They’ve never been this close before. Maybe it should feel strange, but it doesn’t. It feels almost...normal. Like this is exactly where Izuku is meant to be when he’s unraveling; right here, in Katsuki’s arms where he can shield him, protect him, and carry a little of the hurt.
was inspired by @passion-green-tea beautiful art of izuku crashing out and wrote this 🤍 go check out all her incredible art! the specific piece i wrote this from is my last reblog!
i havent written anything in so long but i love this story. i'm feeling sad at the moment and i wanted to share this with you guys or with anyone that was following this little story. i'm not sure if anyone is still reading this but i was feeling sentimental and found my old halfway written draft for part 3. here's a sneak peek if anyone was wanting a little more/if anyone that read the fic is still active BAH anyways, here's my unedited word vomit. (someone force me to write this/ask me questions if you wanna know more/i'm feeling nostalgic)
He was watching you again. It’d been that way for months—you could always find his eyes in every crowded room. His gaze was always intense and unyielding, as if he were trying to get inside your mind. The intensity of it unsettled you; it always did, and so you tried to avoid him at all costs.
You shifted, resting the glass on the counter for a second as you turned to face the children. You just needed a breath. But you could still feel him, causing you to cross your arms protectively over your chest.
It was odd how much space he took up in your mind, and you wondered if it were the same for him. You don’t get it though. He was the one to push you away that night. He told you he couldn’t be intimate with you, so you put space between the two of you all these months, and yet . . . his eyes still always found you.
It was annoying. Agonizing. Alluring . . .
No one had ever looked at you like that. It felt weird.
“Your hair’s different today,” he said suddenly, his voice low as he approached where you stood by the sink.
The statement caught you off guard, and you blinked one, two, three times. “What?”
“You’ve braided your hair,” he clarified, his eyes trailing to the loose, slightly messy braids draped over your shoulders.
Your hand instinctively rose to the braids, fingers brushing over them. You’d almost forgotten. Death. But you knew he wasn’t real. Sometimes you thought he was but you knew you knew you knew just as you knew the world was fucked. You knew he wasn’t real. Had you braided your own hair and forgotten?
You swallowed hard. Time seemed to be getting away from you again.
The weight of his gaze was almost tangible, and you turned your eyes away, unwilling to meet the look that made the room feel smaller. Could he tell what you were thinking? Did he know? “Oh,” you replied, your voice soft, dismissive.
A moment of silence. Maybe two. Or . . . had he spoken and you hadn’t heard him? Had he finally realized you didn’t belong here? Did he know about Death? The doll hidden under your pillow? Did he think you’d bring harm to them? To Misun? Because . . . you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You’d tear the meat from your hands with your teeth before you ever let your claws sink into her. You’d destroy yourself before you touched her or any of those kids or any of these people who—
Did he know that? Was that worse? Was to be cared for by you a fate worse than death? How did he know? How did—
“Do you miss it?”
Your heart stalled. You glanced at Chris, finding his eyes on a scene before the two of you, but you didn’t follow his gaze, because . . . how did he know? Those weren’t his words. Death. Death had—
"Do you miss it?" Death asked suddenly.
"Miss what?" you mumbled, lifting your chin to meet his eyes.
"Life."
Death had held you in his arms, cradled you like a newborn babe, and questioned if you missed living. And you had lied to him.
Had Chris heard? Fuck, but that would be crazy. That would be—
“What did you say?” you spat out as you frowned, your eyes narrowing slightly.
He looked at you then, taking note of your expression and hesitated, as if deciding whether to press on. “Being a kid,” he reiterated, his voice barely more than a murmur as he gestured toward the kids coloring on one of the tables . . . right where you left them. “Do you . . . miss it?”
Oh.
He didn’t know Death. Death wasn’t real. Just a figment of your imagination, just the way you wanted Him to be. Chris was just . . . a leader checking on his people. You supposed you were his people now, but you knew not to get too comfortable. Perhaps his words were just to keep you in check; the same way you’d muzzle a violent dog.
