Rumi picking Ma-Ri (마리) up during a show/sound check…
…do I headcanon Elsa and Rumi having a magical baby together?? (or even being parents at all??) no. but the thought occurred and I just really wanted to draw them, so… here’s princess Ma-Ri of Norway. she doesn’t have patterns or powers, which is a shame bc her mommy’s are soooo intent on being accepting! but thus far, she‘s completely ordinary…
A/N: If y'all want me to write out other character reactions to the new baby, let me know in the form of a request! FOR NOW, however, I wanted to write out Carmilla's reaction as the "final" one for the main baby arc saga, so I can focus on other requests I need to get to. I think I only have a few more, so y'all are more than welcome to send me more if you wish to!
Definitely send me requests revolving around Alastor and Carmine!Reader being parents!
Previous Chapter: Absolutely Nobody Was Prepared for This
When Carmilla picked her head up from what she was working on, she immediately sensed something was off the moment Y/N stepped into her office. Not wrong or bad, just...different.
She noticed it in the way her daughter slowly moved towards her. It was very much like how she used to when she was younger, fearing interrupting her work. A hand rested against Y/N's chest, as if steadying herself. Her fingers were splayed, almost as if she were holding something precious. And then Carmilla noticed the weight her eyes were carrying. It was something...important, yet fragile. Something that would cause great damage if handled carelessly.
It was all enough to get Carmilla to push her paperwork aside to give Y/N her undivided attention.
"Mija, is everything all right?"
Y/N didn't answer right away, needing a moment to swallow nervously before grounding herself some more with the familiarity of her mother's office: the faint smell of iron polish and ink on paper, the sight of shelves lined with ledgers, contracts, and weapons - all of it a testament to decades of careful planning, fierce protection, and survival. It was enough to calm Y/N down so she could begin with her news.
"I need you to listen, and to please not interrupt until I finish,"
Carmilla’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, her focus sharpening, as if she were reading a battlefield. Regardless, she nodded in compliance.
Y/N inhaled, the quiet tremor of fear threading through her chest. Her voice, when it came, was low, like speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile reality she held in her hands. “Something has changed. Alastor—” She choked briefly, swallowed, and tried again. “Alastor and I… have a child.”
Silence fell. Heavy, complete.
Carmilla did not speak or move from her seat. She simply regarded her daughter with the same intensity she had reserved for contracts penned in blood, for assassins waiting in the shadows, for negotiations where life itself hung in the balance.
“Explain,"
Y/N’s hands trembled, her hair fell into her face as she looked down at the floor, then back up, letting the words come slowly but surely. “Alastor did something with… Lucifer. He made a deal. I—I didn’t know until after.”
Carmilla’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, a muscle that had not relaxed in decades as she stood up from her seat on instinct. “Did he force this on you?” Her voice was quiet now, but razor-sharp.
“No,” Y/N said immediately, just as fiercely. “Never! He would rather sell his soul than take my choice from me.” Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly, a humorless, slightly relieved sound. "Alastor did this because he knew this was what I wanted… even though I gave up the very idea of it a long time ago.”
Carmilla’s expression faltered, a crack in her usual armor. “You… gave up?”
Y/N nodded. “I did. I thought…I thought that part of me died along with everything else. But Alastor wouldn’t let me stay without hope. He did this because he loves me, and because he believed in what I couldn’t anymore.”
Carmilla blinked, her hands tightening slightly at her side. Then… something shifted. Her eyes softened as she came to her daughter, cupped her face, and had her thumbs brush beneath tear-bright eyes. It was a gesture she offered no one else outside the family, a quiet, unguarded intimacy forged through blood, fire, and trust.
“Look at me,” Carmilla said, a warmth crept into her voice. “You are not foolish, not weak, or selfish for wanting this. You've earned this after surviving for so long."
Y/N broke then as a sob escaped, sharp and aching. “I made peace with never being a mother,” she whispered. “I told myself it was punishment. That it was Hell reminding me of who I was.”
“No,” Carmilla murmured. “It was Hell lying.” She pressed her forehead to Y/N’s. “You were always meant to love fiercely. That was never your sin.”
Y/N’s hands clutched at her mother’s sleeve like a frightened child. “I’m scared.”
“As you should be,” Carmilla replied softly. “Anything worth protecting is terrifying.”
Y/N nodded in understanding, tears spilling freely. “She will be,” she whispered.
Carmilla’s breath caught—just once—but Y/N felt it. Something deep and wild stirred behind her mother’s eyes. “She,” Carmilla whispered, voice trembling with awe, “Una nieta.”
Y/N laughed softly through the tears, a sound half broken, half ecstatic. “Sí, mamá. Her name's Dahlia.” She exhaled, the weight of impossible hope in her arms. “Would you like to meet her?”
Carmilla studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she huffed—almost like a warrior catching her breath after a long battle.
She nodded.
---------------
The office door opened softly.
Alastor stepped inside without his usual theatrical flourish, the radio-static hush around him muted to a respectful hum. His long arms were cradled carefully, admiringly, around a small bundle wrapped in deep red fabric embroidered with fine black thread. Y/N followed just behind him, one hand resting lightly at his back, grounding him as much as steadying herself.
Carmilla turned, and for the first time in decades, Hell’s most feared weapons dealer forgot how to breathe.
The child was small, smaller than Carmilla expected. She seemed impossibly delicate against Alastor’s tall, angular frame, her tiny horns curled just above a head of dark hair, and her gray skin held a warm undertone beneath Hell’s glow. Then there were her eyes, half-lidded with sleep, that flickered open just long enough to reveal white irises framed by red sclera and narrow black pupils.
Somehow, miraculously, she had the Carmine eyes.
“Oh,” Carmilla whispered.
Alastor stopped a respectful distance away. His smile was soft, proud, dangerously sincere. “Madam Carmine,” he started as he slowly, carefully, lifted up the baby in his arms so Carmilla could have a better view. “May I present...our daughter!”
Y/N’s fingers curled into Alastor’s back. “Mamá,” she said quietly. “This is Dahlia.”
The baby stirred at the sound of Y/N’s voice, making a small, disgruntled noise before settling again, one tiny hand slipping free of the blanket. Her fingers flexed in a clumsy, instinctive way.
Carmilla approached slowly, as if the air itself might shatter if she moved too fast. When she stopped in front of them, she didn't reach out right away. Instead, she studied Dahlia with the same intensity she once reserved for weapons prototypes and battlefield schematics, except that her eyes shone with something softer.
“She’s real,” Carmilla said, almost to herself.
Y/N let out a shaky laugh. “She is.”
Carmilla finally lifted her hands. “May I?”
Alastor’s grip tightened instinctively for a fraction of a second, then he relaxed and carefully transferred Dahlia into Carmilla’s arms, every movement precise, deliberate. When the child was settled, Carmilla stiffened slightly, surprised by the weight. It wasn't heavy, but it was definitely important.
Dahlia shifted again, nose scrunching as if offended by the unfamiliar scent of gun oil and iron and power. Then she calmed down enough for one of her small hands to latch onto Carmilla’s finger with surprising strength.
It was enough to freeze Carmilla and cause her breath to hitch.
“Strong grip,” she noted, voice barely steady.
Alastor’s smile sharpened with pride. “Runs in the family.”
Carmilla shot him a look that would have killed lesser demons before she looked back down at her granddaughter.
