuckle proudly as Ukai shook his head while Tanaka complemented the color scheme. “The last thing you need is more energy,” Ukai muttered as Hinata gasped, fawning over how cool it was. “Focus,” He said sternly. Sugawara’s apology was the only noise on the call after that.

Ukai started explaining various details about future practice matches with Nekoma and Date Tech before prelims came along and drills they would test out during them. As much as you loved the sport, the mainly one-sided conversation was quick to get boring.

And so you hatched an idea.

Ukai’s eyes darted over to you for only a split second as you grinned wickedly, moving to set your cup out of the way. Ukai expected you to leave and go back to sleep, but something else was on your mind. Staying in the room, you shut the door. It was loud enough for the volleyball players to hear the noise, but you were in no way slamming it. He ignored you for the time being, and you planned on changing that.

Stalking back over to the desk silently, you stayed out of the camera’s view. As you stood directly behind his laptop, you winked at him. Your eyes darted to his lips as his tongue glazed over them. He realized what you were planning to do rather quickly, and he wasn’t objecting.

He enjoyed the fan service of you stripping your shirt for him, only slightly disappointed he had to see it out of his peripheral vision. There was a chance Ukai would get fired if you were caught, so you kept quiet while you sank to your knees.

Oh, this would be fun.

Eren wears his socks inside out because he doesn't like the way the seam feels on his feet

sweet confessions

includes: aizawa, y/n

warnings: mentions of nightmares

length: 1,986 words

summary: with neither of you able to sleep, trapped words are finally allowed to slip like melted butter.

Four in the morning was not the time to be up, especially on a work night. Well, a workday at this point. You should be in bed, surrounded by the fluffiest, warmest blankets on the softest mattress you could afford.

And yet? Here you were in the bathroom, washing your face with warm water, for what was the third time in a row. It was as if you were trying to slowly drown yourself. A yawn left your lips, strong enough to rock your body with violent yet satisfying shudders. You cursed your insomnia. You knew you were tired, so why couldn’t you fall asleep?

Something clattered in the kitchen, a hushed swear which broke the stillness of the shared apartment soon followed.

Was he up, too?

Your face heated up at the thought of your roommate. There had always been a spark between the two of you, but both of you dodged any confrontation. It was like fate danced you both around each other, curious to see who would take charge. Who would finally end this little game of cat and mouse? You didn’t think you had enough confidence to be the one to put a stop to the games you were playing and admit how hard you’ve fallen for him.

However, as life tugs you both along, curious things unfold.

You cracked open the bathroom door to peep out, holding your breath in case he was just outside. This was new to you, as Aizawa was typically asleep for as long as he could be. His record is 19 hours straight after a hard mission. Your record was nine hours, and you were damn proud of yourself for it, too.

You carefully stepped out after turning off the light, trying to creep back to your bedroom without getting caught. It’s not like you wanted to avoid Aizawa, you just didn’t want him to catch you up this late again. Though as soon as you took your first step out into the hallway, he spoke, the words making you freeze like a deer in headlights.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you stood straight.

“I thought you didn’t know I was up,” you said with a grin, but Aizawa could see how tired you were.

“I’m a pro-hero,” he hummed, a coffee mug warming his hands. “It’s almost insulting that you thought I didn’t notice you. Now, why are you up?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Pro-hero,” you retorted, earning a worn chuckle. The distant look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know to understand why he was awake as well.

Nightmares.

You knew all too well that Aizawa’s night terrors were a force to be reckoned with. On some nights he even woke up screaming or falling out of bed. Aizawa’s dreams were the only thing that could get such a strong reaction from him.

“Drinking coffee this late can’t be good for you,” you said, changing the subject rather quickly while you headed into the kitchen with your roommate. “Doesn’t a hero with your status need to stay healthy?”

“It’ll keep me up,” he murmured with a strange sort of solemnness infecting his tone.

You couldn’t stop the empathetic look from tainting your face even if you wanted to. You hated nothing more than watching as the hero business ate away at your best friend.

“Hey.” His voice took you from your thoughts. “We’re already up this late, and I doubt either of us will sleep soon, so. . .” Aizawa trailed off as you looked up at him. “So, come sit on the roof with me. Only for a bit.”

Your jaw nearly dropped to the floor before you caught yourself and nodded. You hoped that you didn’t look too head over heels for him, but little to your knowledge, Aizawa found your reaction cute.

“Sure, alright,” you said with a small smile, trying to sound nonchalant. You didn’t, but Aizawa didn’t comment on it, sparing your pride. “Ah, wait, let me grab a hoodie-”

“Don’t bother,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

A smirk tainted your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest and accusingly leaned towards him.

“Oh, so you want me to freeze? That isn’t very heroic, mister.” The way you raised your eyebrows got him to spill a chuckle.

“I do not. You can just wear mine."

Leaving the conversation at that, he turned away before you ever saw the pink hue that dusted his face. It took you a second to let his words process before you were following after him like a lost puppy.

It's not a big deal. He's just being friendly and giving, as always. That's the lie you've always told yourself.

“How do we get up on the roof?" You asked as he led you on the small back porch.

Your small smile dropped entirely as he jumped and grabbed the edge of the roof, pulling himself up with practiced ease.

"All right, asshole, not everyone is a pro-hero, so-" You cut yourself off as soft cloth suddenly wrapped around you, acting as a safety harness.

He lifted you to the roof without breaking a sweat. And to be honest, that boosted your confidence by a few points.

