#keeb writes

[qibilette]

d8 my dude

Sunny blinked awake to the now-familiar sound of crashing waves. She drew her wings closer to herself, trying to draw some warmth out of the cool stone room as consciousness came back to her. It was the middle of the night, but not everyone was asleep - she recognized Clay’s bulky form laid by the window, staring out at the midnight sea. 

He turned suddenly when she stood up. 

“It’s me,” Sunny whispered. She walked towards him and sat down at his side, tucking her legs under her. Clay greeted her with a relieved nod and laid his wing over her back. The weight was comforting.

“Why are you up?” She asked softly. Glory and Starflight were still asleep; it’d be best not to wake them.

“I had a nightmare.” Clay’s voice was small in the darkness. 

Sunny nestled closer to his flank. For a moment they laid there in the quiet. Thunder rumbled outside; Sunny could just make out the uneasy ocean surface, dark waves lashing a darker beach. They weren’t underground anymore, but this felt just as isolating.

“I’m worried about Tsunami.” Clay looked down from the window to his talons, where he was rubbing circles into one palm. “I… I’m worried about all of us, actually. I know we’re doing the right thing, but it feels so wrong to be split up, and we don’t know anybody here… what if she’s in trouble and we don’t know it? I’m our bigwings. I’m supposed to be looking out for her.” Sunny frowned at him, then reached out to lay her claws over his. Clay let out a shaky breath. “Tsunami’s strong,” Sunny said, “And smart. If anything goes wrong, she’ll fly right back here and tell us. She promised.” Tsunami had seen very little of her sibs since they got to the SeaWings’ Kingdom, but she’d sworn to at least keep them updated before she disappeared into the underwater world.

Clay didn’t say anything. Sunny smiled a bit and added, “Plus, I don’t think Queen Coral will let anything happen to her after that grand welcoming party.” 

Her pompous intonation earned a chuckle from Clay. Seeing him relax lifted Sunny’s spirits and her half-smile graduated to a full grin. 

“Remember what that hen at the cathedral said? She believed in us. We’re going the right way. It’ll work out… and I’m sure Tsunami will be back soon with some news. Maybe she’s already on her way and she’ll be here by morning.” Clay laid his head down on the polished floor. “You’re probably right,” he sighed. “I hope we see her soon.”

“Me too.” Sunny rested her head against his neck. Thunder sounded again, but it was farther away now, much of its power swallowed up by the dark ocean.

-

d8 - 6 - shooting star (owl city)

close your tired eyes, relax and then count from 1 to 10 and open them all these heavy thoughts will try to weigh you down, but not this time

[mysterykeebs]

For @hellorebecca for the @stancest-valentine-exchange-21 I hope you like it 🥺😍

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[keeblochan]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore Additional Tags: Stiles Stilinski needs therapy, Derek is (kind of) a therapist, A werewolf therapist, Who prescribes punches, Angsty Stiles needs to fight out his feelings, Derek is competent, The pack is A Pack, And also willing to throw hands with Stiles, Stiles deserves nice things, derek is a nice thing, The pack is also a nice thing, Stiles is a werewolf socialized human, Pack norms over human norms Summary:

Six years after being thrown into the fray of the supernatural world, Stiles is starting to feel estranged from the pack. Derek notices and offers a solution. Stiles doesn't want to admit that it helps. Everyone is going to fist fight Stiles because Stiles needs werewolf therapy

Hi this is my love confession to churkey you are a gift and I refuse to not die on the hill that Stiles is were socialized and equally as terrible at acting human as any of the actual supernaturals 

[keeblochan]

I really fricken love @the-modern-typewriter and have accidentally discovered how much I need hero/villain writing in my life, so here is my attempt at satisfying my own needs with an idea I thought would be neat: hero caught in pajamas while going to the gas station early in the morning for coffee.

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           4:30 in the morning. The hero scrubs their eyes with their palms tiredly, wondering just whenever they would manage to get on a proper schedule. They shut off their car and shuffle out into the cool dark of the morning. The gas station is a decent drive from their home considering that they live out in the middle of nowhere, but it is the second week in a row they have forgotten to buy groceries and they badly need a snack and some coffee. They had woken up in a cold sweat earlier and, unable to fall back asleep, decided on going to the gas station so they could at least preoccupy their self.