Her granddaughter.
“Hola, pequeña,” Carmilla whispered, brushing her thumb gently along Dahlia’s cheek. “Soy tu abuela.”
Dahlia yawned, wide and ungraceful, then settled against Carmilla’s chest as if she belonged there.
Carmilla swallowed hard. “She has your eyes,” she said to Y/N. “I know that's not possible, but she does.”
Y/N simply smiled through fresh tears in response.
Carmilla straightened slightly, squaring her shoulders as steel returned to her spine even as her arms cradled something infinitely more dangerous than any weapon she’d ever built. “No one will touch her,” she declared. “Anyone who even thinks about it will cease to exist.”
Alastor’s grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Ah, splendid! We were hoping you’d say that.”
Y/N rolled her eyes fondly and leaned into his side.
Carmilla glanced between them; her daughter, finally allowing herself joy, while the Radio Demon looked disturbingly domestic.
“She is Carmine,” Carmilla said, returning her attention to her granddaughter. “Maybe not in blood, but in name. In protection.”
Her gaze lifted to Alastor, eyes blazing. “And if you fail her—”
“I won’t,” Alastor replied simply.
No jokes this time or even static. Just truth.
Carmilla studied him for a long moment, then nodded. She looked back down at Dahlia once again, her expression softening into something almost unrecognizable.
Yeah I made a fan child what of it. Anyways their hair is lightening because of like cool demon powers because they have Rumi DNA which means exactly what you think it does. I don’t know the logistics so don’t ask thank you
During a Konni raid, Dragon!Price and the hybrid!TF141 find a victimized dragon hybrid child who barely speaks, but has a lot to tell them . Price defies protocol to bring her home, turning the mission into a fight for her rightful place— next to him.
Masterlist
a/n: Here it is! My first chapter in my first multi-chapter work. Price has always been the most complex character to me and I wanted to see him be challenged by instincts he thought were under his control. I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
7.5k - mw3 ending retcon - hurt/angst/hopeful ending - Ghost/Soap/Gaz are basically main characters
cw: accidental child injury, implied/referenced past child abuse, medical procedures
Konni remained a persistent thorn in the world's side. They had never truly faded away, and even now, more than a year after the fall of their infamous Commander Makarov, splinter cells still lurked, remnants of the once-mighty Russian PMC. With no clear leadership to guide them, Konni had devolved into disarray. Desperation drove their soldiers to turn on each other, fighting for the scraps of power they once wielded with pride. Intelligence flowed freely; the moment blood stained the ground, desperate whispers of broken Russian echoed through the chaos. Weapons trading, drug trafficking, and terrorist plots were all dismantled with alarming ease.
Taskforce 141, the most elite all-hybrid team in the history of the SAS, were the ones who’d stopped Makarov, Hassan, and countless other global threats. In a world where hybrids were often discriminated against, their existence as a cohesive unit was a rarity. They cut through enemies with ease, their diverse abilities complemented one another in perfect harmony, and worked together as a pack seamlessly, embodying the primal bond that defined their nature. With their unparalleled track record, they had earned a reputation that echoed through military circles, a symbol of order amid the chaos.
But now? These men were bored.
Missions became two or three day blips on the men’s radar. Of the six properties they’d found, three of them had been completely empty. There had been no sign that life had ever walked the halls, just bare rooms and the occasional remnants of squatters. Others were stash houses of weapons with paltry protection or data centers that were rendered useless before they got boots on the ground. Was this really what they’d been reduced to? Clearing empty warehouses on the word of desperate enemies? When would the shoe finally drop and give them something to work towards again?
Funny how, without war, soldiers fall apart.
When Laswell sat the team down, outlining the plan to clear another large property with Konni ties, John Price felt the annoyance rippling off his men.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick’s eyes drifted towards the ceiling, likely wondering if he’d get some flight time in before leaving. He carried the lean, athletic build of a red-tailed hawk, russet-brown feathers sweeping over his broad shoulders and tapering into powerful wings folded neatly against his back, while cream-speckled feathers traced the line of his throat and chest. The youngest of the team, Gaz was new enough to the team to still find some adrenaline and honor in even the smallest fight. Yet, even sitting still, he looked like a hunter enduring the agony of waiting for the wind to change.
The sergeant who had the pleasure of putting a bullet through Makarov’s head, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, was a broad-shouldered hyena hybrid with a powerful, athletic frame built for speed and brute strength. His signature dark mohawk ran between rounded ears, while short, tawny fur covered his body, with dark spots spreading across his back, shoulders, chest, and the outsides of his arms. Chomping at the bit to get back in the field, the only problem he faced was there nothing substantial for the hyena to sink his teeth into— nothing quelled the restless thirst for blood.
Even Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley’s jaw clicked in irritation. Dark, smoke-like shadows clung close to him and slipped around his boots and joints, never quite still, as though the night itself had learned to breathe with him and were equally disappointed in another mission that felt akin to paperwork. The man was a hybrid on paper, but wouldn’t confirm or deny any particular heritage for the half of him that moved through the battlefield like a shadowy storm. “Black Shuck” was whispered behind cupped hands when a recruit would dare to ask about the man, but elongated canines and blunt, black claws only cemented the illusion that he was only half tethered to the physical world.
The pack dispersed after the brief, but Price stayed behind and stepped up to where Laswell was packing away her tech. “Is this going to be another waste of time?”
Laswell glanced at him sidelong, “We won’t know until we get there, will we?”
This wasn’t the first property to boast armed defenses, and Laswell had made it clear that Konni was aware of their approach. A small platoon of soldiers lounged at the gate, their slumped postures and bored expressions betraying a lack of urgency. It felt more like a show than a real defense, as if they had cleared out anything incriminating hours before, leaving only the dregs behind for Taskforce 141 to mop up. The air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and cheap cigarettes, mingling with the faint whiff of fear that hung over the compound.
The 141 could see the soldiers shifting uneasily, glancing at each other as if to confirm their own doubts about the situation. Price could almost hear the unspoken question in their minds: Were they truly ready for a fight, or were they merely waiting for the inevitable? With the firepower and skill at their disposal, the elite team would slice through this facade with ease, leaving no room for error. The boredom of the mission gnawed at them, but they were still poised to strike, ready to dismantle what remained of Konni’s bravado, even if it felt like hunting shadows in a ghost town.
Unsettled, they cleared the building, radioing in reports of strange areas. There were medical labs with barbaric instruments, long hallways lined with kennels, and offices with destroyed hardware and burned paperwork. The strangest thing about clearing this base was the complete lack of anyone inside. No men in white coats running for their lives or Konni agents holed up for a last stand. No bodies, either. The place had been cleared in a rush before they arrived.
The strangest, and most unnerving, report came from Ghost:
Ghost: “Floor three is beds.”
Price: “Bravo 0-7, repeat your last.”
Ghost: “Third floor is a large open space with twelve beds. Nothing else. Looks recently used.”
Price: “Signs of current life, Ghost?”
Ghost: “Negative, sir. No bodies either.”
Soap: “Ye need a wee nap, cap?”
Price: “Sweep the roof, sergeant, or I’ll throw you off of it.”
Gaz: “Well that’s just poor form, captain.”
