Cross Posted On Ao3 As Always Bc I Crave Attention - Tumblr Posts

Uh oh I'm writing again... have some wyllstarion

Wyll likes to act like the most straightforward guy in the party- and perhaps, with what strange characters have coalesced here, he may very well be. Although, Astarion thinks to himself, pots and kettles are still black, at the end of the day- no matter what they call themselves or each other.

The vampire is not usually one to dwell on others for too long, simply because he has more than enough to worry about on his own. But something about Wyll, his righteous façade, his dedication to remaining insufferably well-meaning, even in the face of becoming an actual, literal, devil from the hells. It’s off-putting. Not quite right. Something about Wyll is just not quite right.  

He becomes transfixed- gaze unwittingly wandering to the warlock whenever he’s been idle for too long. Gale notices, but he thinks it’s because Astarion has a crush on Wyll, and is too stubborn to admit it. Sometimes he’ll try to engineer a way for the two of them to be alone together, steering Tav further ahead into a crypt, or pretending to be asleep when they’re all huddled around the fire. Astarion is too embarrassed at being caught staring to properly threaten the wizard for even thinking such a thing.

His fixation is not amorous. It’s curious. What in the world could such a seemingly candid, straightforward fellow have to hide? The things that drift to mind are equal parts terrifying and hilarious. Perhaps he’s secretly some twisted murderer- although, it’s not like Astarion’s not one of those- or perhaps he has a tragic, uncomfortable rash somewhere inconvenient. That would be funny. Astarion wonders if his new devilish-ness has come with any awkward skin conditions. Horns simply cannot be comfortable on a head so used to not having them.

He’s getting into the weeds now- the point is, Wyll is strange. And Astarion has absolutely no idea how to deal with him. A fact that has become increasingly apparent, as the man- currently sweating bullets in the middle of a watership they’d commandeered- falters and stumbles over his words for the first time since they’ve known each other.

The others are tending their wounds, and those of the other prisoners they’d managed to free in the short time they’d been in Gortash’s underwater prison. Shadowheart stands over a beaten Omeluum and rests a glowing hand gently against his forehead. Halsin is kneeled on the floor of the ship, inspecting injuries and distributing salve and bandages to the Gondians gathered around him.

Wyll is staring at his father’s furrowed brow, mouth choking around pleasantries. Astarion tilts his head at the display, considering. He and Wyll aren’t that close, but the other man had insisted that they save his father. Had begged Tav to let him go; went against Mizora, knowing full-well what she is capable of.  And all he can choke out, when they finally reunite, is a short, stunted hello?

Then, he catches a glimpse of the Duke’s face. The disgust is so apparent that Astarion almost recoils with the force of it. Perhaps that’s why Wyll is struggling so much.

He tarries for a moment, two, but cannot stay idle when the gruff older man opens his mouth to respond. There’s no doubt in Astarion’s mind that whatever is about to come out of his mouth will break Wyll’s heart, and for some godsforsaken reason, he doesn’t want to let that happen.

“A Grand Duke! My my, Wyll, who knew you had such lofty connections?” Astarion sidles up next to his friend, sliding a cool hand up his back to grasp at his shoulder in steady reassurance. His body moves of its own accord, without his permission, but he cannot find it within himself to regret the action when Wyll’s shoulders relax just so underneath his hand, when his brow smooths.

“Ah, well. It’s been a while.” His smile is a rueful, broken thing hanging off of its hinges. The laugh that follows creaks hollowly. Astarion cannot stand the sight of it. He turns his sharpened gaze to the Duke, smiles wide so as to showcase his sharp, pearly fangs.

“Oh, that’s too bad, my dear. That your father has not had the chance to know what a devilishly good fellow you’ve grown into.” The Duke coughs at the word ‘devilishly’ but that’s why Astarion had used it. Good. Be uncomfortable. He laughs something mirthless and sharp before continuing, “No matter. You did just save him, now you’ve got all the time in the world to catch up.”

Wyll looks at him for a moment, eyes clouded, calculating. He huffs a ghost of a laugh but shakes his head. “I appreciate your optimism, my friend, but perhaps-“

The Duke’s forceful, indignant interruption drowns out the rest of whatever he was about to say, “First you cleave my heart in twain, and now you shatter it to pieces! My son, a monster, twisted almost beyond recognition.” He stares at Wyll as if he was no better than the dirt beneath his feet, then scoffs to the side. “To think… my blood flows through those veins.” The words are forced past his lips, almost as if he’s about to be sick.

Astarion sneers at the display. Wyll only shakes his head, dispassionately at his feet.

“It’s not what you think, it never was.” His voice is small, but firm. Astarion’s long-dead heart aches in his chest. Who could possibly deny that, deny him? The Duke snarls his response, “It is exactly what I think.”

And that’s quite enough, Astarion decides. He doesn’t know where all of this animalistic protectiveness is coming from, but it’s as if a beast has been awakened inside of him, sitting on its haunches, ready to pounce at any moment. Wyll’s expression has only sunken further into despair, his eyes duller than they’ve ever been. It’s unnatural, to watch as the usual spark of life within them flickers out into a deep, yawning pain.

“I’m beginning to think we should have let you drown, Duke,” He spits the word like it’s a curse, “if this is how you’re going to treat your savior. He’s risked his life, his godsdamned soul to save yours. The least you could do is show a little fucking gratitude.” Astarion’s teeth are gritted as he speaks, his voice low and grating in ways it’s only been in the midst of battle. Wyll is looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. He’s frowning, but his eyes are shining again so Astarion takes it as a success.

Before anything else can be said, both Wyll and his father groan and hunch over themselves. Astarion’s own tadpole twitches at the psychic disturbance. They’re sharing memories. It’s but a few moments later that they’re shaking themselves out of it, Astarion clutches tightly at Wyll’s waist, supporting his weight as he recovers. It doesn’t hurt that he’s so warm, and fit, either.

Silence reigns for a moment, two, three as the Duke parses through whatever’s Wyll’s just chosen to show him. Astarion’s thumb moves of its own accord against the sharp jut of Wyll’s hipbone through his robe. The other man relaxes minutely, and as much as Astarion is loathe to admit it, his body knows what it’s doing better than his mind does, right now. Because his mind has not really stopped repeating whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckareyoudoingidiot for the past half hour.  

The Duke nods, after a minute or so. “I… I apologize, my son. You have suffered much for your people.”

Wyll nods, his voice is just slightly wet as he speaks, “Everything I did, I did for Baldur’s Gate. I did for you.” His voice breaks on the last word, and Astarion’s heart with it. He pulls Wyll tighter against him before releasing his grip. The Duke’s eyes shine, a little bit like Wyll’s always seem to. Astarion is beginning to see the resemblance.

“You sold your soul to save Baldur’s Gate- and I cast you out for it. You gave yourself to the hells eternal fires so I might walk free. By the gods! Can you ever forgive me?” He seems close to tears himself. Good. Astarion thinks, and only feels a little bad about it when Wyll responds in kind.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Astarion disagrees but remains quiet, they’re having a moment. “You only wanted to protect the city, and I only ever wanted the same.” Wyll is a much better man than Astarion could ever hope to be, he would have said ‘I told you so’ and spit at his feet. Perhaps that’s why Wyll is the Blade of Frontiers and Astarion is not. The Duke seems to concur.

“You are a better man than I. A better son than I deserve.” A few seconds pass as the two take a moment to look at each other, for all that they are, and all that they wish they were, before drawing in and crushing together into a violent, giddy hug. Astarion sighs to himself, contented.

Both of them are crying and Astarion pretends like he doesn’t notice. He makes to walk away after a bit, but before he can make it very far the Duke is calling him back. “Wait, vampire!” Oh hells. Not this again. If the fucking Bitch-Duke tries to stake him after he’d just helped save his ass, he’s going to be quite cross. And Wyll just might have to reconcile with not having a father. Oh, who is he kidding. He’d die before being the reason the other man’s eyes were dulled. Still, it’d be extremely inconvenient.

Astarion sighs, but turns on his heel. “What could you possibly need from me, your Duke-ness. I thought you and doe-eyes here were having father-son bonding time?” Wyll recoils a bit at the description, as if no one’s told him how large and shiny his eyes are. Pity, that.

The Duke looks at him like he’s an especially tricky puzzle. Good. He likes being difficult.

“I wanted to thank you. For setting me straight.” Astarion sighs and inspects his nails, trying not to let the thanks sink in. They always feel strange and hot in his gut. Bubbly and uncomfortable.

“Well, someone had to and little miss martyr here wasn’t going to do it.” Wyll smiles and offers a similar thanks. Striding forward and pulling Astarion into a gentle embrace.

“Thank you, Astarion. You truly are a gift.” He whispers the words, low and sincere into his ear as he clasps a warm hand tenderly across the back of his neck. Astarion hates and loves it. He’s so fucking glad to be dead and hungry right now, because there’s not enough blood to show the warmth blossoming across his cheeks and onto the tips of his ears. He coughs.