           The hero buries their hands further into the pockets as they walk into the brightly lit store. A yawn passes their lips just as they eye the plethora of coffee machines along the back wall. They sniff, pausing in front of the coffee pots. They peer down and grab a 20 oz Styrofoam cup before leveling their gaze and considering again. Usually, they have a medium roast with a creamer or sugar, but the pounding fatigue behind their eyes tells them that perhaps today they should go with a dark roast. They settle on the French roast and slowly pour and pour and pour and pour until their cheap cup is full to the brim with the dark, earthy smelling liquid.

           “French roast, hm? I never thought of you as one to drink a dark roast…black.” The voice comes from behind the hero’s shoulder causing them to jump and nearly spill their coffee over their hands. There’s a deep chuckle and the hero whips their head around. They knew the voice had been familiar but still. Their stomach drops.

           “What are you doing here?” The hero’s fingers twitch on their cup and they become suddenly very aware of the cashier and the singular other person wandering the store. The villain’s lips tug up a fraction more.

           “I suppose the same as you, doll. I needed a quick coffee this morning.” The villain’s smile doesn’t change as they look the hero up and down. The hero suddenly feels very small and very defenseless. Their hand twitches on their cup and a dozen different plans of action run through their head. But they couldn’t fight here, not exposed and endangering other people. The hero stares down the villain sharply as they grab their self a cup. The villain makes a show out of deciding which coffee to go with before pouring three-quarters of a cup with a blond roast and then topping it off with half-and-half.

           “You know,” the villain begins, not looking at the hero, “blond roasts actually have more caffeine in them because they aren’t roasted as much.” The villain snaps a lid onto their cup and directs a smile at the hero again. “I’m feeling charitable this morning, so how about a doughnut on me?” The villain’s voice is low and sends an unwanted chill up the hero’s spine and heat to their cheeks. They open their mouth to protest when the villain snakes their arm around the hero’s waist and directs them towards the display of doughnuts. They stand, side-to-side, the hero in old, gray sweats and an even older hoodie with the faded logo of their college fencing team. In contrast, the villain eyes the fully stocked shelves wearing dark joggers and an oversized, yet much too fashionable for this early in the morning sweater. The villain turns their head to look down at the hero, revealing how they had been staring.

           The hero looks away in embarrassment and takes their own turn in examining the contents of the doughnut display case, acutely aware of the villain’s eyes on them. Somehow, standing here in a gas station in their pajamas with the villain’s arm tucked firm around their waist, it seems as if they are two entirely separate people who don’t spend their lives fighting each other. The hero cautions a look back at the villain whose gaze has once again settled on the doughnuts.

           “I think blueberry will compliment this morning’s coffee best. Decided what you want yet, darling?” The villain steps forward to swing open the glass doors and pick their doughnut up with the provided tissue paper. The hero’s face heats even more. They splutter while the villain one-handedly grabs and opens a bag to put their doughnut inside of.

           “I don’t need anything…especially from you.” The hero shifts, trying to slyly step out of the hold around their waist to little avail. The gas station door jingles as another person steps in. The hero swallows thickly.

           “Oh, my sweet,” the villain pulls the hero into their chest, meeting their gazes with an intense edge, “I don’t remember asking if you needed anything.” The villain’s dark eyes hold the hero’s so intently that they seem to momentarily forget the world. They swallow and wet their lips, trying to find a witty retort in their exhausted haze. The villain’s eyes flick down for a fraction of a second when the hero licks their lips. Fingers tighten on the hero’s side, drawing the two a fraction closer. Their noses brush and the hero drops their gaze, heart hammering. The villain has always flustered the hero in their smooth and lithe mannerisms, but that had always been in battle, at odds and ends of weapons. This wasn’t fire and blood and hiding behind different identities. This was standing pressed together in a gas station at 4:35 in the morning in pajamas and swimming in fatigue. One of the other customers stands off to the side, clearly waiting. The hero feels an ever-growing embarrassment and turns their head towards the display case.

           “Cinnamon,” they mumble out in a hurry. The villain cocks their head, not having expected an answer, before taking another piece of tissue paper and pulling out a cinnamon doughnut to add to the plastic baggy. The two then walk away from the display and towards the register.

           “These and their coffee as well,” the villain says after setting down the items in their hand. The cashier, a disinterested teenager, looks at the villain and then at the hero who smiles sheepishly. The cashier raises an eyebrow and types into the register.

           “That will be $5.64,” the cashier mutters. The villain slides a ten over the counter and grins at the hero.