"Such foul language doesn't belong in a pretty mouth like yours," Aizawa murmured, his calloused hands carefully pulling his scarf off of your shoulders. He left the cloth on your waist for you to take care of, as he didn't want to overstep any boundaries.

The scarf was the furthest thing from your mind as you hoped the dark sky hid your heavy blush.

He said I was… Pretty. Aizawa… called me pretty.

"You, um…" You tried to start a conversation to distract Aizawa from the fact you weren't removing his scarf. "You got up here stupidly fast. Do you do this often?"

He didn't comment on the matter of his scarf, silently using it to justify why he was sitting this close to you.

"I'm a stealth hero. I'm always jumping rooftop to rooftop," he reasoned, heavy eyes taking in the ever so familiar landscape.

"That's not what I asked," you prodded gently. "Do you come up here often, this late at night?"

You wanted him to trust you, to tell you what was obviously plaguing his thoughts or what had scared him sleepless this time. You were well aware trust wasn't given easily, especially for someone like him. Someone who's been hurt time and time again.

His jaw shifted, and you were too concerned about his mental health to think of how handsome he was with his sharp features.

"Sometimes. When the dreams aren't incredibly terrible," he muttered after a thick swallow.

You hummed to let him know that you understood, your body shifting a minuscule closer to his warmth. He noticed, and without a word pulled his hoodie over his head. You two were sitting so close that you needed to lean to the side to avoid getting elbowed.

"Hey, what are you-"

He smiled gently as he set the article in your lap, and the sight alone shut you up. He was gorgeous, basking in the never-sleeping city lights.

"Didn’t I tell you? You can wear my jacket if you're cold."

Be still your beating heart, because if it didn’t soon, you were sure he'd think someone was knocking at the door with how loud it was pounding against your ribs.

With a painfully flustered chuckle to fill the silence, you put it on. And, God, you'd be content dying surrounded by his scent of heavy rain and the forest. A small thank you filtered off your tongue. Using the visual excuse of adjusting how it pooled at your hips, you shifted ever closer.

"You know-"

"Sometimes-"

You had both gone to speak at the same time, earning a soft giggle from you and a deep chuckle from him.

"You go first," you offered with a gentle smile.

"Only if you go after, no matter what," he playfully demanded.

As you agreed, you watched his eyes lingered on you, something indescribable dancing behind the walls of charcoal. With a deep breath, he faced the horizon.

"Sometimes when I drive, I'll turn on the radio. Just to have some background noise. I don't pay attention to it, though, because most of the music is shit," Aizawa started, something in his chest swelling as you chuckled at him. "But then, when I was sitting in the UA teacher's parking lot, something hit me as I listened to a sappy song."

"What? That you're getting old?" You teased, trying to break some of the tension in his shoulders.

"I realized that all of a sudden, every love song was about you."

Your soft gasp sounded like a nuclear bomb to him and he screwed his eyes shut. He knew he should've stayed in bed.

"I..." Aizawa moved to stand. "I should go back to sleep," he finished rather quickly.

Your nibble fingers gripped his pants leg and he froze entirely, like a child who’d been caught eating candy past midnight.

"Hey… What happened to our little deal?" Your caring tone caused him to hesitate. "Please, Shouta, won't you hear what I have to say?"

Shouta. How pretty it sounded rolling off your tongue.

He swayed in the morning breeze, the very beginning of a sunrise highlighting his dark features. And then he sat, avoiding looking at you at all costs.

"As I was going to say before I was thankfully interrupted," you began, adjusting the sleeves of your (his) jacket. You took a deep breath, hyping yourself up to finally fess up as he did. "You know when you look at a kitten, you think of Shinsou? Or when you see candy apples, you think of Eri?" You asked, earning a stiff nod.

"Everything has started reminding me of you. From sleep bags to your favorite dark chocolates, and baggy clothes like the ones you rarely allow me to borrow, or a coffee mug you'd like. You're always running through my mind," you took a breath, needing to get some air after your fast-paced rant.

You both sat in heavy silence, the dew in the grass glinting from the rays of marigold that poured over the horizon.

"Can I do something stupid?" He asked quietly, shifting in his spot.

" 'Course. It's about time we swapped roles," you humored.

Smokey-colored eyes bored into yours as he faced you, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped. You'd never seen him so… beautifully revealing.

Suddenly you were surrounded by warmth, Aizawa no longer looking at you. He hugged you so desperately, it was as if he thought you'd leave him. He scruff tickled your neck as he nuzzled into you, but you couldn't care less.

The way you didn't need to think twice about returning the hug made him smile against your skin. You both sat there on the roof, basking in rays of fresh morning sunlight, never letting go of each other.

"It was about losing you," Aizawa breathed, breaking the blissful silence. "My nightmare… In it, I had lost you forever."

You closed your eyes, one hand tenderly massaging his scalp with the other held him closer to you. "I'm right here, Shouta. I'm not going anywhere," you reassured, feeling his breathing pattern calm. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah…" He whispered, voice heavy with sleep and concern.

"Let's get back to bed, okay?" You murmured, feeling the weight of your feelings change from suffocating to soaring.

"Not yet. Please… I just wanna stay with you." Aizawa pulled you impossibly closer and you smiled.

"Whatever you wish, but don't blame me when you're sore tomorrow." You felt him chuckle as his eyes drooped shut.

" 'm always sore anyways."

This is so cool-

new ask game idea.

let everyone come into your inbox and give you a character that they ship you with and then you describe the dynamic of what the relationship would be like (enemies to lovers, fwb, etc.)