“Yes, well, aren’t I always. I’ll leave you two to it!” And with that, he scurries away. Perhaps more confused and intrigued than ever, but understanding more about Wyll than he ever has.

What a strange, strange man. But gods, he is cute.

Hey folks have some huskerdust !! 🕷️♥️

“I know, I know Legs. I just need to ask you something.” Angel’s eyes scrunch closed and the rest of his expression crumples as he whines out, short and low. Husk hovers his hands over the mottling of bruises and cuts that litter his torso, some still sluggishly bleeding. He itches to bandage them up, but stays himself with the sobering thought that Angel is used to guys touching him when he’s unconscious.

“Angel.” He tries again. Angel shakes his head minutely. “-on’t wanna.” He whines.

“Look at me please? I just want to check that it’s okay that I touch you. You know it’s important to me.”

Angel, with a long, juddering sigh, pulls himself from the cusp of sleep and blinks his eyes open. He frowns, glaring a little as he yawns into his hand. Husk waits patiently at his side, knees beginning to ache with being pressed against the hard wooden floor for so long.

“I told ya I don’t care what you do when I come back doped out like this, Whiskers. Not like I’ll remember it. Hah!” His laugh comes out rough, like it hurts to push from his lips. Husk shakes his head.

“And I told you it doesn’t matter if you’ll remember it or not. I’m not going to be another man who takes advantage of you.” He says, carefully enunciating each word so the message gets through.

Angel curses and flops over onto his side which draws his face infinitely closer to Husk’s own. He meets his eyes with a burning, lidded gaze. Husk keeps his posture relaxed, but his tail puffs at the sudden movement.

“Yer a softie, Husk. I don’t think ya could take advantage of me if you wanted to.” The words are coupled with a rickety, slapped on grin. Husk desperately wants to just shake him until he gets it through his big thick head that that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, it matters what he wants. Does he want Husk touching him after an abusive, grueling shoot? That’s what Husk’s asking, not if he ‘trusts’ him. He sighs.

“You didn’t answer my question. Can I touch you? Just give me an answer and then you can go back to sleep. God knows you’ll be needing it.” And it’s true. Who knows what Val has in store for him tomorrow? He’s better off getting all the rest he can get, while he can.

Angel appraises him with a long, considering look. There’s a lot going on behind his eyes and though Husk is aware of the fact of it, he can’t begin to try to fathom what exactly his thoughts are in this moment. He simply sits back on his heels and awaits his verdict. Every so often his eyes are drawn down to the mess of Angel’s torso. It’s not an intentional thing, but he can feel his hackles rising with the need to Fix It. Husk crushes the feeling down.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity but in reality couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, Angel closes his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah Husk, you can.” He says, voice as small as Husk thinks he’s ever heard it. It’s strange to hear him so soft when usually he overtakes rooms with booming confidence; he even looks small, now, tucked into himself and using all of his arms to hug himself close as he hunches over.

He doesn’t- maybe he can’t- look at Husk when he speaks. Husk takes the words for the olive branch that they are and nods.

“Okay. Thank you, Angel. S’ all I needed.”

Angel just nods, curling further into himself for a moment before abruptly turning onto his back and feigning sleep. They both know he’s awake- he’s not snoring as loudly or as endearingly as he would if he truly was asleep- but Husk doesn’t call him on it, just reaches down to the first aid kit he’d dragged over in his initial protective rage and starts unpacking the necessary materials. Alcohol (not the fun kind), gauze, tape, and Angel’s preferred- though he’d never tell you it- heart-patterned bandages.

Another glance at Angel’s stiffly unmoving form reminds him that he hadn’t even had time to remove his makeup before passing out from exhaustion. Smears of glittery pink decorate his eye sockets, smudged from what Husk can only assume were punishing bouts of sweat and exercise. Husk pushes down the surge of indignation this thought elicits and smooths Angel’s hair back, thumbing for a moment near his hairline, before standing.

“Be back in a sec. Forgot something.” He keeps his voice low, tries for soothing but probably achieves something more like a dying wood chipper. Angel- who had up until that point been tightly coiled, as if expecting a blow- eases into the cushions at the sound. He hums, “Mmk. Thanks.”

Husk doesn’t respond lest Angel figure out from the cadence of his voice that Husk doesn’t need to be thanked. That he wants to do this. That he likes it.

It’s just- Angel always looks so at peace in these moments. The usual tension in his body melts away leaving nothing but the rawest and purest version of him. Husk loves that version of him, and he loves that Angel trusts him enough to show him it.

Husk returns after a minute or two with a pack of makeup wipes, Angel’s preferred brand, that he’d bought not too long ago precisely for moments like this. Angel was always complaining about glitter getting into his eyes when he forgot to take his makeup off and Husk saw an opportunity to Fix It. There’s not a lot in Angel’s life that Husk is able to help with, but this is something. And he jumped at the chance.

Angel is snoring lightly, right back at the cusp of oblivion that Husk had so heartlessly torn him from before. He sniffs and turns toward Husk when he settles back at his side, curling slightly into his warmth. Husk can’t help the smile that infects his features at the movement.

With careful, callused fingers, Husk begins to dab at the cuts on Angel’s torso. He’s not sure how to feel about the fact that Angel only flinches at the initial sting, not the rest of the painful swipes. It speaks to a depth of experience with this kind of thing that Husk vehemently dislikes the thought of Angel having to go through. Sure, in theory he knows Angel’s been subjected to this bullshit for decades, but to see it spelt out like this? So clearly and heartbreakingly? Husk has to take a moment between cleaning and bandaging the wounds to collect himself.

Angel whines when he takes his hands away.

“Easy. Easy, Legs.” He wants to call him ‘baby’ but isn’t convinced enough of Angel’s unconsciousness to chance it. Angel huffs.

The rest of the bandages go on easily enough, with minimal protests from Angel- which, somehow only seem to occur when Husk pulls away- and Husk smooths a healthy amount of bruise cream on each of Angel’s visible bruises. He’s almost certain there are more hidden beneath the- admittedly skimpy- clothing Angel is wearing, but is unwilling to undress him like this.

Pulling the surprisingly fluffy throw blanket from the back of the couch, Husk drapes it over Angel’s form, smoothing the sides down and tucking his arms beneath its warmth so he doesn’t wake up cold.

Husk is methodical in his cleanup of the first aid supplies, drawing each movement out so that he has more of a reason to stay in the room. To look at the rare smooth openness of Angel’s expression.

Once finished, he sets the kit to the side and picks up the makeup wipes, pulling one from the pack and pinching it between his pointer and thumb as he leans over Angel’s face. He moves one hand to cup his cheek, and the other to begin swiping lightly across Angel’s left eyelid.

Angel flinches a little at the unexpected contact, eyelids fluttering as his expression scrunches, disrupting the smooth peace Husk had so adored. It strikes something sore within Husk to watch.

“Hey. Hey, you’re okay, Baby. I’m not gonna hurt you. Go back to sleep.” The ‘baby’ slips out, Husk just can’t filter his words as carefully when Angel is so close, and so clearly hurting.

Angel’s expression smooths at the sound of his voice, at first fractionally, then all at once. It’s a gift to witness.

He leans his cheek further into Husk’s hand and Husk, unable to curb the small chuckle that bursts from his chest at the sight, smooths his thumb underneath Angel’s newly cleaned eye.

This is perfect. If life was fair and they were free this could be their normal, their everyday intimacies, indulged in unrestrained bliss. Husk allows himself to live in the thought for a moment before moving to clean Angel’s other eye.

He doesn’t flinch this time, simply sinks into Husk’s hand as it cradles his face and tips his right side towards him. Husk lets his fingertips linger against smooth, cool skin as he works. Swiping tenderly with each pass, as if Angel were something worth treating carefully.

Husk finishes his work without fanfare and, with an indulgent, lingering press of his lips to Angel’s warm forehead, he stands.

Only to nearly keel over when he meets Angel’s own, lidded- but OPEN- eyes.

“FUCK!”

Angel laughs, but it’s small and syrupy. Real.

“Thanks, Babycakes.” He offers, reaching his arms above his head in a stretch before settling back, deeper under the covers. “You sure know how to treat a guy. Careful what you offer, though, okay? Might end up with a junkie on your ass if it's too sweet.”

Husk understands what he’s really trying to say and shakes his head.

“Any time, Angel.”

Uh-oh have some more; i have a problem ! Huskerdust pt. 2 🕸️❤️‍🩹

It’s stupid. Really, it’s fucking insane, nonsensical, and the worst goddamn idea Angel’s had since he sold his soul. Still, though, he can’t stop humming the song.

“I’m a loser, baby…” He sings to himself, curled around Nug as he stares out his window into the neon lights and building fires that ever burn throughout the city. One thing he likes about the hotel- aside from actually having people who care about what happens to him, and a safe (and free!) place to sleep- is that he can’t see Val’s from his room's window. He can fall asleep without his sword hanging over his neck, without the constant reminder of what he’s allowed himself to become.