           “Keep the change for the next customer.” With that, the villain flashes a handsome smile, scoops up the items and whisks the hero towards the exit. The morning air seems even chillier when they exit the store, a bell dinging behind them. The hero breathes out a long breath and grips their coffee tighter in their hand.

           “Awful kind this morning. I hope you weren’t expecting to change my opinion of you by buying me coffee and a doughnut.” The two pause just off of the sidewalk. The villain snorts out laugh, fingers squeezing into the hero’s side again.

           “Of course not,” the villain murmurs, “I would never try to change your opinion of me with something as low as bribery.” That wickedly handsome smile flashes again. “I, however, am not above inviting you home to try and convince you.” The words are whispered warm and hushed against the hero’s ear. They swear they can hear their heart stuttering in the morning air. The villain chuckles and brushes their lips to the hero’s temple.

           “I don’t believe you. You would never let me know where you live.” The hero pulls back despite the tug in their stomach that longs for the warm press of skin against their own. The villain shrugs and starts walking towards the hero’s car.

           “Be as that may, you didn’t say no.” The villain stops just in front of the hero’s door, preventing them from getting in. Before they can bite out a reply, the villain leans down and presses a chaste, but warm kiss to the hero’s lips. Behind their closed eyes, all the hero sees is the upturned lips and the dangerous eyes of the villain. “You can follow me, it’s not too far of a drive from here.” The villain pulls back entirely cool and collected while the hero’s brain short circuits. A warm hand leaves the hero’s waist and the villain steps around them to head to their own car. The hero flounders for a few seconds longer before turning and watching the villain’s dark form walking away.

           “Oh, and by the way,” the villain says, turning their head back towards the hero, “don’t worry about the dogs. They don’t bite.” The villain’s laugh echoes in the hero’s ears long after they get in their car and leave the gas station. As they follow a set of tail lights through the dark, they can’t help but think that the last thing they’re worried about is being bitten by a dog. Instead, the consequences of making the incredibly stupid decision to take up the villain on their offer bounces in their head as they turn and follow the sleek car into the driveway of a beautiful house.

[keeblochan]

“Let me help you.” The villain’s voice is firm and their words are purely statement, no question. The hero scoffs then cringes at the sharp, cold chill it causes to spread throughout their body. The hero’s eyes shift unsteady over the expanse of the sky where a roof had been not two minutes ago. They distinctly feel the heat coming from the remaining smoldering fires lapping at what had previously been a beautiful, old church. They shiver and try not to think too hard about the rod of metal stuck in their abdomen. The crunch of pebbled cement shifting sounds to the side of them. Then, their head is cradled and lifted gently and something is slid underneath. Their breath catches from a pang of nausea as they are lowered back down onto the soft material of the villain’s jacket.

“You were foolish to run into a building with a bomb, cheri.” The hero’s eyes roll back as a beautifully soothing exhaustion beckons them. A sudden smack across their cheek startles them back towards consciousness enough that they jerk. Fire erupts through their body. “Keep your eyes open or I will hit you again, bête,” the villain hisses. The hero glowers at the villain, unable to do much more as their body swims in pain.

“Why help me?” The hero bites through clenched teeth. The villain does not look up from examining the hero’s injury.

“Because I am not a monster,” they say simply. “I have no desire to kill you. While your death would surely be of use to me,” the villain grabs a hold of the rod and yanks it out without missing a beat. The hero screams, blood curdling and loud. The villain presses their scarf onto the gaping, bloody wound before continuing, “I do have morals. And besides,” The villain leans down towards the hero’s dirt and tear smudged face, “if I let you die then I wouldn’t be able to listen to you scream so beautifully. I enjoy these moments we have together.” The villain presses a kiss to the hero’s clammy forehead then leans back. “You are lucky that I enjoy your company so.” The hero’s vision swims, fading in and out and around. The villain pays the hero no mind and presses an ungloved hand to the hero’s wound. A dim glow encircles the villain’s hand and seeps into the hero’s skin. When the hero’s shuttering and whimpering trail off, the villain pulls back their hand to reveal only a faint ring outlining where the rod had been implanted in the hero’s abdomen.

“Come, I want you to see something.” The villain hoists the hero up by their biceps. In response, the hero staggers, still dizzy. The sight of their closed flesh nearly sends them into another fit of panic. The villain places a hand on the hero’s back, the other pressed firm underneath the hero’s forearm. Somehow the hands are almost placating on the hero. They sag into the touch, exhausted.