But he didn’t need to know that you missed being an ignorant kid. He didn’t need to know that it had never been a coloring book in your hand at that age unless it was a religious one given out during Sunday School. He didn’t need to know that the Bible was the only book you’d been allowed to read for years. He didn’t need to know that sometimes, just sometimes, you thought maybe the way the world was now was better than the days spent ridiculed in your town.
So instead of giving him anything; instead of letting him know the inner workings of your mind like you had done that night months ago, you didn’t even glance in the direction of the kids. “No,” you replied coldly, almost too quickly, shaking your head as if to push the question aside.
Chris only nodded, though he seemed unconvinced, his mouth pressing into a thin line. A moment passed, then he swung his pack off his shoulder, rummaging through it. You watched out of the corner of your eye as you pretended to grab the glass from the counter and top it off with water from the sink.
You blinked, and then he was pulling something out of the bag. He tapped his finger against it before he cleared his throat and held out a small plastic container toward you. Glancing between the container and his face, you gave him a look of confusion. He gestured for you to take it, and you sighed, turning off the tap before you put down the glass of water for Misun, again, and snatched the container from his grasp, his fingers brushing against yours as you took it.
“Found that on the run for you,” he said, swinging his bag over his shoulder again before shrugging. “Thought maybe you could show the kids how to use it.”
You glanced down at the yellowed, slightly cracked container. Inside, you could see a small collection of white rectangles, different black words printed onto them in faded letters. Your brows furrowed as you turned it over in your hands. “What are these?”
“Fridge magnets,” he said, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he flattened the curls of his hair. His voice held a faint amusement that was rare, given the two of you had barely talked in the months you’d joined them. It was odd, liked a warmth that almost made you remember that night with him. “What? Never seen ’em before?”
Your town didn’t have stuff like this. Or if it did, your mother hadn’t let you know of it.
So, you shook your head at his question, still turning the box over, unsure if this was a joke or if he genuinely thought it was something useful. “No.”
His brows raised in shock before he kicked into action. “They’re just words,” he explained, reaching over and pulling a few out of the box to press them against the metal fridge beside you. They clung there, jumbled together before he arranged them with a small, almost childlike smile. “You stick them to the fridge to make a sentence or something funny . . . I guess.” He stepped back, his fingers leaving behind a small phrase as he let you examine it. “Like—that.”
You stared at the words, taking in the strange sentence, then blinked at it: I love ocean.
“I love ocean?” you deadpanned.
His mouth quirked at the corners, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “There’s not many options.”
Squeezing the container in your hand, you picked the magnets off the fridge and locked them away. “OK,” you muttered, voice void of emotion as you shoved the container in a pocket of your cargo pants. “Thanks . . . I guess.”
For a moment, you expected him to let the conversation drop, as you grabbed the glass of water and attempted to step away But instead, Chris reached out, fingers barely grazing your arm. “Wait, actually,” he began, but paused when he noticed your eyes go to where he touched you. He quickly retracted his hand, something shifting in his eyes, his mouth pressing into a more serious line as he cleared his throat. “I had something else I wanted to talk to you about.” His voice dropped lower, quieter as he took a step toward you so no one else could hear his words.
Your guard rose, feeling the gravity in his voice. He let out a heavy sigh, looking away for a second as if gathering his thoughts, a hesitation that was rare in him. “Seungmin got hurt on this last run,” he said, and instantly you knew what he wanted from you.
An uneasy tightness coiled in your chest at the realization. You forced your expression to remain neutral, giving nothing away.
Chris shifted his stance, meeting your harsh gaze once again. “I know you said you didn’t want anything to do with the outside, but . . . ”
You watched him, your voice cold. “You want me to join you guys?”
“Yes,” he said simply, his voice unwavering.
A bitter laugh slipped from you, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “What did you guys do before I got here?” you challenged, shaking your head at him. “If I wasn’t here and he got hurt, who would you turn to then? You don’t need me.”
His expression softened, the edge fading into something gentler, as though he were peeling back a layer he usually kept hidden. “I know you’re afraid.”