Before tonight, before Husk’s surprisingly uplifting little song and dance number, Angel hated most of what he was. Yeah he likes sex, but he doesn’t like being a whore. Doesn’t like being Val’s whore, especially. 

And it didn’t make anything better, not really. Not in any way that matters. But it was nice to smile at Husk and not be expected to put out for it. To dance and sing without a leash, and instead gentle fleeting touches to guide him through the steps.

Angel curls further into himself, Nug makes a soft squealing noise at the jostling. 

Husk was so careful with him. They were on the side of the goddamn street, next to a puddle of bum-puke (which Husk had prevented from getting on him!!) and Husk chose to be kind with Angel. What an idiot. What a gentleman.

They’d never work out, Angel has to remind himself of that when a shiver of a feeling he’d thought had long been fucked or beaten out of him by now works its way through his body. Warm and sugary. 

Both beholden to contracts they’d signed, pets to egotistic psychopaths entirely too eager to make them suffer. What now feels so comforting could very quickly turn into something agonizing and painful. Plus, Husk doesn’t want him. He’s made that abundantly clear by now. Sure he’s being nice now that Angel’s ‘respecting his boundaries’ or whatever but the boundaries are there for a reason. He doesn’t want Angel. So much that it makes him uncomfortable if he gets too close.  

Angel can feel his eyelids getting heavy, but there’s a jittering in his chest that signals a rough night. Shit, even with a night as good as this one, he can’t sleep in peace? 

He’s a loser. Damaged goods. Maybe he’s not alone, but fuck if he doesn’t feel it right now. 

Nug wriggles out from the lax cage of his arms and jumps off the bed. 

***

There are texts from Val waiting on Angel’s phone when he wakes up. 

He was right, it was a rough night. Only managed a cool three hours of fitful tossing before his alarm rang for the hotel’s ‘daily activities’. Say what you will about him, he’s nothing if not punctual (and Charlie had looked real pitiful when she asked him to come down in the mornings more, it’s really impossible to say no to her face). 

The texts are a long eternity of scrolling pink. Angel sighs at the few words he manages to catch as he makes his way to the top, “whore” (unoriginal), “bitch” (overdone), “ungrateful” (points for accuracy), and a whole myriad of other demeaning things that his exhaustion addled mind can’t be assed to fully compartmentalize.

He didn’t know how much he’d miss being called “baby” in that smooth low baritone until now; being called all the regular stuff makes his stomach churn in comparison. Or maybe it’s just who’s calling him what. He’d let Husk call him whatever he wanted if he kept being all gentle with him. Shit, it hasn’t even been a day and he’s already mooning like a whiny romance protagonist. Eugh. 

Looks like he’s got another long shoot today. He’s expected over in an hour or so, and Val had signed off with an “xoxo” which really means “or else”. God, he’s really punishing him for stepping out of line this time. Angel can feel a twinge of something in his back as he stands from his bed. Even with an enhanced body, fourteen hours nonstop took it’s toll, and it’s just going to get worse from here. He winces to himself and moves to rub at the sore spot. “Fuck.” He mutters, casting around for a decently sexy outfit so Val doesn’t have another thing to nitpick about. 

It doesn’t take long, after the first several years of coming home sticky and itchy Angel had curated his closet to be both sexy and comfortable. Every piece strikes that balance perfectly and nothing clashes when combined. He’s quite proud of it actually, but it’s not something that comes up often in conversation so he doesn’t really ever have the occasion to brag. 

Husk is- as he always is- shining glasses behind the bar when Angel makes his way down. One has to wonder if the dishes he’s cleaning are actually dirty, or if he just needs something to do with his hands. Angel would put a lot of money on the latter, no one here- even with all the alcoholics- could possibly go through glasses that fast. 

Husk’s eyes dart up to his when the stairs let out a sharp creak, announcing his presence. With a small, private smile he waves him over.

“Mornin’ Angel. Fancy a drink?”

It’s really pathetic how much Angel has to fight to not give in. Not to walk over and settle at the bar, letting that warm, even voice soothe all his decades old aches and pains. He smiles, but it’s tight and untrue. Husk glances down at his lips for a moment, frowns, then goes back to shining.

“Sorry, Kitty, got a shoot. Raincheck?” He hopes he says yes. What he would give to be able to see Husk at the end of the- long, painful and entirely exhausting- day and share a drink. He’s never been to heaven, never even tried thinking about what might be up there because, well, look at him. It’s not really his kind of place, is it?

Still, though, a drink with Husk at the end of today’s misery has got to be pretty damn close. As close as Angel can ever hope to get, anyways. Husk sets the newly polished glass down, and leans against the countertop.

“Sure thing. I’ll have a cosmo waiting.” Angel can tell he wants to ask, that he wants to say something about Val and the fact that this is the second day in a row Angel is going in for a long shoot. About the bruises that are still visible, having just started purpling against Angel’s skin. But he doesn’t, he bites his tongue and offers what solace he can. The feeling that bubbles beneath Angel’s skin at this realization is hot and dangerous. 

He nods, curt and with another stiff smile before scurrying off. He hates that Husk has seen him like this. 

“I can’t wait.” Angel mutters- more to himself than anything- at the cusp of the doorway. 

And it’s the gospel goddamned truth. 

***

It’s late, definitely later than whatever ballpark time Husk had in mind when he accepted the raincheck for tonight and though Angel knows Husk’s not really one to give much of a shit about punctuality-  when you have eternity ahead of you, ‘on time’ becomes pretty damned relative- he still feels like shit for keeping him waiting.

He’s fidgeting in the back of a sleek, pink limo Val had been kind enough to provide him when, at the end of today’s shoot, Angel had found himself frighteningly unable to walk. Of course, nothing is ever free in this unlife, so Val had taken a cut of his earnings to ‘compensate himself’ for having to cart Angel around, when, if he’d just done as he was told, he wouldn’t have gotten himself hurt enough to need it. 

Angel doesn’t want to buy into the idea, but Val has a point. He needs to be more careful if he’s going to continue being of any use to the hotel. As much as he pretends to be an uncaring freeloader, something itches beneath his skin at the thought of actually becoming one. He can pull his weight. He can pull his goddamned weight.

The limo swerves in front of the hotel and lets him off with little fanfare; Angel gingerly picks his way up the hill to the large front doors, wincing and trying to ignore the stabbing agony going on below his waist with each step. 

He doesn’t expect to see anyone when he walks in, it’s late, and they have ‘redemption’ exercises to do in the morning; even Husk has to have a bedtime and it’s late enough that Angel assumes the time has already passed. Hell, if Angel didn’t have work today he’d probably be asleep by now. 

And yet- as he tiptoes past the threshold, gently pulling the door closed behind him- Angel hears a low rumbling sound. The lights in the lobby are off, as expected, but there’s just enough ambient light to reveal a small lump curled up on the couch. Upon closer inspection, Angel realizes that the sound is purring, and the lump is Husk. 

“What the fuck…” He mutters to himself, as Husk’s purring is interrupted by what Angel can only describe as a hitching snore before resuming with even more force. His wings, which have been wrapped around himself in a facsimile of a blanket, tremble and shudder with the power of the vibrations. Angel has to strangle the coo that tries to escape his lips at the sight. 

Fuck, that’s adorable. He really is just a kitty underneath all that jaded bullshit, huh. Unwitting, Angel’s hand reaches out to coast over the fur on his head. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warm shudder of contented purring. It’s enough to make Angel forget about his injuries for the moment, too enamored with the rare sight of a pleasantly sated Husk in the throes of sleep. 

Alas, the bliss of the moment is short-lived, and before Angel can tug his hand away, Husk snatches it out of the air, scrambling up into a sitting position to glare at him and hiss. Okay, even his hissing is kind of cute, but that might just be Angel’s fucked up-ness talking. 

“Hey… Huskie…” Angel eeks, trying to pull his hand away from Husk’s bruising grip. His body’s already got its work cut out with his other injuries, it doesn’t need more paltry bruises to expend its energy on. 

Husk shakes his head and, after a moment, his eyes clear of the film of sleep. Once he recognizes Angel in front of him, he drops his arm, as if burned. 

“Fuck, Angel. Y’can’t sneak up on me like that.” Having regained his senses, he takes a moment to apprise himself of the state of Angel, eyes roving critically over each exposed patch of skin in the dim light. His expression gradually hardens as he becomes more and more aware of just how much damage there is to contend with. Angel, desperate to talk about literally anything but his bleeding body laughs hollowly.

“Yeah, sorry man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep before, though, did you know you purr?” Husk gives him a blank look at the obvious attempt at deflection but, after a moment, shrugs and scoots over, patting the space beside him on the couch. “I was aware. Must’ve passed out waiting for you.” He scratches at the chops of fur just below his chin as he speaks, seemingly unconcerned with what he’s just said. That he waited for Angel to come back so they could have their raincheck; that he waited up and Angel was late. 