“I…do not understand you…” The hero murmurs. The two step over large chunks of stone and miscellaneous glass and metal protruding from the rubble. The villain does not reply as they lead the hero towards what had once been the altar of the church. Once situated over a mostly clear spot, the villain allows the hero to stagger down to their knees and crouches beside them. The hand that had been on the hero’s back slides around until the two are pressed side-to-side.

“The sunrise is beautiful. Look, you can see Venus on the horizon,” the villain’s voice is soft in the quiet morning air. The hero stares absently at the morning sky full of orange and pink and purple hues. They sit in silence for a moment, simply breathing. The hero searches for something to say, some retort or quip, or even the energy to hit the villain. They find nothing. Instead, they turn to face the villain and are met with a breath-taking portrait. Here, the villain’s features seem almost soft and relaxed. The hero bristles at how such a person could ever look so beautiful, so peaceful.

The villain turns their head to meet the hero’s scowl. The villain tuts and runs gloved fingertips over the hero’s lips. “How can you make such an ugly face during such a beautiful moment as this?” The words are somehow friendly. The hero makes to scowl further but is stopped by the dark lines running down the villain’s cheeks and lips.

“You’re…bleeding.” They swallow. The villain’s eyebrows furrow, eyes analyzing the hero before they duck their head away from the hero’s eyes. Even facing away, the hero can see the villain drag the back of their wrist over their lips. The villain stares down at the scarlet blood.

“You do not heal a wound that bad that quickly without some consequence.” The villain scrubs their sleeve across their face until the trails of blood are light, seeming shadows on their skin. “I suppose it is time for me to leave. My work here is done.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” The hero’s hands shoot out to claw into the villain’s arm. The villain looks at the hands and then back at the hero.

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself back to wherever you are going. Or,” the villain’s voice drops, “is it that you don’t want me to go without my beau héro?” The villain captures the hero’s chin in a powerful grip. The hero clenches their jaw at the touch.

“You really are a piece of shit,” they spit. The villain hums with a small shrug.

“I may not kill you, but I have no reason to help you any further. You are nothing to me.” The hero’s chest clenches at the words. Suddenly, an embarrassed heat creeps over their cheeks as they realize how much they had started to buy into the honey sweet of the villain’s words and touches. The hero actually spits then. The villain’s features harden as they wipe the dribble from their cheek. A cruel smile spreads across their lips, knowing. “Did I hurt your feelings? Were you hoping that I would carry you away from here in my arms? Perhaps to my bed where I would touch you where you wanted, as soft as you wanted?” The villain shoves the hero into the rubble and onto their back. The stinging words lash through the air and straight into the hero who flinches. The villain sidles over the hero’s prone body and suddenly the hero does not feel an odd sense of security. They feel like a small animal cornered and skittish.

“If I was nothing, why did you heal me at your expense?” The words are barely above a whisper out of the hero’s mouth. The villain grimaces. This fuels the hero into a confidence. “If I was nothing, you would have let me die. You may have morals not to kill, but that’s never stopped you from letting disposable people die if it meant attaining your goals.” With each word the hero sits up a fraction higher on their forearms, coming to meet the villain nose-to-nose. “Or is it,” the same cruel tone curls from the hero’s lips, “that I am the only person who you know? If I died, you would have no one left to even acknowledge that you exist. I am everything to you.” The two lock eyes. The villain’s expression is strained. Heart thundering, the hero suddenly understands. They lean forward to press a sickly-sweet kiss tinged with the acid bubbling inside to the villain’s lips. When they pull back, the villain’s closed eyes are all of the confirmation the hero needs. The villain sucks in a slow breath, opens their eyes, and punches the hero in the jaw hard enough that they pass out.

The villain sighs deeply at the mess they have made. They had not planned on the destruction of the church to injure the hero as badly as it did, nor did they plan on having been as seen through as they had been. They decide they will transport the hero back home. It would be too kind, of course, but it also sent the message that the hero had no privacy from the villain. They take in once last selfish look of the hero dirtied and covered in bruises, but oh so beautiful in the morning light lying prone beneath the villain. This would surely complicate things.

[keeblochan]

“Let me look.”

The villain crouches to the floor, a singular hand held out placating towards the hero. The hero, in turn, sucks in a breath and hisses it back out between their teeth.