Price was about to tell Gaz exactly what form he could take when he heard a metallic clatter coming from one of the labs he'd cleared. He swung around, back to the wall, and approached the door. Silence. He shouldered the door open and eyed the room. Another medical lab, more stainless steel equipment and fixtures that made the space look pulled from the set of a horror movie. The walls were a sickly pale green, reflecting the fluorescents that flickered above.
"If anyone is in here, make yourself known— Now."
The words were low, scraping over the sound of buzzing lights. He moved purposefully, never questioning what he’d heard— someone was in here. The only question was whether it was someone they could use for intel or someone four seconds from a bullet in their head.
He moved around the head of the table when an IV in the floor caught his attention. The needle leaked whatever poison concoction had been dripping into some poor bastard. Tracking the thin line of fresh blood led him to a dented metal cabinet, small bottles on the floor as if kicked out of the cabinet in a scramble. He flicked the safety off his pistol as he watched for any sign of movement. As he got closer, a familiar but rare scent hit his nostrils and his pupils flashed into thin slits— Dragon.
His mind stuttered, as it always did when he scented a new person of his species. Dragons were rare, Price hadn't seen one in years and never in the military, but it was more than that. Draconic instincts were fragile, dependent on proper care from childhood and maintaining that standard as an adult. A lone dragon, holed up in a confined space with no hoard in sight? This could turn feral quickly.
Price slid up to the cabinet, pistol at the ready in one hand as the other slowly reached for the handle, "Last chance..."
A scalpel shot out from between the two doors, slicing Price's glove and breaking the skin underneath. The scalpel caught the light behind him, spotting his vision as the attacker continued to swipe rapidly. The movements were uncoordinated, frantically slicing through the air. Price tore open the door, grabbed the wrist, and ripped the body out of the cabinet. His claws tore through fabric like butter when he threw them to the ground, the body slid several feet across the polished laminate as he felt the tell-tale POP of a shoulder dislocating.
The figure made a sharp warbled cry and Price felt lightning strike his chest. Instinct roared through him with a feeling so primal it transcended language or rational thought. He stared down at the trembling body of a female child with undeniable draconic features.
Hatchling.
Price should have taken the shot without hesitation; this was an unknown entity with a weapon who tried to cut open his wrist. He'd done worse for less.
Protect.
His wings rose of their accord, trying to fight off the wave of ancient fire. His dragon roared, demanding he protect her from further harm by eliminating any source of her distress. By eliminating the world if need be.
Mine.
It was unbearable.
His breath came out sharply, steadying his hand as it shook with unfamiliar urges. The girl's blue scales flashed crookedly; patches of raw skin broke the fractal pattern. She had a bird's nest of jet black hair and tattered wings that were more hole than limb in places. The barrel of his gun dropped to the ground as tiny hands raised towards him in defense.
"P-please."
The voice was spider web thin, cyan irises looked up at him before squeezing shut again.
There it was, the youngling's attempt at survival was barely a whisper, but it snapped Price back to reality. The girl wasn't more than 20 kilos soaking wet and her wings were in such a state to make him queasy. He couldn't shoot her. Didn't need to, he conceded. The scent of the girl's fear filled the room even when he holstered his pistol.
This hatchling was not going to die in this hellhole— wouldn't die at all if he had any say in it.
Ghost: "Captain, clear on your end?"
Price: "No hostiles. I found a minor. Proceed to exfil."
The low hiss of the radio faded out as he grabbed her upper arm and hauled the girl to her feet. She tried to pull away with another cry, falling to the floor, before he realized her shoulder was indeed dislocated. Because of him.
"Right then, you're with me." His tone was sharp, "No funny business. I won't be chasing you through this place like a game."
His tail flicked behind him, stepping back as he watched her gain shaky footing. One clawed hand was firm against her upper back as he guided her through the hallways. She stiffened at the touch, but slowly dropped her arms, her left hand holding up the elbow of her hurt shoulder.
"How old are you, kid?" He ground out, taking stock of the bones threatening to push through her translucent skin, the puncture marks littering her arms and back, and the medical gown torn apart by his claws that was barely concealing her rail-thin torso.
She glanced up at him with eyes like a frightened rabbit. She held up her hands, five fingers spread on one hand and two on the other.
"Seven? Bloody hell, you look barely out of diapers." He looked her over with a scoff— part irritation, part disbelief. He'd already clocked the rounded short tips of her claws, "What were you being fed? Sticks and rocks?"
The thought made smoke curl from his nose, the itch for a cigar collided with the need to feed her. The girl didn’t answer, which was all the answer he needed. His free hand left his holster before he fished through one of his vest pockets and pulled out a protein bar in crushed packaging.
"Eat."
When he handed her the snack, she hesitated, but a huff of hot warning breath, and she quickly opened it with frantic dulled claws. She devoured the beef flavored ration in two bites as her eyes pricked with grateful tears.
He shoved another bar into her shaky hands, the good type with berries, stolen from Gaz's stash last week. The dragon in his chest supplied vivid images of setting every Konni officer on fire with one blast.
"You got a name besides target practice?"
She swallowed the last bite and wiped the tears from her face, but she didn't answer. Every word was a deliberate risk and her name wasn't worth it. The adults here never used it anyway.
The adrenaline from earlier was starting to wear off, leaving her exhausted and stumbling. Her feet stumbled when his radio hissed with static and another voice.
Gaz: "Exfil landed. Chopper's hot."
Price cursed under his breath— they'd be holding up the team at this rate. With an exasperated huff, Price crouched and hooked an arm under her legs, scooping her up against his side like a sack of potatoes.
The girl blinked as she was scooped up and her small hands clutched tightly to the wrappers that might still have crumbs in the corners. Too bewildered to react at first, her brain struggled to catch up with the sudden change. When they started to move faster, the adrenaline kicked back in. She tried to struggle, to protest, to do anything but let this strange man take her away from where she's supposed to be.
"Stop bloody wiggling," he snarled, "Just hold onto your food."
As they reached the open hatch of the helicopter, he climbed aboard, carefully maneuvering the young dragon hybrid balanced against him and shielded her from the intense wind of the blades. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stared with looks of apathy, shock, and concern respectively. Soap, incapable of holding his tongue, leaned forward with undisguised interest,
"Steamin’ Jesus... Thought ah dinnae hear ye right on the comms. Whit the hell-“
"Shut your snout unless you've got another protein bar to donate, MacTavish." Price growled, carefully depositing her onto one of the jump seats before he shot Soap a look that could melt steel. Gaz wordlessly handed over a half-eaten bag of trail mix while Ghost stared with eerie white lenses. Price snatched the snack and shoved it at the girl before collapsing into his own seat with a heavy sigh. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose where scales met skin. The chopper lurched into motion as Price instinctively shifted to cushion the girl from turbulence.
"Soap," His voice was a gravelly warning, "Give me your jacket."
The hyena froze mid-reach for his radio, then slowly peeled off his tactical hoodie with exaggerated caution, as if dealing with a live explosive. Price snatched it and bundled her into the oversized fabric; it consumed her, sleeves swallowed her hands when Price adjusted the hood strings to hide her face from view. She shifted against his side, and he felt the warmth radiating to her small frame. As she leaned into him, he noted the way her fragile body instinctively sought comfort in the heat he offered, a gesture that tugged at an unfamiliar protectiveness.
"Found her hiding in one of the labs. She's seven- won't give me her name."