You tensed, the words slicing deep, igniting a wildfire. “I’m not afraid,” you snapped, the words a defensive barrier. “Of anything . . . OK?”
Chris’s jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, his voice low and controlled. “Hiding in your room won’t make the world go back to the way it was.”
The accusation hit hard, stirring something restless within you. “You think I don’t know that?” The words came out harsh, spiked with defensiveness. How could he? He saw you when you first arrived. They all had. “You don’t get to tell me how the world is, not when you’ve been huddled up here for years. Safe. Fucking safe from—”
“Safe from the outside,” he interrupted firmly, his tone unyielding, like a slap in the face. He held your gaze, his eyes steady, almost ad if he were challenging you. “Just like you are now. You chose to be here too, remember? I let you leave. I didn’t go after you. I respected that.”
You scoffed, the bitterness slipping through as you looked away. “Respect . . . ” you muttered, each syllable thick with resentment. “If you respected me . . . then you would’ve let me go on my own terms. I wanted to die that night, and you—”
“Foiled your plans,” he finished, eyes nearly as cold as yours. “Yeah, I know. And yet you’re still here, yeah? Eating our food, sleeping in one of our beds, showering in our bathroom. Doesn’t seem too shabby when you put it like that, right? Or do you still wish I left you in those fucking woods?” His face hardened, frustration clear as he shook his head. “Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean you’re incapable of acting like an ungrateful child.”
Like a slap from your mother, his words stung, cutting through your defenses and making your fists clench. “Is this you threatening me? Go on the run or get out?”
He held your gaze. Your words consumed you two, hanging over your heads. You didn’t back down. You waited; waited for him to snap.
And waited.
But nothing happened.
Chris only closed his eyes, letting out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to clear away the tension. “Not everyone is out to get you,” he said, his voice laced with exhaustion. “Fuck. Just . . . ” He took a deep breath, his tone softening. “I didn’t ask you on the run because you have to pull your weight. I want you on that run because you’re smart.”
There was an urgency in his words now, an intensity in his gaze that felt like a lifeline. “A lot of us . . . we’re too worried about the details instead of the bigger picture. Min got hurt because he stayed back to hold the door open for all of us. He could’ve made it through, and we would’ve found another way out, or he would’ve gotten back to the bunker with most of the supplies in one piece. Instead, he stayed back and made sure we all made it out, and he got hurt because of it.”
He took another step toward you, his voice steady as he searched your eyes. “We would’ve found another way out, and he wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he had put his safety first. We need . . . I need people on my team who won’t be afraid to make the hard decision. I need someone who will think more with their head for the greater good, for this bunker. Otherwise, one day, that might cost us . . . everything.” His eyes panned to where the kids giggled over their new colored pencils.
You stared at him, the weight of his words settling over you like a cold, suffocating hand around your throat. There was a flicker of something—anger, perhaps, or maybe just a bruised kind of understanding—in the way you held his gaze.
“So you want me on your team because I’d leave you all behind to survive?” Your voice was laced with a hard edge, barely more than a whisper, similar to a hiss.
Chris exhaled, rubbing a hand over his chin, visibly torn. “You really know how to twist my words.”
“I didn’t twist anything,” you replied, your voice unyielding, bitter. “You said Seungmin got hurt because he cared enough to stay back for the rest of you, and you—“ you scoffed— “you need someone who’d save themselves.”
His eyes narrowed, frustration and something else—something raw and almost pleading—flickered across his face. “I need someone who thinks with their head, not their heart,” he pressed, each word slower, as if he were trying to reach through the iron walls you’d caged yourself in. “I need someone who knows that getting out alive with supplies for this place—to keep this place running—is more important than saving a friend. I need someone smart. I need someone who won’t hesitate. I need you.”
The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. He let the words hang there, each one heavy with meaning. You looked away, jaw clenched tight, as if that could stave off the small, unrelenting ache his words had stirred.