“That fucking hurts.” The hero clenches their jaw after the words spill out. The villain casts a glance towards the hero’s face once before turning their attention towards the blade lodged in the hero’s shoulder.

“Well, what did you expect? You came at me with a gun.”

The hero blanches, “A gun? You are a villain! I am supposed to stop you!” The villain side-eyes the hero as they jerk around to emphasize their point.

“You’ve never used weapons before. We have never used weapons against each other. You can see why I thought it was necessary to incapacitate you, then.” The villain wraps deft fingers around the handle of their blade and without warning pulls it out of the hero’s shoulder. Any retort dies on the hero’s lips as a wash of pain spreads over them.

“Fuck you,” they grit out, breathless.

“Perhaps after you stop squealing like a child.” The hero glares at the villain.

“You just pulled a knife out of my shoulder!”

The villain shrugs, “And we already discussed why it was there in the first place. Now stop blubbering and stand up. I can imagine you don’t want this to go public?” With the words, the villain’s eyes glint. A brief pang of nervousness crosses the hero’s eyes before they shuffle into a standing position.

“I can imagine you’re about to offer some sort of black mail?” The hero replies back mockingly. The villain holds the hero’s gaze, unamused. The hero matches it for a moment before finally breaking under the intensity of the villain’s steely gaze. “Of course, I don’t want this to go public,” they offer, a notch quieter. The villain hums after a pause and nods.

“Okay. Keep pressure on that until it stops bleeding. Next time don’t be so reckless as you try and change up our routine.” The villain pivots on the ball of their foot and begins to walk away.

“Wait, you’re just going to leave?” The hero nevertheless presses their palm firm against their wound to stifle some of the bleeding, ignoring the nauseous feeling it causes them. The villain’s words are only a slight murmur as they continue walking away.

“Did you want me to stay?” At that, the hero falls quiet. The villain stops at the door and turns to face the hero once more, raising an eyebrow. A plethora of responses races through the hero’s mind, but all they can focus on is the sudden frenzy in their chest. Yes. Yes, of course they wanted the villain to stay. Here, in this little world between them, the hero was not alone. Here, the hero did not have to hide who they were or what they did. Here, it was just them. Even if they stood facing each other, diametrically opposed, the villain was always there.

They had not been enemies long. In fact, the hero recalls as their wound throbs, when they had first started to actively stop the villain, it had been the villain who had raised their fists instead of using the powers the hero knew they had. The villain who had beaten the hero in a blink of an eye then stopped when the hero could hardly see their own hands through their dizziness. The villain who had stuck around until the hero could pick their self up from the floor and stagger home. The villain had always observed and acted accordingly. Of course, the hero had improved so much since then. Some days, they even felt like it was possible for them to beat the villain. They never did, but their fights were exhilarating and structured. It had been another hero that offered the gun with the violent suggestion in their eyes. An older, more experienced hero whom the hero admired very much. Perhaps their routine with the villain had gotten too familiar that they thought they could actually accomplish something with a gun. The villain shifting one foot forward, back towards the hero, drags the hero from their thoughts. The hero’s gaze falls to the gun lying discarded on the floor.

“I don’t know how to bandage or take care of wounds like this,” the hero trails. They don’t lift their eyes until the villain’s shoes are planted in front of them, obscuring the gun. There is the faintest sigh before cool fingertips are gently shooing away the hero’s hand from their wound.

“You will probably need some stitches. You’re lucky I know how to sew.” The hero nearly snorts at the words but instead hisses at the villain’s prying fingers. They stand nearly chest-to-chest, breathing in the same air. The villain sighs again, louder, and grabs the hero’s hand to press against their wound again. “You know I am going to have to blind fold you to take you to my house, correct?” The hero’s lips nudge up.

“Why? You don’t want me to know where you live?” They meet gazes.

“Why would you want to know? Do you want me to start inviting you over?” At that, the hero’s face heats up. The villain steps closer and presses warm lips to the hero’s ear.

“I wouldn’t try anything because I know where you live as well, darling.” The hero swallows thickly as a deep shudder of chills runs down their spine. “I think you and I have quite similar tastes.” The villain pulls back, allowing their lips to ghost over the hero’s cheek, and then presses a hand to the hero’s back to lead them towards the door. For some reason, the hero’s heart races, but they are almost entirely certain it has nothing to do with the knife wound in their shoulder.