Soap ignored the captain's warning, too curious for his own good, "She’s more bone than meat... can ye speak, lass?"
The girl tried to swallow the trail mix, but coughed when the man spoke to her. She nodded quickly, but didn't follow it up with proof of a voice.
Price saw the subtle flutter of her wings under the jacket. The sight tugged hard at his fraying restraint. He grasped for mental control, a primal need to soothe and comfort overpowered the cold leadership he typically exuded.
Gaz’s voice sliced through the thick air, “Captain, look at her. She’s shaking like a leaf. She’s terrified.”
Ghost's voice is flat and cold behind the mask, "She's got good sense to be scared after being in that shithole."
"Stop staring," Price snapped, "She's not a goddamn museum exhibit. She's going to medbay and they'll figure out what to do with her." The words were bitter ash on his tongue, his dragon flaring up at the idea of leaving her.
"Right then," Price muttered as the others pretended to look away, "Medics first and then we can figure out how she got there."
Alarm bells went off in Price's head as the girl suddenly hunched over, looking green. The color drained from her face as he reached out to steady her. His hand landed on her shoulder trying to sit her back into the seat, "Oi, kid, are you–?"
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before she was clutching her stomach and retching, a mess of half-digested food and trail mix spilling over the metal floor of the helicopter. Price yanked off his armored glove with his teeth and pressed a clawed hand to her forehead, his nostrils flaring at the scent of distress and sickness, pupils slitting in alarm.
"Bloody hell..." he swore under his breath; the growl in his voice not at her, but at whoever let this happen. He whipped his head toward Soap, "Medbag."
"I-I'm sorry– please–" The girl tried to get out, fear causing her stomach to clench again, tears springing to her eyes. She stood to take the rag from Gaz, but stumbled on shaky legs. There was a frantic air to her movements, like she was trying to avoid retribution for making a mess.
Price's reflexes were instantaneous; his tail snapped out to steady her before she could face-plant into her own sick, his free arm hooked around her midsection like a safety harness. The growl in his chest is automatic, more dragon than human as he glared at Ghost's statue form while the others helped.
"Sit. Down." His voice left no room for argument, claws flexing against the back of Soap’s borrowed shirt as he pulled her back onto the seat with a strange amount of gentleness for someone built like a brick wall. His wing curled around her violently shaking body, carefully gathering her closer. The primal part of him is seething, tail thumping against the floor like an agitated predator.
Ghost's voice cut through the chaos from behind them:
"...Should’ve started with broth."
Soap grabbed the medkit, leaving Gaz to wipe up the sick into a spare trash bag, and rummaged through the bag, searching for the electrolyte sachets,
“Ach. Easy fix,” Soap kept his tone light, shrugging off the mission that was ending with a half-dead hatchling in their mix. At least this trip had something interesting to it beyond empty walls and broken windows, “Stomach’s shrunk tae nothin’. Drink slowly or she’ll redecorate again.”
The tiny girl nodded feverishly as she’s given the pouch, sipping cautiously and stiffening every time the helicopter lurched with turbulence. It wasn't a flinch, that would be too much movement, too much risk of punishment. Instead, her body seems to shudder into a statue with every wave of fear or confusion, the scent of which was making all four men shift their weight uncomfortably.
Price's wings puffed up slightly in response, eyeing her tattered wings and how she kept them tucked in tight, her tail wrapped around her ankle in an attempt to seem smaller. He kept a wing arched over her as he glared at his team, "You're safe, kid. Calm down."
The words were as much for her as for himself. Price's entire posture went rigid when he felt the faintest brush of her temple against his arm; a hatchling nuzzling for comfort. His pupils slit, the dragon surging forward with a burn that shakes his chest. The sound makes even Ghost tense up.
"All of you—eyes front."
The captain commanded sharply through flared nostrils, smoke curled into the air. "Medic's meeting us at base," he gritted out, "Until then, nobody breathes near her. She's been through enough without a team of hybrids interrogating her."
His wing curled tighter around the hatchling, casting her in shadow as the helicopter banks sharply; not even turbulence would dare dislodge her now.
Time passed and the girl fell asleep after she curled deeper into the jacket, melting into exhaustion. Gaz spoke up in his usual pressing manner, but whispered to avoid waking the hatchling.
"Sir... what the bloody hell has gotten into you?”
"She's been through hell and then some in that compound, " Price muttered back, careful not to raise his voice above a quiet whisper, "Scared, hurt, and who the hell knows what else... and she's near death from starvation. You three telling me you would've put her down? Left her for dead?"
"Of course not, but this..." Gaz motioned at the unmoving green hoodie, "isn't exactly standard procedure. She's an unknown. For all we know, we could be carrying a loaded weapon right now. She could be wired to explode, or working for the enemy, or—"
"Don't finish that sentence if you value your fucking bollocks."
Gaz raised his hands in surrender. Soap’s eyes darted to the hybrid girl snoozing against Price's side, bundled up and looking impossibly small. His brain had trouble reconciling the image of their ruthless captain snarling like an angry father over a sleeping hybrid girl.
Price took a deep breath and shifted the girl to mold deeper into his side. His wing muffled the mechanical thunder from the chopper, but there was little he could do about the turbulence… sans opening the hatch and flying her back to base himself.
“She’s not your kid,” Ghost broke the tense silence with his deadpan observation, “She probably has a family lookin’ for her.”
“She was in a konni blacksite,” Price retorted, ignoring the accusation, “If she had people looking for her, they’re either dead or never cared to begin with. She’s coming with us. End of discussion.” His tail thumped against the floor, a warning to the other predators.
The three men exchanged looks of questions and acceptances. They’re forced to let him win this time. Soap leaned back in his seat, with a pointed exhale, hands rested atop his mohawk. Gaz stole occasional glances at the girl, icy skin peeked out when she shifted, but when Price leveled him with a look that could shatter glass, he decided to adjust his bootlaces.
The base came into view through the port, his claws pricked through the jacket to make sure she didn't slip. He found himself seeing them less as men he’d live and die for and more as predators eyeing up prey. The radio crackled to life with the pilot’s voice informing them to prepare for touchdown.
When the heavy doors opened and let in a wave of cool air, the sudden drop in temperature made Price’s leather wings ripple involuntarily. Price’s boot met tarmac first, his head on a swivel as he scented the air like a hunting dog.
Price stood, scooped the girl into his arms, and grit his teeth when she whimpered. His team trailed behind him like a flock of lost ducks, grumbling about if there’d be anything good left in the mess hall, helped him focus on what the girl in his arms needs. Med bay. Food. Nest—
Not a nest. Some caseworker would figure that out, he’d only stick around until he knew she was stable. There wasn’t another dragon hybrid on the base besides him and he wasn’t going to let some butcher make her tattered wings worse than they already were. He had a… cultural duty to help another dragon hybrid. Yes, that was it.
“She’s nae movin’,” Soap murmured to Gaz, “She slept through all of that?”
“Look at her, mate,” Gaz replied, “I’d sleep through world war three if I was stuck in that shithole for more than a week and I’d bet my ass she’s been in there a lot longer than that.”
Price looked down for the nth time to make sure the kid was still breathing. Her eyes are closed, but her lids are squeezed shut, perhaps feigning sleep. How many nights had she practiced being asleep? Hiding from some terror he didn't want to know about?
“I’m headed to med bay,” Price grunted, “Debrief at 0800. Dismissed.”
Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance before wordlessly slipping away towards the mess hall.
Ghost remained, staring at Price’s back, “You possessive of her already?”
Price paused his gait, but didn't turn around, “That a trick question, Lieutenant?”
Ghost didn't say anything, focused on the girl curled in his Captain’s arms like a stray kitten. He saw the defensive tension in Price, the protective movements of his tail and wings, the warning looks.
“No, sir.”
Price nodded sharply, grunting over his shoulder, “Alert med I’m en route with a minor victim.”
“Rog.” Ghost confirmed, already reaching for his radio to warn the docs of the angry dragon heading their way.
It took a lot to ruffle the captain’s metaphorical feathers, but they might be in for a storm.
Price forced himself to keep a steady gait, but reached medical quickly. He set her down on a cot and took a step back. Her eyes dated around frantically before squeezing shut again. A ragdoll had more resistance than the hatchling showed as the doctors assessed her; the girl wasn’t fighting, no, her protest came in the form of quiet pants through her nose and a nonstop shiver. Price ached to pull her in close and roast anyone who comes near her. He's a trained, experienced special forces soldier; he's handled bombs with more confidence than this, but the girl was so damn small, so damn fragile, and his instincts were still blazing.
Her lips thinned as the doctors cut off the hoodie. Laid out in a ripped hospital gown, the same sickly green as the lab where he found her, the extent of bruising and malnutrition was horrifying. They pulled her arm out from the sleeve, she couldn't restrain a pained gasp that made Price see red.
“Oi!” Price barked, taking a step forward, “Be careful!”
“Her shoulder is dislocated. We need to pop it back in.” The doctor explained coolly as he laid the trembling girl on her back. The doctor motioned for a nurse to hold her down.
Price grit his teeth as he stared at the swollen shoulder, grotesquely angled and hanging limply from her tiny frame. The realization crashed over him like a cold wave—this was the same arm he had yanked in an attack, mistaking her for just another threat in that hellish lab. A knot twisted in his gut, the weight of guilt pressing down on him, suffocating and relentless, as he recalled her terrified and pained cry. Had he truly become another source of pain in a life already filled with torment?
He ignored the nurse who tried to usher him out. His large frame cast a shadow over the cot as he positioned himself at the girl’s head. His hands hovered uncertainly before cupping the back of her head and the other pressed against her uninjured shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring weight.
“Bite down on this,” he said, shoving the rolled cuff of his sleeve between her teeth, and once again spotting how she followed his order immediately. His wing arched to block her view of the incoming battlefield medicine.
“Easy…” The pop of bone sliding back into the socket made his stomach churn, but a pinprick of her fangs through his sleeve is the only sign she felt a procedure even his men bemoaned. “It’s over,” he pauses, “Good job.”
He didn’t release his hold until her trembling subsided into exhausted shudders. He swept his thumb over her hairline as he pulled away, a gesture more draconic than he’d admit. The medical staff exchanged glances, but widely said nothing as they finished their work. The dirty hospital gown was exchanged for a new one, an IV was placed in a track-marked arm, and her tiny body was hooked up to machines that showed more numbers than Price could understand.
When the doctor reached for her injured wings, Price’s voice rattled the instruments on a nearby tray, “Don’t.” He would handle her wings himself; they’re too delicate for human hands, too important to risk further damage.
Soap chose that moment to lean through the doorway, slightly out of breath, but froze at the sight of his captain half-crouched over the cot. “Uh… Laswell needs to talk with you-”
“Tell her to wait.”
Price carefully examined the tattered membranes with claw tips light as snowfall. The doctor stepped back, but Soap caught his eye and jerked his head into the hallway, leaving Price and the girl alone. His touch was oddly gentle, claws glided over the patches of missing scales and places where the membrane never grew back over. In no world would this girl be able to fly without severe intervention— an ego death to any dragon. Positioned like a shield, he provided her a massive leathery curtain. His chest rumbled, unbidden and unfamiliar, but he knew it would soothe the hatchling.
“...sir?” Lucy’s wide blue eyes held his through half-lids, “W-will you stay?”
Price’s claws freeze, his eyes snapping to her. Her voice is slurred, her body succumbing to exhaustion, but she's finally looking at him, stress wrinkles from squeezing her face linger like pink welts. Her eyes are luminous— like glacial run-off reflecting moonlight. He takes her in, the dulled points of her horns peeking out, the translucent milky skin covered in scratches and pocks, the wild nest of matted raven hair that pulled with her every tremble… and his decision was made for him.
“I’ll stay.” He confirmed as his fingers resumed movement to smooth along her wing membranes in a calming gesture, “I’ll make sure you get patched up properly.” He let her lean into the touch. Her breathing slowed and soon he laid her wing tucked against her back. She curled into herself, wings tight as her knees moved up to protect her stomach; even in sleep she continued to defend herself.
“John,” Laswell stepped into the room, her posture alert and commanding, a stark contrast to the vulnerable scene before her. The air shifted as she assessed the situation, her gaze flickered between Price and the fragile girl on the cot.
“Laswell,” Price greeted, his voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of tension. He straightened slightly, maintaining a protective posture over the girl, who remained curled tightly on the cot. The weight of the moment hung in the air, and he could feel her fragile presence beside him, a stark contrast to the sharp professionalism Laswell exuded.
Yet, it was only Laswell, a seasoned intelligence handler with sharp blue eyes and a face that rarely cracked a smile, but there was an underlying respect in her demeanor that Price appreciated. Human or not, she wasn’t cruel enough to exploit his primal vulnerability.
"“Who’s our new friend?”
“No name yet. She didn’t speak— held up seven fingers for her age and otherwise it was only nodding.”
“Hm,” Laswell paused, “...Soap reported no other victims. Alive or dead.”
Price didn’t say anything, but he stepped back from her bed to look at Laswell, gesturing at the girl, "She's lucky to be the former. She wouldn’t have lasted there much longer.”
Laswell moved closer to the girl trying to get a better look, but paused when Price clears his throat. She looked at him with a sidelong glance, but didn't comment— yet.
“Where was she?”
“Alone in a lab, looked like she’d been abandoned on the table and tried to hide herself in a cabinet.”
“They just left her there? Why?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Intel suggests that particular site was experimenting on hybrids,” She said, “We could learn a great deal from her.”
Price huffed, not liking the idea of the hatchling being interrogated.
"She was left to rot in a Konni warehouse at seven years old," Price continued through gritted teeth, "And now she’s sleeping off a dislocated shoulder and gods know what else. Whatever intel you think you can wring out of her can wait until she’s stable."
His claws dug into the cot’s railing hard enough to leave shallow grooves in the metal. The unspoken threat hangs heavy between them. Try to take her, and there will be blood.
Laswell raised a brow at the sharpness of his response. She knew the captain was possessive of his pack, but this was primal— a dragon guarding its own. The sight sparked a cautious curiosity in her as she eyed him up and down.
Her eyes met his with a steely resolve. “You’ve never been sentimental before, Price,” She said evenly, eyeing the claws dug into the side of the bed, “What changed?”
The words landed like a cold shower, cutting through the protective haze in Price’s mind. It’s true. He was never prone to softness when it came to victims, more focused on securing the world at large. So why was he so damn attached? What was it about the young hybrid that made him drop protocol and carry her to medbay himself? Why did the thought of losing sight of her for a moment make fire rumble at the back of his throat?