Angel feels a little sick, the mixture of butterflies and sinking despair in his gut creating something entirely new, and entirely nauseating. He winces, but settles on the couch, curling into himself. “Sorry about that, Tuts. Got a little caught up at the studio… Y’know you didn’t have to wait up, right? We can always raincheck another day.”

It’s quiet for a long, excruciating moment, before Angel feels Husk’s eyes on him again. He can’t bring himself to meet them, instead staring further into the relative safety of the knotted wooden floor. Husk sighs.

“I know. I wanted to.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Angel is infinitely thankful for the fact that the lights are off because he can feel the aggressive flush working its way up his cheeks and knows it would be incredibly obvious, if it isn’t already. He coughs into one of his hands. 

“But… I was late…? It’s- it’s like four AM. I wouldn't blame you for just going to bed.” Angel isn’t really sure why he’s arguing with Husk about this, all he knows is that none of what has happened since he walked into the hotel has made any goddamn sense, and it’s making his stomach churn. Husk’s tail swishes, hovering lightly over the span of Angel’s hunched shoulders, not touching, but close enough to feel. 

Finally, after another long minute of silence, Husk speaks.

“I just wanted to make sure you got back okay.” Part of Angel swoons at the gentlemanly sentiment, the rest of him bristles at the implication that he needs that. That he can’t make sure he gets back okay on his own. That he’s weak. He whips around to glare at a startled Husk. 

“And you don’t think I can get myself back safely? Fuck you, man, I’m not some weak little damsel in need of saving.” He spits. Husk shakes his head, eyes wide at the vehemence in Angel’s words. His hand raises from his lap- perhaps to reach out, to comfort- but at Angel’s expression, he brings it to his own arm to rub at his tricep sheepishly. 

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Angel.” He scolds, brows furrowed, “I don’t think you’re weak, I just don’t want you to feel like you’re facing this alone.”

Angel scoffs and turns away. Evidently, that’s the breaking point for Husk, because he huffs and snarls, “What? I can’t care about you?” There’s a static to his movements, a ruffling to his fur that indicates real irritation. For some reason, that makes Angel angrier. 

“Not if you’re not fucking me! Not if you don’t get any fucking thing out of it! Fuck!” His wounds give a valiant, biting twinge at the end of his sentence, causing Angel to hunch over himself and press a hand against his side while he struggles to catch his breath. Through the haze of agony, he hears shuffling, and feels the couch straighten as Husk rises to leave. 

Good fucking riddance. Angel knew it was all talk. He knew it. 

His breaths remain ragged for a long time while he tries to get ahold of himself again. Enough, at least, that he can drag himself back to his room. He curses Husk, but more so he curses himself for getting himself into this situation in the first place. What was his one rule? Don’t get attached, don’t let them lure you into thinking they care because they never do, and you’re just going to end up getting your feelings hurt if you keep being stupid about it. 

The pain does not abate, even as his thoughts spiral ever downwards into despair. 

After an excruciating, indeterminate amount of time, he feels the couch dip again and, unwilling to face whatever well-meaning do-gooder it is this time, Angel shakes his head. 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” he grits, each word more painful than the last. The person does not leave.

“Are you gonna let me help you now, or is it going to be another fight?” It’s Husk’s voice. He’s back. Fuck, why is he back? The noise of confusion that bursts from Angel’s lips is entirely unwitting. He opens his mouth to offer a scathing rebuttal, but can only manage a soft groan. Husk scoots closer. He’s warm. Fuzzy.

“Just nod or shake your head. Can I touch you?” Angel takes a moment to think about it, but has to acquiesce to himself that if he doesn’t let Husk touch him, he’s going to be in agony for the rest of the night. With great effort, he nods. A heavy breath punches itself from Husk’s lips, fanning warmly across Angel’s head. 

“Okay. Good. I’m gonna lay you down so I can get a better look.” Angel desperately wants to make a joke about the phrasing of that, but doesn’t get the chance before he's being manhandled onto his back. It’s a familiar situation, but the usual spike of fear in his throat is noticeably absent this time. Angel doesn’t dwell on what that might mean. 

Husk works quickly and efficiently on Angel’s wounds, soothing him with a warm hand through Angel’s hair whenever the pain gets to be too much- punching miserable little sounds from him- and keeping his touches strictly clinical. When he finishes, he sits back on his heels with a sigh. Settling back at the other end of the couch and allowing Angel his personal space again. Angel’s eyes feel surprisingly heavy. He catches a soft look from Husk before they flutter closed. 

Husk chuckles, soft and low.

“See? Doesn’t always have to be a fight.”

A little riz ficlet i started last week and finished today (pok feels 💚)

Your name is Riz.

Riz knows Kristen didn’t mean it, knows she was just being funny, trying to ease his nerves before his first big game on the Owlbears. But he can’t stop hearing his mother’s voice in his head, digging, nudging him to buck up and fight against it.

He regrets snapping at her, but not as much as he should, probably. He’s not certain he would’ve even said anything if his mom hadn’t had that conversation with him.

And now Kristen’s getting expelled, but not really, and instead they have to go through a harrowing trial of standardized testing coupled with fighting monsters where it only ends if all of them die or they kill all the monsters.

No one has ever killed all the monsters before, and Riz isn’t arrogant enough to actually believe they’ll be the first. Not with the weight of Junior year on their shoulders. It’ll be nice to see his dad again, outside of the tiny little hologram on his watch, or when he talks to the air around his grave- never knowing for sure but believing that he’s there, listening.

But dying hurts. Riz still gets nightmares about that first time he did it, and it doesn’t help that the video of it happening is still up for everyone to see. The views keep climbing, no matter how time marches on people still search it up. It makes him a little nauseous to think about.  

There’s a lot on Riz’s mind tonight- not that there hasn’t always been- but for some reason he can’t tune it out right now, can’t push it down with work or school or trying to solve a mystery. His mind is just running, turning over and over itself, churning through the complicated web of problems he’s found himself caught in.

There’s just so much that needs fixing, that needs to be worked on and chipped away at and he can’t do anything about it. Just has to stare at the ceiling of the living room in Mordrid Manor, trying to will himself to sleep while his friends snore beside him. Well- Adiane isn’t really sleeping, but after finally dropping the mental weight of her finances, she’s been falling deeper into her trances to regain her energy.

It feels almost like his heart is about to jump right out of his chest, like it’s squirming around, trying to wedge itself up his throat and out of his mouth. Riz would never tell anyone this but he’s terrified that he’s still that same futile little thing he was in the palimpsest. Scratching at thick walls until his hands bleed, littered with shards of the effort, but in that righteous violence, ultimately having done nothing of real use.

How many times does he have to bleed for it to mean something? How many times does he have to die before his friends can stay with him? Before people and gods and monsters stop trying to pry them away from his bloody, clenched fingers. He worked for this, he dug deep and rent himself in six equal pieces for the hope of staying together. How much more could the universe possibly expect from him? When is it enough?

There’s a soft beep from his wristwatch- which, unlike all of his other gadgets, he never takes off, not even when sleeping- and Riz takes the opportunity to get away from staring at the same crack in the ceiling he’s been looking at for the past hour. He stands and picks his way through a maze of limbs and drool to the kitchen.

With some semblance of privacy, he checks the watch. What could his dad- Agent Gukgak- need from him at this time of night? Does time work the same way up there? Is he ok? Is it possible for him not to be?

A small hologram of his father appears above the watch, disheveled, as if he just got back to the office. As soon as he appears, he steps back for a moment and quickly catalogues his son’s state. After about a minute, he heaves a deep sigh.

“You’re ok.” It’s not a question. Riz nods, slowly.

“I am, sure. But what about you, Agent Gukgak- sir? What’s wrong? Why’d you call?”  He tries to keep his voice quiet, and moves towards the front door, hoping to get outside so he and Agent Gukgak can have a serious business conversation without him sounding like a teenager at a sleepover. He is a teenager at a sleepover, but that’s beside the point.

Agent Gukgak tilts his head at him. “Kiddo, I didn’t call for me, I called for you. Your heartbeat spiked about a half hour ago and hasn’t returned to baseline since. I called as soon as I could get back.”

Riz, having just made it outside- the door creaked just slightly, but he’s not worried about any of the others having heard; they sleep like logs- stumbles a bit as he tries to settle himself on the porch steps.

It’s late, so he can be forgiven for lacking his usual tact as he stutters, “Wha- huh? This thing can track my heartbeat?” Like that was the most important part of what Agent Gukgak had said.

Agent Gukgak smiles at him, wry. “Course it can, and your blood sugar, iron levels, as well as body temperature. You should talk to your mom about iron pills, actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I know you haven’t been to the doctor for a while, but we’ve been detecting low iron in your blood for a while. And don’t even get me started on your eating habits, you’re just like your mother, waiting until you’re near ready to faint to give your body anything substantial.” His tone starts warm, but quickly devolves into something more scolding. Riz allows the conversation to derail a little bit.