After a moment, he took a step back, his voice a bit quieter. “We leave tomorrow at dawn. Meet us by the hatch . . . if you believe me.” He turned, but before he moved, he paused, eyes on the ground. Then, quietly, almost too quietly to be heard by even you, he called whispered your name like a prayer, and the sound of it felt strangely intimate in the near darkness of the bunker.
Brows twitching, you glanced up just in time to see his eyes—soft . . . like he’d sworn your skin was. And then, he spoke, and it was like you could still feel his skin against yours. “I think you feel more than any of us,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “That’s how I know you’d make the right decision.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving you alone with the quiet giggles of the children of the bunker. But it felt almost too quiet in your mind, like his words had left a deafening silence ringing in your ears for only you to endure.
Snippet from Savior Complex chapter 27 (Supernatural/The Walking Dead crossover) with absolutely no context:
Carl leaned forward, a sudden eagerness rushing through him. “This is just like the Dolly Parton thing, isn’t it?”
Rick’s eyes went wide as he shot Carl a look of utmost betrayal.
“The what?” Michonne asked, clearly expecting a good story.
“Dad almost arrested her one time,” Carl explained, not even trying to hide his grin. “He felt really bad about it afterward.”
Everyone looked at Rick. Even Claire stopped pretending the window was fascinating.
“I wasn’t gonna arrest her,” Rick protested weakly, sounding just like he always did whenever this particular incident came up. At Michonne’s look, he doubled down. “I wasn’t! All I did was give her a ticket. Just a speeding ticket!” He gestured with his bandaged hand. “She had this – this white Cadillac with gold trim… I figured it was some hotshot from Atlanta. How was I supposed to know Dolly Parton was in town?”
“Renovating the local hospital’s oncology ward,” Carl supplied, choking back a laugh at his father’s groan of despair. “The children’s hospital,” he added with outright glee.
“How fast was she going?” Enid wondered, her anger apparently on pause.
“Sixty,” Rick admitted after a short pause. “...In a fifty-five.”
Michonne’s voice was shot with disbelief. “But you still gave her a ticket?”
“She insisted!”
“She even thanked him at the reopening ceremony,” Carl added with a broad grin. “Called him Officer Handsome and everything. Everybody in town ran with it for months. Even my teachers kept asking if Officer Handsome was coming around to pick me up from school.”
Rick groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Appreciate you dragging that back up, son. Really do.”
Carl smirked, feeling quite proud indeed.
Knowing Castiel never got these kinds of references, Enid tried her best to explain, her attitude already losing some of its edge. “They’re talking about this famous country singer. I’m pretty sure she did a lot of charity work–”
“Heaven is well aware of Dolly Parton,” Castiel said gravely.
Rick looked up in alarm.
That did it. Michonne completely lost it.
“Walker. Walker!” Rick warned, gesturing sharply toward the road.
Michonne swerved around it without effort. “Were you sweet on Dolly, Officer Handsome?” she teased once she finally stopped laughing, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “Please, not you too.”
“Guess I’m going to be on the lookout for a really good push-up bra.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
it is done
My not-quite-mega project (it’s around the length of a troublerouser chapter!), which I’ve been working on since tuuuuesday? Basically, it’s (most of) the party thinking about home, and all the sadness that brings.
This was actually a response to a prompt sent by @nedryn-laughs, but got a little bit off course because i was swamped by feelings. I love these kids.
hey noa! I was just reading savior complex and oh my god??? I’m a inlove????
this part especially
” Still: "Little bird," you whispered.
Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."
"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.
You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.
"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore." “
I legit almost cried 🥲🥲 you portrayed everything SO well through your writing, I felt like I was actually in the setting myself waaaa
I’m sosososo excited for the other parts. Thank you so much for sharing it!! ❤️
ahhh thank you so much :,)) I'm in such a little writer's block rn (or is it being too busy?? i can't tell anymore hehe) but this truly is so nice to hear!! you've inspired me to sit down and write more of the next chapter, so thank YOU! no felix in ch2 but i can't wait to see what you think of reader and chan <3333