Why did he agree to stay?
He didn't have the answer he wanted, so instead he said, “Didn’t want a hatchling dying when dragons are already so close to extinction.”
Laswell watched him, holding the silence and waiting for the full answer.
“...figure I should make sure the butchers here don’t make her worse,” he said, staring down at the tiny blue ball, “She’s a dragon without a hoard, she’s lucky she’s not dead.”
Laswell leaned against the end of the bed with her arms crossed, waiting for him to admit what exactly is going on here. When he doesn’t, she doesn’t pull her punch.
“She’s imprinted on you, hasn’t she?”
There it was. When the girl had asked him to stay, when he had agreed, it was written in stone for both of them. The urge to blanket her in his scent, to mark her as part of his hoard and under his protection, outweighed any common sense. His fangs elongated behind thin lips, refusing to admit the truth.
Laswell let the non-answer slide, accepting the unsaid confirmation, “I’ll admit… She doesn’t exactly seem like a threat.”
Price relaxed fractionally, tension still etched into his frame. It was the closest thing to approval he’s likely to get from her and frankly more than he expected. He glanced back down at Lucy, watching as the hybrid shivers fitfully.
“She needs somewhere quiet to heal without being a target,” his gaze was unflinching when he looked back up at Laswell, “I want her with me.”
He was well aware that Laswell could deny him; there was intel to follow up on and any information Lucy provided would certainly lead to more warehouses and possible victims. She could stick Lucy in CIA custody, treat her like any other witness, and drop her into the foster system once they’re done. That wasn’t good enough— not by miles for what this girl has gone through. She had imprinted on him so quickly, so desperate for a connection to the parts of her she didn’t understand.
“...and how do you plan to care for her? She needs more than a few blankets and rations.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Laswell studied him for a long moment, taking in the dragon’s tail lashing against the floor in barely suppressed warning. Eventually she sighed, shaking her head at the ground in the way she always does when the hybrid card is pulled.
“Sleep on it, John. What you’re suggesting is more than a few nights in the hospital. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
Price waited until her footsteps fade down the hallway before he exhaled sharply, tension bleeding out of his form. He was not used to feeling out of his depth, but he couldn't deny this situation had him rattled. A young dragon hybrid with no hoard, no family, and not a chance in hell on her own. But what kind of chance could he give her?
He was jolted from his thoughts when he heard a soft knock against the doorframe. He didn't register who it was, snapping towards the threat with a snarl; his pupils slit as he primes for a fight. The fire died out when he saw his sergeant. Gaz stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender. His voice was soft as he addressed his feral captain,
“Easy, cap. I come in peace. I just wanted to see how the girl is doing.”
“She’s sleeping,” Price said, his voice low and tense. “Dislocated shoulder, bruising, malnutrition.”
Gaz stepped closer, coming to stand beside the bed with a look as soft as his feathers. Her body was curled in on itself, every muscle tensed like she’s anticipating a blow. He recognized the signs of living in survival mode for so long she doesn’t know how to relax.
“Poor thing… she’s been through hell.”
“Hell would’ve been a mercy.”
Price’s clawed hand twitched towards the girl, stopping just short of touching her. His fingers curled into a frustrated fist before dropping back to his side.
“I’m not letting command turn her into a lab rat to squeeze information out of her.”
The hawk nodded in understanding— they all saw what happened to hybrids when someone gets too curious. He hesitated, his feathers shifting as he formed his next words, “Where’s she gonna stay? Your life isn’t exactly…” He trailed off, glancing at the unconscious girl’s battered wings and gaunt frame, “...built for a child.”
Price’s face darkened as he registered the truth in the words.
“Aye, I’m aware, but it’s not like anyone else will give a fuck about her well-being.”
“Poor thing’s wings are in a real state,” Gaz murmured, his feathers ruffled at the sight of her tattered wings, “She’s gonna struggle to fly if they’ve healed like that.”
“Then we’ll get her proper rehab, specialist care if needed,” Price growled, more promise than statement, “Assuming you lot can keep your mouths shut. I’m not going to explain myself over and over.”
Gaz snorted, while his lips twitched into a half grin, “You worried we’ll go gossiping about your soft side?”
Price bared his teeth, but there’s less hostility in it— more of a showy reflex. His pack wouldn't spread rumors, but that didn't mean they would blindly accept this commitment he’d made. He turned back to Lucy, taking a seat in the hard hospital chair beside her bed, Gaz dragged another chair up to sit next to him. There was a long silence between them, filled with labored breathing and quiet beeping.
“You really gonna keep her, cap?” Gaz leaned forward, “I know dragon instincts are strong around hatchlings, and I’d follow you to hell and back, but… you don’t even have a nest set up for her.”
Price's jaw clenched at Gaz's words, his claws flexing unconsciously. The truth of it stings - he hadn't thought this through. Not really. All he knew is that the moment Lucy had looked up at him desperate for him to help her, something primal in him had roared mine.
“I’ll figure it out,” He replied, “Clean out the closet, put some bed rolls down.” It’s a pathetic excuse for a nest and they both know it. Hatchlings need warmth, security, and tactile stimulation to thrive.
Gaz studied his captain, the leader of his unit, the alpha of their pack, and nodded decisively. He pushed himself up from his knees with a sigh, “I’ll raid the quartermaster for extra pillows and blankets. We can buy more on our next supply run.” He turned towards the door before tossing over his shoulder, “Soap started clearing out your closet an hour ago.”
Price exhaled the tension through his nose as the hawk disappeared. His hand drifted up towards the girl, sliding it under her tiny fist. His throat hollowed when she relaxed her fist to wrap around his fingers, holding tightly to the warmth she claimed with a simple question.
Gaz’s words lingered in his head, processing his team’s unexpected support and assistance. The reassurance of their agreement stirred up a new type of loyalty he hadn’t felt towards the men before. He might not understand how he’ll navigate this endeavor, he would likely bollocks it up within the week, but the other hybrids knew this isn’t a decision he had much choice in if he wanted to keep his sanity.
The girl whimpered and squeezed his hand. He slowly turned his palm up, encasing her hand within his. When she let out a soft sigh of relief, his draconic heart roared in satisfaction, fully vowing that she is his hatchling to nurture and guard.
Soap appeared in the doorway again, mohawk clean from a shower and ears laid back against his skull. Price's wings blocked the hatchling from view. The captain was a loaded gun of instinct and the sergeant wasn't keen on being roasted alive. He moved forward slowly, telegraphing his movements to Price before dropping a shirt, shorts, and a jacket onto the bed. It was standard military issue items meant for bulky soldiers, but leagues better than a hospital gown.
“Christ…” He muttered, peeking over the wings to look at the child, his tail swishing curiously, “Lass looks like she got chewed up and spat out by war itself.”
Gaz returned, clutching a thermal blanket designed for avian hybrids that, judging by how fast he shoved it at Price while glancing towards the door, he absolutely did not properly requisition.
Ghost materialized last, coalescing like smoke with a file folder under his arm. He took in his captain and their new project, face unreadable behind the mask, but his shadows are kept tight around his ankles. He tapped Price’s shoulder with the folder, guardianship papers for Price to fill out. Price glanced down at them, the very first line asks for the child’s name… and he doesn’t have it.