“It’s not that I do it consciously, I just forget. There’s a lot of work to do and it’s hard to schedule out non-school-mandated mealtimes for myself. I’ll make a note about the iron though.” Riz thinks they’re both overtly aware of the fact that he doesn’t move to jot anything down. Iron pills have got to be expensive, and if he’s made it this far without, he doesn’t see a reason to ask for them now. Agent Gukgak sighs.

“Riz- it’s- I-“ He pauses, takes a second to collect himself. “I often find myself wishing, when we talk, that I was able to come down there and live with you and your mother. At least until we sent you off to college.” There’s a wistfulness to his gaze that Riz can’t find it within himself to watch, he knows what’s at the end of this train of thought and it’s never pretty. ‘What ifs’ and ‘could have beens’ are only as good as a wish, because they’re never rooted in reality. Always washed with rose and drowned in nostalgia.

Riz cuts in, “You’ve been doing good work where you can. And- and I think I turned out pretty okay. All things considered.” It feels a little strange to be defending his father to himself, but Agent Gukgak just shakes his head.

“More than ‘pretty okay’, kiddo. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done, not just in your work, but in who you are. I see the way you care for your friends, the way you help your mother, the way you meet every problem head on with a plan and a backup plan, just in case. I just wish the world had been kinder. Wish I coulda been there to make it be, when it couldn’t get there on its own.”

And then, for some, mortifying reason, Riz bursts into tears. It’s not loud or messy or even really all that different than what he usually looks like. At a distance, you probably wouldn’t even be able to tell. But there are tears streaming steadily down his face and every so often he has to sniff and blink his eyes to catch up with the stream. He swipes an arm roughly across his eyes to try and stem the flow, or better, stop it completely.

“I’m sorry, Agent-“

“Dad. Just call me dad kiddo. Please. Or Pok, just- not ‘Agent Gukgak’.” Pok’s own expression has crumpled, brows furrowing at the sight of his son so obviously distraught with no way to physically comfort him.

Riz nods, “Sorry, dad, I don’t-“ He sniffs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just Kristen’s being expelled unless we do this last stand thing tomorrow where we’re probably gonna die at the end, and I saw my name in Kipperlilly’s file but I haven’t had time to figure out why it’s there, and Fig skipped class again, which, I know isn’t going to fail her probably but it makes me nervous because what if she starts skipping every day again? Also our vice principal might be crazy and evil and I haven’t had any time at all to look into that-“

He cuts himself off with a gasping, cut-off sob, burying his face in his arm in his overwhelm but keeping his wrist level so Pok remains visible.

It’s hard to see through the rivers of tears that are spouting from his tear ducts, but Riz thinks he sees his father tugging at his hair, pacing as he watches this unfold. Huh, they kind of are the same.

“You’re seventeen. Seventeen, you shouldn’t- I can’t-“ He seems at a loss for words, baffled by the injustice of it all. Riz has stopped trying to fight the waves of tears, instead letting them wash over them, swiping at his cheeks every couple of seconds to keep them dry.

Pok paces for a few more minutes, fiddling with different parts of his outfit until he’s gathered his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Riz.” Is what he settles on, moving close to the image capture of the hologram so that, if Riz were to tilt his head forward, it could almost be as if they were touching foreheads. Pok continues, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there and I’m sorry that you have so much to deal with right now. I wish I could do more, but all I can give you is advice. What you’ve got on your plate right now, every piece of this hellish puzzle, both is and is not a war. There’s you, and there’s the problem, and a lot of times it seems like the problem is so much bigger than you are, so much more than you’re equipped to handle. Like you’re a man at the base of a mountain with a shovel, hoping to dig a hole through it. But once you start thinking that, the moment you let yourself become less than, that’s when you start losing. You either gotta grow to match the size of it or cut it into little pieces you know you can handle, and I’ve never met anyone who could do the first of those.”

Pok takes a deep breath, then his lips quirk into a rueful smile.

“Also, it’s a lot easier to do things when you eat, and you let other people help you.” He emphasizes the last parts with a heavy look directly into Riz’s eyes. Like he knows exactly how he’s been doing things thus far and is telling him to change it up, for his own sake.

Riz sniffles, nodding. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the warmth of his father’s skin through the hologram. Or the illusion of it.

“I can do that.” Riz takes a deep breath. “I can do that.”

Pok smiles. “I know you can, kid. Just take it slow. Don’t lose yourself in it.” He speaks as if he’s learned from experience. The realization of how little he truly knows his father hits Riz like a bucket of ice water. A shiver works its way up his spine.

For a moment, he considers asking. Thinks about spending the night on this porch, effectively on the phone with his dad, talking and learning things he’s wanted to know for as long as he’s been visiting Pok’s grave. Then, Pok clears his throat, expression pinched with regret.

“Sorry, kid I-“

Then he remembers that life isn’t fair, and the world moves on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Riz blinks away his tears.

“Yeah- no- I know. You’ve got badass angel things to do. I’m good. Thanks for calling.”

Pok gets a look on his face, equal parts proud and devastated. His eyebrows furrow into poignant resignation.

“I’ll try to do it more. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And then he’s gone, and all Riz has is the cool fingers of the wind, grasping over his shoulders in an icy embrace. He puffs a breath into the air and watches it fizzle from fog to nothing.

It’s dark. It’s going to be dark for another eight hours at least.

Riz is going to die tomorrow, probably. He’ll be fine, but he doesn’t want to.

He really doesn’t want to.  

todoiida u have enamored me, have a fic abt it 🔥🧊🏃🏻‍♂️

Iida touches Shoto a lot. 

It’s scary, at first, because his hands are broad and callused and vaguely familiar in a way that sends a spike of panic down Shoto’s back. But he never uses them in the way Shoto expects him to. 

He’s gentle, so, so careful, even when it’s a high-speed scoop up in the midst of battle. It’s odd to be considered in those kinds of situations. Nice. And maybe Iida isn’t giving him any special consideration, maybe he’s like this with every person he rescues because he’s just that kind of man. It’s still nice, though.

He noticed it, first, when they fought class B, and Iida had rushed to fish him out from where he’d nearly drowned in liquid concrete, trapping himself under literal tons of it to do so. It was a frantic situation, Shoto was only half-conscious, he could’ve gotten away with being a little rough. With putting comfort to the side in the name of saving a life. But he didn’t. He’d cradled Shoto close, holding him lightly against his warm, humming armor and tossed him to safety. 

Then there was everything after his grueling fight with Dabi. Bleeding, and feeling more cavern than boy, Shoto had crumpled. It was over, but at what cost? Everyone was cheering. He’d done what he was supposed to. The mission was a success.

Then why did he feel so sad?

Iida caught him, with hovering, sturdy arms. Hugged him to his side when he needed it and let him cry, without judgement. Because he understood what it felt like to lose a brother, even if that brother didn’t stay lost. 

Defeating Toya was just the first step, they had been in the middle of a war. There was more to do, always more that needed doing. Iida could’ve urged him to stand. Tried bolstering his courage to get back into the fray. He should have. But he didn’t.

Not until Shoto had been allowed to feel everything he needed to. 

Shoto thinks back on that day, often. And not just to torture himself with images of Toya’s last stand. Of the memories of his sizzling fists against his skin. Sometimes it’s just to remember how Iida’s fingers felt against his face, as he fitted him with his mask. Brushing hair away from his eyes—careful, but not pitying against his scar—and asking if it was too tight. 

If he lets himself, he starts thinking about how it might feel without the mask, without their hero gear in the way. He imagines leaning into it. 

He wonders if that’s okay. If he should be recriminating himself for his thoughts. He’s never had time or mind to fall into these kinds of fantasies before and he’s not sure what to make of them. All he knows is that he likes Iida’s touches, and that he wishes there were more of them.

Not all of them occur in the battlefield, of course, but that’s where they’re most abundant. Shoto’s in the line of fire often, given his quirk and years-long training for it, while Iida excels at rescue. They make a good team. 

It’s nice in the dorms, though, because then it’s really Iida’s hands. Without gloves. 

They’re fleeting, little touches. A brush against his side as Iida sidles past, apologizing for encroaching on his space. A gentle shake to his shoulder when he falls asleep on the couch, waking him and directing him to his room so that he doesn’t wake with a crick in his neck. 

Small things. But Shoto cherishes them the same as he does every other touch Iida deigns to give him. It’s addicting, almost, now that he’s got a taste for them he’s ravenous for more. 

Iida’s hands are so warm. Shoto thinks this extends to the rest of his body because of his engines but he can’t be sure. He wonders how his right side would fare against it. If Iida were to touch him there long enough, with enough pressure to really feel.

He feels a little wild with it. The longing he has for these touches. Shoto doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something like this before; badly enough to consider asking, even if the answer will probably be no.