As the pile of supplies grew, Price’s gaze swept across it. It was a far cry from a real hoard, but those items were now hers. He set the thermal blanket over her shoulder, barely stopping himself from running a hand over her cheek. Vulnerability pricked at the back of his neck when he felt the pack’s eyes on him. They had seen him at his worst and his best, they would never hold this against him. All of them had times where their hybrid nature takes precedence— occasionally at the worst possible time.
But this wasn’t the same as a sudden itch for blood or having trouble preening feathers. This was introducing a child into the fold, adding a dependent pack member on the basis of a dragon’s instinct. Why the hell was he letting her take precedence over all rational thought? It was a terrible idea by all accounts. He didn’t know how to raise a kid and she needed the best parenting possible. He had a dangerous job, he’d be gone, hell, he hadn't even talked to a child in recent memory.
Why the bloody hell did I agree to stay?
...because she'd asked and the thought of rejecting her imprintation made his body recoil like he’d been shot.
The room stilled when the girl shifted in her sleep, all four men snapping their gazes to her whimper. She pulled Price’s fingers closer in her sleep, seeking the warmth of someone who stayed. Her torn wing fluttered weakly under the blanket, like a fledgling testing its strength for the first time.
A makeshift nest, a half-dead hatchling claimed by a battle-hardened dragon, and a special forces hybrid pack suddenly playing den mother.
Price’s fingers ran absently across the torn wing membrane, soothing the girl's unconscious agitation with familiar, instinctual movements. She was flipping him on his head. "We've got ya, kid."
ao3: sleepysoapy
Next Chapter
Thanks for reading! I cherish every single like, reblog, and comment. <3
contains: a little more of this + a little more of that, post-war setting, world-building, children ocs playing primary roles, bird of prey!reader (goshawk quirk), ua teacher!reader, uncle tokoyami mention, domestic life, still ooc hawks bc mars can’t write
word count: 2.3k
“happiness is those who sing with you”
A glance out the large penthouse-style window shows a familiar small child dropping at an alarming rate, followed by a dark figure. You furrow your brows, sighing as you rise from the couch to examine the scene. Worry stirs in the pit of your stomach.
Your son Yusuke, hardly 5 years old, had recently developed his quirk, a carbon copy of your own. Each day that passes grants a darker shade of gray to his fluffy down feathers, creating an abstract display even Picasso would envy. However, he wasn’t exactly getting the concept of flight, no matter how much intervention you offered. In an attempt to change things up, Keigo’s former intern Fumikage is taking his age-old approach: tossing Yusuke off the roof of your flat.
“He’ll get it soon, honey,” your husband reassures, wandering to stand beside you. “Maybe Fumi’s what he needs to, y’know… spread his wings?”
“I know, you’re right,” you concede, turning away from the window just as Dark Shadow speeds upwards with Yusuke.
The door swings open, revealing your daughter Towa. She drops her school bag by the door, kicking off her shoes. “Oh, you’re home. Hi mom, hi, dad,” she greets.
“Hey, honey,” you reply, turning away from the window. “How was your day?”
She toes on her slippers. “It was good! I got to train my quirk!” That makes you smile, as does Keigo.
“That’s great,” Keigo agrees, ruffling her hair as she walks over.
She stands between yourself and her father, resting her head on his side. “Is Yusuke flying?” She inquires, looking up at the two of you.
You shake your head. “Not yet, hun. Uncle Fumi’s tossing him around right now to try and get wind under his wings. Like we did to you,” you muse, reaching over to tap her nose.
She grins. “Momma, will you take me flying this weekend?” Towa requests bashfully after a moment.
“Of course. I’ll take you to U.A., maybe we’ll see someone we know.”
She chirps with excitement, running off to her room. Your eyes return to the window, watching Yusuke plummet once more. “Kei, can you go grocery shopping on Saturday?”
“Mmh… nah,” he declines, wearing that stupidly attractive smirk. “I’ve got plans.”
“Oh, really? Are you going on a date with your other girlfriend?”
“Mhm. I’m taking her to that nice new place. That one you were talking about,” he baits expertly, but you’ve learned not to bite.
“Right, right. Well, make sure that—after your date, of course—you do some errands,” you play along, bumping his hip. He slings an arm around your shoulder.
“I get off work at noon. I’ll swing by to get Yusuke so you can take Towa to work,” he informs, watching another close call from Dark Shadow and Fumikage. “Y’know, I don’t think he’s getting it today,” he decides finally.
“Yeah, nope. Let’s go.”
-
A very long half-week passes with the speed of a snail and the grace of a bumbling giraffe. Wednesday to Friday has never felt so long. Your hot-headed students were giving you more trouble than usual, absolutely wrecking the soft-spoken heroes-in-training. Recovery Girl, ever the savior, has had her work cut out for her from your class alone. Safe to say, negative progress was made.
Walking through your door Friday evening with Yusuke attached to your side allows you to unclench—both literally and figuratively. “How was school today, Yu?” you inquire, taking off your shoes for a little relief. He plops down, sloppily untying his sneakers.
“It was good! I drew a story!” He bursts, abandoning his task to open his backpack, fishing for a crinkled paper. A cute family portrait drawn in crayon, depicting yourself, Keigo, Towa, and Yusuke, alongside “Unkle Fumi.” He hands it over to you, eagerly awaiting praise. Yusuke fiddles with his thick laces.
You crouch beside your son, placing a kiss on his head. “I love it. I’ll go put this on the fridge.” He grins, watching as you venture towards the kitchen, fixing the picture on the steel refrigerator with a worn Star and Stripe magnet. Yusuke wanders up beside you, holding your hand.
“Honey,” you say gently. He tilts his head. “Finish taking your shoes off.”
Yusuke smiles bashfully, returning to the divot in the doorway to put on slippers.
The door swings open, smacking Yusuke with a hollow sound. “Hi, Mom!” Towa calls, stepping in. “Oops, hi, Yusuke.” He doesn’t respond, seemingly unbothered. “I went to the park after school and played with my friends,” she begins, changing her shoes and walking through the apartment. Towa recounts her day casually, eventually seating herself at the dinner table. She provides an entertaining podcast as you start on dinner.
Towa and Yusuke’s chatter, plus the TV and sizzle of the stove, covered the opening of the door. Keigo’s presence goes unknown until his arms snake around your waist, placing a soft kiss on your jaw.
“Hey, feathers,” he croons.
“Hello, Keigo,” you respond. Your lips tug upwards. “How was work?” You ask, not taking your eyes from the stir-fry.
“Stressful. Busy. Don’t care,” he brushes the question off, tilting to meet your eyes. “I missed you.”
You let out an amused puff, hip checking him to get some space. “I know. Yusuke has something to show you, and Towa has yet to tell you about her day, so why don’t you go attend to the kids?” You suggest, but there’s not really an option.
“Oh, you wound me, peep!” He whines, stepping back. “My wife doesn’t want my affection.”
“That’s exactly right,” you muse, flipping the veggies.
Dinner is a smooth event, thankfully, as is bedtime. With the shower wide open, you take your sweet old time washing off. Keigo wanted to join you, but that request was veto’d for the night. You lounge about on the couch, dealing with your hair and waiting for your husband. He emerges with only a towel around his waist, unruly blond tufts stuck to his forehead and nape. Once he’s in range, he shakes the hanging water dropletsmuch like a dog would.
“Stop that!” you yelp, shielding yourself with your wings.
He plops down beside you. “You’re too hot, I have to cool you down,” Keigo jokes.
“Corny.”
“You love it.”
“… Whatever.” Keigo chuckles. He preens your opening wings, plucking loose feathers as you channel surf. “Is the interview on tonight?” You inquire, fluttering your wings to rid of the odd tickling sensation brought on by his grooming. He’s insisted that you’ll get used to it, but you never have.
“Yeah, it should be on in a few minutes. Are we watching? He asks, lifting his hips to remove his towel, using it to dry his hair.
You nod, letting your eyes drift from the screen to his face, and-
“Keigo! Go put some pants on!” You demand, shielding yourself again despite near a decade and two kids. “Public indecency is illegal!”
“I’m in my own home!” He laughs, rising to fetch a pair of pajama pants.
You can’t help but to laugh to yourself, flipping to the channel of Izuku, Shoto, and Katsuki’s group interview.
The studio is rather sterile. White and empty with the exception of a bizarre red rug, an ivory couch, and a green plant far in the back.
“Ah, how sweet are they?” Keigo coos, reuniting with the couch. “Still messing with each other after all these years. Izuku’s finally got some backbone, though.”
You only hum, attributing that to teaching. He continues to brush through your feathers, occasionally glancing up at the hero trio on your cable.
You fall asleep in that position, on the couch with your favorite person.
-
You got a late start the next morning. Yusuke slept until 9, thank everything. Towa made herself cereal quietly, as not to wake anybody. She’s always been an early bird. Keigo was out early, important business at the Commission; his spot was still warm when you woke, the gentle kiss on his lips a welcome disturbance. Noontime creeps up quickly, though, and it’s time for you to take Towa flying.
-
You wield your badge, stepping into the fortified school walls marked by towering twin buildings. “Alright, Towa,” You start, “We’ll head to Ground Beta. That’s the one with all the buildings.”
“Cool!” She chirps, fiddling with her fluffy locks. A few dorm-dwelling students are spotted out and about, enjoying their weekend. They wave as they pass by, thrilled by the sight of Towa.
-
Meanwhile, Keigo totes his abundantly shy son through the bustling market of Musutafu, not bothering to conceal either’s identity.
“Alright, buddy, we gotta get groceries, cash a check, drop off your library book, and hit the pharmacy. Maybe we’ll get you a snack at the Family Mart, yeah?” He drones, allowing Yusuke to stick to his side.
A squeal sounds from behind the two. A very young lady, only a bit older than Towa, points at Keigo.
“Mom, it’s Hawks!” she shouts, and is promptly dragged away by an embarrassed parent. Before she turns away, he gives a polite wave with his free hand.
“Been a while since I’ve been called that,” he comments, laughing to himself.
Yusuke looks up at his dad. “Daddy, who’s Hawks?” he asks wholeheartedly.
“Who’s Hawks?” Keigo echoes. “I was Hawks back in the day, kid. That was my hero name. Did I not tell you that?”
Your duplicate shakes his head with a mumbled ‘no.’
“Oh. Well, your old man used to be a hero, and a pretty good one if I say so myself. So was your mom, but she was kinda underground,” he explains, making way for the boy in the crowd. Keigo stares down at his phone, attempting to locate his shopping list.
“Alright kiddo, let’s start shopping.”
The pair turns into a grocery store, grabbing a basket.
“Stay close, okay?”
Keigo takes them into the produce aisle, looking for… peppers, he thinks. He kneels down with a voluminous red pepper. “How’s this one look, mini-hawk?”
“Oh, Hawks!” A cheerful voice calls, making both birds turn. There stands Taishiro Toyomitsu, better known as Fat Gum, pushing a cart completely void of greens. “Hey man! Hey, little guy,” he greets. Yusuke waves and flits his wings, but otherwise stays quiet.
“Toyomitsu! What’s up?” Keigo grins, rising to his feet. “You look good, man, super muscular. Where are the fat reserves?” He comments casually.
“Building them back up right now,” Toyomitsu replies, gesturing to the carbohydrates and candies in his trolley. “Well, seems you’re very busy. Catch you later.”
A little smile stays on his face, long after the hero is gone. “My old friend,” he informs Yusuke.
-
The city provides a perfect backdrop as you cut through the sky with Towa. She giggles, feeling the wind ruffle through her hair.
“Dive between the buildings!” You instruct, shadowing her for safety.
She tucks her wings, practicing plummet before extending again, riding low. A falter has her rolling like a car tire, and you’re right beside her.
“You okay?” You inquire, inspecting for injury, but she’s alright. You check the time, seeing that it’s creeping up on 5. “Oh, we gotta get going,” You say, tapping her shoulder and helping her up. Thanks to the walkability of Musutafu, your journey home is relatively short. On the way, you pass by a 7-11, and Towa lights up. “Mom, can we get snacks? Please?”
You sigh. “Your father is getting groceries, and we’re gonna eat when we get home.”
She doesn’t take no for an answer.
Here you are, walking towards the corner store despite your pushback. A large crowd surrounds the entrance, seemingly filling the small shop.
“What in the world..?” You murmur. The sea of people chatters excitingly, the shudder of cameras accompanying the buzz. Towa pulls ahead, ever curious (and nosy). In front of all the citizens is-
Keigo?!
A gaggle of familiar heroes surrounds young Yusuke, leading to many people snapping flicks.
“Awh, he got so big!” One hero, unmistakably Ochaco, says.
“Yeah, he looks just like his mom,” Keigo comments, holding the child against his chest. Your still-not-subtle-husband announces your presence as soon as he spots you(or senses you, rather). “Speaking of! Hello, mother of my children, love of my life,” he fans, pulling you into a kiss for the cameras. He hasn’t been so dazzling to the masses in… well, as long as you’ve been married.
“Uh, hi,” you murmur after pulling away, clearly dazed, What’s going on?” You question.
He picks up the grocery backs he had accumulated, putting on a shocked face. You’re confused, to say the least.
“Oh, we gotta go?” He pretends to echo. “Alright then. Sorry guys, see you later,” he bids goodbye and weaves through the throng, expecting you to follow.
“What? Mom, I wanted a snack-“
“Let’s go, Towa.”
-
“So, what was that?” You interrogate your husband as the four of you walk home.
“Lots of people out today. I didn’t think that, seeing as I’m not a pro anymore, I’d still get such a crowd reaction,” he sighs. “Had to get out of there.”
You hum, understanding his plight.
“Also, Yusuke really didn’t like the pros. Did’ja, bud?” He looks down at the kid in his arms. Yusuke shakes his head, keeping his face buried in his father’s jacket.
“Awh. Well, at least you know you’ve still got it, Kei,” you tease.
“What am I, 50? Easy on that lingo,” he knits his thick brows. You allow yourself to laugh, and peck his cheek. Towa makes a noise of discontent. “Hush, Towa,” he chides, gently pushing her face.
A moment of comfortable silence passes.
“On a separate note, I didn’t get to cash that check. Or go to the pharmacy. Oh, and I didn’t get everything on the shopping list,” he admits.
“Keigo, are you kidding!”
a/n
hello hello! i had a lot of fun writing this, and i’m starting to love hawks as a character. he wasn’t nearly my favorite back in the day. imagine what would happen if i wrote a character i knew well…