Standing at the door of Iida’s room at one in the morning, shivering with the memory of a cold so intense that it froze the tears in his eyes, Shoto considers his options. He could knock. Iida’s probably asleep right now so that would either wake him from sleep (which he would feel immensely guilty about) or go unanswered. 

Shoto doesn’t wonder why he’s come to Iida’s door, in the haze of gloom that had descended upon him immediately after waking. He knows why he’s here. 

Iida feels safe. Is safe. But it’s also one in the morning. And just because he touches him nicely when touching Shoto is necessary, doesn’t mean that he’ll want to touch Shoto otherwise.

He bites his lip, pulling some chapped dead skin from it with his fingers and wincing at the sting. His other arm clutches his pillow to his side. 

Before he can make up his mind, the door to Iida’s room slides open with a near-silent whoosh. Suddenly, standing in front of him is a yawning Iida Tenya, sans glasses. 

After rubbing his eyes, Iida squints at him.

“Todoroki?” 

Shoto swallows around something large clogging his throat. Coughs once, twice.

“Uh. Hi. Iida.” He says, wincing at himself. Even he knows that isn’t the way to greet someone whose door you were lurking outside of at one in the morning. Iida steps closer, still squinting.

“Are you- alright? Todoroki?” He cuts himself off and the sentence comes out choppy, but unlike his usual confident staccato.

“Yeah- yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Faced with the reality of having to ask Iida to touch him, Shoto shrinks. He can’t do this. Not with Iida’s hair all mussed up, cheek slightly imprinted with the wrinkles of his sheets. 

Iida squints at him for another moment before holding a finger up and retreating into his room. He leaves the door open, though, and that is the only reason Shoto doesn’t turn tail and leave. 

Perhaps he’d disturbed him. Maybe, somehow, he heard Shoto’s engrossed shuffling outside the door and decided to investigate. He was owed an explanation, at the very least, and another ten apologies.

Just under a minute later, Iida returns, now sporting his usual square glasses and a small smile. 

“Ah. That’s much better.” His brows furrow as he looks at Shoto. “You’ve been crying.”

It’s not a question and Shoto doesn’t argue. He has. Or, had been about a half-hour ago, when he woke from the nightmare. He hadn’t bothered cleaning himself up before marching over here; mirrors are a little difficult when he’s like this. 

“Yes. I’m- I’m very sorry if I woke you…” Shoto can’t bring himself to finish the thought. To explain why he’d come here. What if he’s disgusted? What if he never touches him again?

The thoughts are irrational— Iida has always proven himself to be kind to a fault, he’d never judge Shoto for this— but that doesn’t stop them from occurring.

Iida’s gaze slides down to where his hands are clenched around his pillow, trembling slightly.

“Please, don’t apologize. You didn’t wake me, I was going to get some water.” He says.

Shoto nods without saying anything and angles himself so that he’s no longer standing in his way to the elevators. 

“Right. Well, you should go. Do that.” He’s looking resolutely at the ground unwilling— and perhaps unable— to meet Iida’s eyes.

Iida hums. 

“Why don’t we go together? I think I’d rather have some tea, now, and it’d be nice to have someone to share it with.” He smiles at Shoto, who just barely catches it when his eyes dart up and then back down to his feet. That sounds nice. And Iida is being so kind. 

He jerks his head into a stiff nod, following slightly behind Iida as he makes his way to the elevators.

Iida presses the button and they wait in silence, side by side, for the doors to open. When they finally do—after what feels like an eternity but can’t have been longer than thirty seconds—Iida brushes a hand, flat, at the small of Shoto’s back to usher him inside. The unexpected (but much yearned for) touch causes a jolt of electricity to flow through him. Unfortunately, it manifests as a flinch, and Iida steps back into the far corner of the elevator, apologizing. 

“No!” Shoto bursts out, going to follow him before staying himself. No one likes getting cornered in an elevator. 

Iida raises his brows, likely not expecting to see Shoto so fired up about something so trivial.

“I-“ He wars with himself over the correct words, now committed to being honest. The want is too much, especially after getting a taste of that warm, addicting touch. Iida waits patiently.

“I like it. When you- when you touch me.” He flounders. “It’s…” Shoto squeezes his fingers further into the soft down of the pillow, searching for a way to adequately express how Iida makes him feel. Nothing is big enough.

“Safe.” He decides on, and it’s still woefully lacking. “Warm.”

The elevator doors slide open and Iida steps closer, hovering his hand above the same place he’d placed it before. 

“Alright.” He says. “Is this okay?”

Shoto nods fervently and allows himself to be steered towards the kitchen. Iida’s hand is a nice, solid weight against his back. Something to focus on. He breathes deep and relaxes slightly.

“Thank you.” It’s more whisper than words but Iida hears it. They come to a stop just in front of the island, where Iida retracts his hand.

Shoro mourns the loss of it, but tries not to let it show. Iida has already given him so much tonight. His time, his touch, his understanding. Who is Shoto to ask more of him?

But Iida doesn’t move away. Instead, he shifts on his feet and asks, a little shyly, “Would you like a hug?” 

Shoto would love a hug. Hadn’t even let himself imagine a real one (and not a side hug or a piggyback in the midst of desperate fighting) lest he become too enamored with the idea. Before he started wanting too much.

He nods, a little frantically, and looks up to find Iida already staring at him, something inscrutable in his eyes as he holds his arms open. Shoto sets his pillow on the island and steps forward, wrapping his own arms around Iida’s middle, tense, at first, but melting to push his face into his neck with each passing second. The tears return, but Iida doesn’t mention them. Doesn’t do anything but rub at Shoto’s back in rhythmic, circular motions, muttering variations of “It’s okay.”, and “You’re okay.” As he cries. 

Iida is warm. Shoto was right. Enough that the right side of his face fits blissfully against his skin. 

Before long, though, Shoto becomes acutely aware of how much of Iida’s time he’s wasted. How long has it been? Minutes? An hour? He should pull back. Should let him get back to his night and content himself with what he’s been given. At this point, he’s just being greedy.

With effort, Shoto pulls himself away from Iida, swiping viciously at his eyes as he does. 

“Thank you.” He chokes, again. “I’m sorry.”

Iida’s expression cracks, a little bit, before righting itself. “You don’t have to apologize, Shoto. In fact, I must insist that you don’t. It is natural to want to be touched, it’s ingrained into us as human beings.” 

He coughs, averting his eyes to the side. “And… and, well, I liked it, too.” 

Shoto stalls, processing the words.

“You did?” He asks, voice small. Iida smiles at him. “Of course I did. It’s you.”

It’s like a bomb has detonated deep within Shoto’s chest, blasting open a whole slew of possibilities he used to keep under lock and key. 

“Then- then can you hold me again? Would you? Your hands are so kind.” It’s an odd way to say it, and Shoto knows that, but it’s also the only way that he can. Iida understands, anyway, or seems to, if the complicated twist to his mouth is any indication. 

“I will. And you deserve to be touched kindly. You don’t have to beg.”

Iida draws back into Shoto’s space—who had sat himself in one of the stools at the island, ready to spend the rest of the night just watching—and settles himself between his legs. 

With tickling, tender pressure, he cups Shoto’s cheek, then slides his hand back to cradle the back of his head and hold him to his chest. Iida’s heart beats slow and steady, a deep thrumming beacon of warmth inside an already warm man. 

Shoto uncurls his fingers from his pajama pants to pull himself closer, breathing deep as Iida’s fingers toy with some of the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“This is nice.” He breathes, because he knows Iida doesn’t want to be thanked again. Something light presses against his hair for a lingering moment before retreating.

“It is.”

Short bkdk because I am SAD and katsuki is DEAD (for a little bit) 💚🧡

The hospital was miserable. Not just because it was chock full of grieving families and people balancing on the knife’s edge between life and death, but because—despite the fact that he survived—Katsuki was still being grieved.

He could see it in Best Jeanist’s eyes when he visited, dropping off some new, incredibly soft clothes for him to wear that weren’t open-backed hospital gowns. Guilt. Regret. Katsuki was alive, sitting right in front of him, and he still couldn’t quite see past the mirage of blood on his face.

Aizawa, too, had barely been able to look at him. Brought the three third years so he didn’t have to be alone with Katsuki. Face what he saw as one of his greatest failures as a teacher. A mentor. At least that’s what Katsuki thought.

The old man brought well wishes from the class. Some flowers. And the black smudges beneath his eyes. Katsuki wondered if he’d slept at all in the aftermath. If he’d ever sleep soundly again. Katsuki sure won’t.

The third years praised his speed, commenting on how dazzling his explosions were, until the very end. Mirio told him he knew he’d be a great hero one day, that he practically already was one. Nejire seconded that and asked if all of his sweat exploded, and if it was inconvenient because of that. He was so viscerally reminded of Izuku, in the moment, that he nearly started bawling.

Amajiki didn’t say much, but he left a small bento with a note: eat up and regain your strength. thank you. you were incredible.

And still, through their attempts at normalcy he could see the way they watched him. As if he were liable to keel over again at any minute. He was fine, goddamnit. He was healing. That didn’t make him weak.

The hag and his old man visited daily. Couldn’t stop touching his face and neck and tilting him every which way to reassure themselves that he really was alive. That was more the hag, but every so often his old man—who generally strayed away from getting physical with him—would cup his cheek and run his thumb over the new scar there, eyes pained. Katsuki always shook him off, told him not to look at him like that, but the memory lingers, as they all do. The hag wouldn’t even smack him anymore, even when he knew he was being a brat. Taking his anger at the world and his body out on them when they did nothing to deserve it.

All of her touches were light, ghosts of things that made him feel uncomfortably unreal. She asked if he wanted to stay at UA, after everything, and something about the tilt of her mouth told him she already knew the answer. Still, when he said yes, without hesitation, she had to excuse herself from the room, eyes shining.

It was maddening. A purgatory of what-ifs that everyone except him was experiencing. The only ‘what-if’ Katsuki was concerned with was whether or not—if he was just a little stronger, had been able to land even just one more hit— Izuku would’ve been able to keep his quirk. But that’s for him. He keeps it close and inside and it’s no one else’s problem.

Now that he’s out—lounging in his dorm room after a less harrowing round of greetings from all the others, who didn’t know the situation and thus couldn’t feel guilty or grieve about it—it’s louder, the way he likes it. Normal.

Kirishima and Kaminari are wrestling somewhere loud enough for him to hear them jeering at each other. Iida’s yelling at someone for leaving a mess in the kitchen. It loosens something that had scabbed over in Katsuki’s chest.

There’s a knock at his door.

Sero? Possibly, but he would’ve thought he was with Kirishima and Kaminari, filming or something ‘for posterity’. It’s not Todoroki, his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’, because he’s at the hospital visiting his brother.

Before he can stand and open the door, it creaks forward and a bright green eye stares at him through the crack.

“Kacchan?”

Izuku.

Katsuki sighs and shakes his head.

“What was the point of knocking if you were just gonna come in anyway?”

He doesn’t say, ‘leave’ or ‘get out’ or ‘beat it, Deku!’. Izuku’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as he opens the door the rest of the way and steps inside.

“I thought you might be sleeping. I know it’s been a hard few weeks.”

Katsuki scoffs. And another one. Fucking- doubting him. Of course he's exhausted, sleeping is almost impossible right now and people haven’t stopped walking on eggshells around him. Doesn’t mean he’s going to be a pussy about it. He’s going to prove to them that he’s just as he’s always been, that he doesn’t need the goddamn kid gloves.

“Don’t start. I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“It’s not pity, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice hardens. “I’m not here for you.”

And what a bewilderingly contradictory statement. He’s in Katsuki’s room. What else could he possibly be there for?

“What-“

He doesn’t manage to voice his incredulity before Izuku is on top of him, clinging tight, but gingerly, around his sides and burying his face into his neck. Katsuki nearly flinches back into his pillow with the suddenness of it.

“Deku- what the hell-“

Izuku breathes deep and reaches blindly up to clamp a hand over Katsuki’s mouth.

“Shut up. Give me a minute. And call me Izuku, I know you can.”

Katsuki, too shocked with his words and actions to do otherwise, gives him a minute. Izuku simply lies there, curled over him, and breathes. He matches his inhales to Katsuki’s and taps out the slow thrum of his heart against his hip. Hypnotizing. It’s surprisingly peaceful, and before long Katsuki finds himself lulled into a hazy, half-awake state.

Finally, Izuku speaks, voice hushed.

“You don’t- I don’t think you get it, Kacchan. You didn’t have to see yourself.” He shivers, and Katsuki finds himself raising his own arms to pull him closer towards his own heat.

“Your eyes… Empty. Dull. Dead. It was your body, but I knew you weren’t in there anymore. Someone—Shigaraki—had torn you out.” Something wet splashes against Katsuki’s neck, startling him. Izuku is crying.

“But I’m fine, now. I’m back. Edgeshot saved me.” Katsuki says, haltingly. His voice struggles over the word ‘saved’ but it’s the truth. He had to be saved. Because he couldn’t hold his own.

Izuku shakes his head and presses impossibly closer.

“I know that. I just- I just need to make sure.”

And Katsuki understands. More than anyone, he thinks, he knows exactly what’s running through Izuku’s mind right now. The nauseating mix of helplessness and self hatred.

“Okay.” He says. Then, a crackling whisper, so quiet that it’s only because Izuku is so close that he’s able to hear it. “I’m sorry.”

Izuku’s arms tighten, for a fraction of a second, around him before he pushes himself up. Katsuki swears there’s lightning in his eyes when they look at each other.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You literally died because of me-“ His voice cuts off into sobs. Katsuki watches, dismayed, as another wave of tears begins cresting down his cheeks. Ah, shit.

Katsuki raises his good hand to hover over Izuku’s teary cheeks. Callously, and without much tact, his thumb smears some of the wetness from beneath his eyes. It doesn’t really do anything, and he curses himself for trying.

“Izuku, look, I-“ He tries to pull his hand back but Izuku snatches it from the air and presses it back against his cheek. There’s a wobbly smile building on his lips. Katsuki can hardly bear to look at it.

“It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve-“

“No.” Izuku says, turning to press Katsuki’s pulse point against his face, where he can feel his heart beat. “If it isn’t my fault, then it isn’t yours.”

Katsuki can’t bring himself to agree, yet. Not verbally. But he wants, desperately, for Izuku to stop crying so he nods, once, very stiffly.

Izuku’s teeth glint as his mouth stretches into a real grinning laugh. It feels like staring directly at the sun. Katsuki can’t look away.

“Alright. I’ll take that.” Izuku settles back onto Katsuki’s chest, ear pressed to his shirt as his hands migrate back to cage Katsuki beneath him. Like a blanket, or armor, his weight is familiar to Katsuki, soothing.

“Don’t move.”

Now it’s Katsuki’s turn to chuckle. As if he could. Izuku cracks an eye open to watch him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Another bkdk after the leaks so,,, SPOILERS 🧨🥦 boys need to talk

Part of Katsuki wishes he’d stayed dead. At least, then, he wouldn’t have to watch Izuku struggle through losing a quirk he had worked so goddamn hard to master. That still had so much potential.

And, well, he’s a little tired. He’d done something good. Helpful. Kept Shigaraki’s attention away from the others for a bit. Bought some time.

He did what he could, and it wasn’t enough, and he’d made his peace with that. Dying for Izuku was infinitely easier than living like this. Weak, and injured, and liable to cry at any moment, or stray word.

Izuku needs Katsuki to be strong, and Katsuki is failing him.

There are embers. There’s a spark, a possibility, but Izuku isn’t letting himself hope. Katsuki wishes he would, that he’d stop looking so goddamned sad all the time. His eyes were meant to shine.

The hope is heavy, and it hurts a little, but Katsuki has done much worse for Izuku. To Izuku. So he holds it for him, until he’s ready to pick it up himself. He asks about the embers often, little nudges to remind him that it’s not over, yet. Not if he doesn’t let it be.

Izuku tolerates it, the first few times, but he gets snappy after a while, defensive. Katsuki recognizes himself in it, and wonders when they’d started acting so much like each other. But he keeps on because Izuku had never given up on him, not through years of his terrible attitude. He can do this, at least. At the bare fucking minimum.

His arm heals, slowly, but it still hurts when it rains; his chest, too. No one lets him participate in clean-up or relief efforts until he gets an OK from the doctor. Izuku drifts into himself, pulling back from the class, talking less. Katsuki can only watch as he isolates himself, prepares to leave because he can only believe in a sure thing, not measly embers. Katsuki gets it. Getting his hopes up for nothing would break him. But it seems like he’s already breaking, anyway.

Katsuki has quieted, too, but for medical reasons. Although, after the initial shock, he’s found he likes how his classmates treat him for it. They’re tactful, don’t try to rile him. The anger is still there, but it simmers, and most of it is for himself. Whys and what-ifs, internal beratements for not being man enough to actually talk to Izuku, when the other boy had given so much of himself to make Katsuki good. When he’d saved the fucking world.

Part of him is annoyed at Izuku’s refusal to want something for himself, too busy jumping around to help with relief efforts, clinging to the vestiges of a world he’s already counted himself out of. Makes him grind his teeth at night, ‘til his jaw’s sore.

Everything comes to a head—not on the battlefield, not standing opposite one another in a dying city—in the kitchen. Katsuki wanders in, thinking of the ingredients on his shelf, what he could make from them in bulk enough to feed the leeches, and finds Izuku staring up at a jar just slightly out of reach.

Before Katsuki can speak up, offer to grab it for him while dodging accusations of pity—God, is this what he was like?—Izuku bends his knees, once, twice, and jumps. In a fluid set of movements, the jar is snatched off the shelf and he lands, cat-like, on his feet.

Fa Jin. That had looked exactly like Fa Jin, and Katsuki swears there was something green and crackling around his ankles. He almost wants to laugh- how does Izuku not see it? Instead, he asks, “That was the embers, wasn’t it?”

Izuku startles, but nothing more than a slight flinch of his shoulders acknowledges Katsuki’s presence.

“I told you to stop with that.” He says, voice low. Katsuki shrugs and steps further into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Just telling it like I see it. That looked like Fa Jin.”

Izuku snarls and whirls on him.

“Do you like rubbing it in? Fuck, Bakugo, I thought we were past this.”

‘Bakugo’ hurts. Stings and aches somewhere shallow, close to the surface. But he deserves it. Deserves more than that, really, so he takes it on the chin and lets it roll through him. Katsuki averts his eyes.

“I’m not trying to rub anything in, Izuku. Just wish you’d stop taking this shit lying down. There’s a chance. What happened to the Izuku who only needed that much? Who’d reach out and dig his nails into any scrap of a something?” His voice cracks halfway through. Izuku smiles, but there’s no joy in the expression.

“I don’t know what you want from me. ‘That Izuku’ went to war. He couldn’t save anyone. Maybe he’s realizing he’s not cut out for this.”

Katsuki sneers.

“Cut the shit. You’re scared, I get it, but don’t you ever tell me you don’t want to be a hero. Don’t fucking lie.”

“They’re embers! Just embers!” Izuku laughs, a little hysterically. “I can’t be a hero with a dying quirk.”

He’s tugging at his hair, curling in on himself in a way Katsuki hasn’t seen in years. He hates the look of it on him. Wishes he wasn’t the one making him do it, again. It’s necessary, he tells himself, he needs to hear this. Doesn’t make doing it feel any better.

“Embers become flames if you fan them, if you coax them back. You can still be a hero, you just need to start believing that. Stop stifling yourself!” Katsuki takes a deep, watery breath, stepping forward and clutching at his chest, as if that will push the emotions bubbling up back inside. Stupid tear-ducts, it’s like they’re on a hair-trigger these days. At least with Izuku.

“Stop giving up!” He gasps, gritting his teeth to try and stop himself from crying. It’s pointless, trickles of warmth carve their way down his cheeks, thin and slow.

“Fuck.” He mutters to himself, swiping at his eyes and turning his head. Izuku needs to focus on himself right now, not another pathetic mess of tears.

“Kac-Katsuki.” Izuku stumbles, shell-shocked by the sudden shift. This is exactly what Katsuki didn’t want.

“Fuck off.” He says. “Just- just think about it.”

And without even attempting to check his shelf or start preparing dinner—it can wait an hour or two, until he’s calmed down, until Izuku’s left—he turns to leave the room. They’re not getting anywhere. He’s said what he needs to say and it’s up to Izuku whether or not he’ll listen. As much as he fucking hates it, he can’t do more than that. He’s never been good with words, anyway.

 Just as he makes it to the doorway, something tugs on his wrist. Too thin to be fingers, more like a rope, but not nearly coarse enough for that, either. It’s familiar, very familiar, but he- that can’t be right. He stops in his tracks.

“Kacchan.” Izuku’s breathless voice sounds from behind him, all previous frustration gone from it. Katsuki furrows his brows and turns his head, slightly, enough to see behind him from the corner of his eye.

Izuku is standing a few feet away, hand outstretched towards him. A thin, black ribbon protrudes from his palm, extending to where it’s wrapped tight around Katsuki’s wrist. Blackwhip. It’s the first true sign that Izuku’s quirk is not all lost. They both stare at the line connecting them, but Katsuki’s gaze quickly wanders. He already knew Izuku was capable of this. He looks into the other boy’s eyes, searching for that spark, and he is not disappointed.

A tiny, glinting shine has come back to his irises, highlighting the green ever so slightly into a bright, clear happiness.

“What’d I tell you, nerd.” Katsuki says, just the slightest bit fond. He presses his fingers to the tendril still curled around his wrist. Izuku’s gaze snaps up to him and he grins. Before Katsuki can ask what the look on his face is about, Izuku thrusts his other hand forward and another tendril unfurls, drifting towards Katsuki and wrapping around his waist.  

Izuku then pulls both hands toward himself, hurtling Katsuki towards him at speeds the blond hasn’t felt in far too long. He can’t help the smile creeping onto his lips.

“Thank you.” Izuku whispers, wrapping Katsuki in his arms as soon as he’s in range. Katsuki has to scoff.

“I didn’t do anything.”  

Izuku just squeezes tighter. “I couldn’t do this without you. I don’t know what I’d do if- if I ever had to.”

Now that’s just not at all what they were talking about. Something hot and wriggling awakens in Katsuki’s stomach.

“Fuck off.” Then, taking courage from the fact that he doesn’t have to look in Izuku’s eyes as he says this, “And- I- you did save me. Way before I. Y’know.” It’s choppy, near incomprehensible, but Izuku understands. Before he died.

Something warm and wet drips onto Katsuki’s shoulder. Fucking finally. The crybaby needs it. It’s not platitudes, and Izuku knows better than to accuse Katsuki of something like that. Katsuki only says exactly what he means. And it seemed like Izuku needed to hear it.

Can’t go around thinking every goddamn thing is his fault when it isn’t.

Finally, after a few minutes of unsettlingly quiet crying, Izuku speaks.

“Still. You died because of me. I can’t forget that. It’s the second time you’ve put your life on the line for my sake and I can’t- I don’t think I could handle a third.”

His voice is slow, careful around the words as if he’s thought through them a million times. Katsuki sighs, closing his eyes.

“I’d do it again. Will do it again, if I need to. I’m not going to apologize for that, and I’m not going to promise not to.”

Izuku pulls away, brows furrowed as he steps back to look at Katsuki.

“You can’t just throw your life away-“

“It’s not throwing it away if I’m stepping in for a purpose, shithead.”

Still, Izuku shakes his head.

“It is! I don’t care what you’ve told yourself to justify it, I don’t want you to do that anymore. It scares me.”

Emotions keep bobbing up and down in Katsuki’s chest, like buoys in a storm. He scratches at his elbow, unable to meet Izuku’s eyes. They weren’t here to talk about him. They should be celebrating Izuku’s breakthrough, not wasting time with this.

“Izuku, I told you- it’s fine. It’s my life. I choose what I do with it.”

“But that’s just it, it’s my life, too, shouldn’t I get a say in what happens?”

Katsuki grinds his teeth against each other. Now that he’s not shrouded in gloom, Izuku’s back to being just as stubborn and insufferable as ever.

“That’s not the same. Idiot. You’re going to be the next ‘symbol of peace’ or whatever. Fuckton of potential.”

Izuku tilts his head. “What, and you don’t have potential?”

Katsuki looks away.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re joking. Kacchan-“

“I’m injured. It’ll only get worse with time, Izuku. And my quirk can only do so much. Shigaraki was able to kill me because I wasn’t strong enough. If I keep going like this, I won’t be able to get much stronger before I bite it. Might as well use what I’ve got to do something. Make up for the bullshit. I had a lot of time to think, after our talk in the hospital. I’ve made my peace with a life like that. I think it’s a worthwhile goal, keeping you alive.”

Izuku isn’t speaking, but a new wave of tears has started streaming down his face as he shakes his head, frantically. See, this is what Katsuki was trying to avoid. He only looks like that because Katsuki had opened his big fat mouth and ruined the moment. Fuck. He cringes at himself and is gearing up to switch the conversation to something less catastrophic when Izuku speaks.

“Shut up.” He says, voice ragged. “God, shut up. What happened to being the strongest?” When Katsuki doesn’t answer, he continues, nearly snarling. “You want to make up for your shit? Stay alive, then, asshole. Fuck.” He scrubs at his cheeks, muttering to himself. “Right after I fucking told you I couldn’t live without you?”

Katsuki doesn’t think he’s seen Izuku curse like this, well, ever. Maybe he’s rubbing off on him? All he can do is stare, dumbstruck, trying to parse through the words. It’s not like- he isn’t trying to die, it’s just that if it came down to it, and it was his life or Izuku’s, the choice would be easy, he’d make it in an instant.  

Katsuki scrubs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Alright, let’s drop this-“

But Izuku isn’t having it. “Promise me.”

“I’ll- fucking- do my best.” Is all Katsuki can manage. Izuku watches him for another minute, dubious, before accepting that’s the best he’s going to get.

With a disbelieving laugh, Katsuki straightens, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes.

“Shit. We weren’t supposed to get into all this at once. Just wanted you to get your spine back.”

There’s a warmth against the back of his neck as Izuku pulls him in for another hug. He can’t find it in himself to protest. It’s just the two of them, and he kind of likes it.  

“Thank you, Kacchan.”

The thanks curdles in Katsuki’s gut, unearned and unwanted.

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m enlisting you to help with dinner, now. Since you’re already here.”

Izuku laughs and it feels like fireworks against Katsuki’s ear. He’s missed that sound.