[keeblochan]

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Consciousness rolls over the villain in a wave starting in their head and travelling down to their feet. They are only half aware of the incredible cocoon of heat that bundles them in their bed. Blinking open tired eyes, the villain lets out a choking cough that scratches and tears at their lungs. They attempt to sniff despite being congested before rolling over onto their other side, the idea of immediately going back to sleep heavy on their eyelids.

“I made you something to eat.” The words startle the villain so viciously that their sudden inhale causes another coughing fit. The villain can’t see through their clenched shut eyes, but a cool touch finds their back and rubs steady circles. Once the coughing has stopped enough that the villain can suck in gasping breaths and open their eyes, they find their self nose-to-nose with the hero.

“What are you doing here?” The words are rushed out and hoarse, a panicked question. The hero nudges the villain back towards their pile of pillows with a quiet shushing.

“Your temperature has gone down, which is good. While you’re awake, you should get some food and water into you.” The hero keeps their voice low and their fingers rubbing gentle circles into the villain’s feverish skin. Despite this, the villain’s heart hammers out of their control. Panic begins to well in their chest, constricting their lungs and shortening their breath. The hero, noticing the villain’s sudden labored breathing, presses a firm hand to the center of the villain’s chest.

“Breathe in and out with me. Push my hand up.” The villain wants to lash out, to break each finger that presses into their chest. Instead, their vision tunnels in on the exaggerated inhalations and exhalations moving through the hero’s mouth. Slowly, the villain is breathing in time with the hero, the pressure of the hand on their chest a grounding weight. With each breath, the hero murmurs quiet affirmations and praises – encouraging. Eventually, the villain is calm enough that the hero pulls away and turns to grab something from behind them. When they turn back around, a glass is nudged towards the villain. The villain wants to protest, should protest, however, the dry ache in their chest spurs them towards grabbing at the glass with weak fingers unsuccessfully. The hero shoos away the villain’s demanding hands and instead slides a hand to the villain’s back to help them sit up before gently offering the rim of the glass to the villain’s dry lips.

The water is cold and refreshing and desperately needed. The painful scratch of another coughing fit ebbs away as the villain drinks greedily from the glass. In their fervor, water spills down the villain’s chin to their shirt. The cold water is heaven sent against their burning skin.

“Okay, okay, not so fast or you’ll make yourself sick,” the hero tuts, pulling the glass back. The villain lurches forward to chase after it with the wild eyes of a starving animal tossed a scrap. Despite their best efforts, the villain is easily pulled back by one of the hero’s hand. The villain gives up and slumps back into the pillows as heat suffocates them.

“What are you doing here?” They try again, eyeing the hero weakly. The hero offers the glass to the villain’s lips again while humming.

“Truth be told, I was sent on recon. I wasn’t expecting you to be here though…” the hero swivels around to put the glass back on the bedside table when the villain has had their fill. The villain sneers in response.

“So, you and your people are just going to intrude on people’s homes without cause now, hm?” The villain means to bite the words out more harshly than their weak voice allows. The hero’s eyes widen into something akin to mortification.

“No! I mean, I guess that’s what this was…I, that wasn’t my intent. I was just supposed to locate plans or anything we could use against you!” The villain’s eyes are dark and their gaze penetrating. The hero swallows and lowers their own gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t change the fact that you broke into my home while I was sick no less. I didn’t realize how much of a threat I posed being stuck in bed.” The villain’s glare is broken by a short string of coughing. The hero places the palm of their hand on the villain’s chest lightly.

“Well…I made you some food. I still think that you should eat while you’re awake. I can leave after that. I won’t come back again, I promise.” The deep sincerity in the hero’s eyes is unnerving to the villain. When they offer no response, the hero rises and walks out of the room. They come back a few minutes later with a tray, a bowl situated in its center.

The hero is gentle when they lie the tray across the villain’s legs. The villain is met with the scent of a hearty broth, rich and deep. Their mouth waters despite the simplicity of the meal. Next to the bowl of noodles and soup is a line of saltines and a spoon. The villain’s head pounds in a hazy, hot fog that is somewhat exacerbated by the rolling steam coming from the surface of the soup.

“Here, let me help you.” The hero situates their self next to the villain before reaching out to curl their fingers around the spoon. They dip the spoon beneath the surface of the broth and bring it back out full of a deliciously scented brown broth. The hero’s free hand slides behind the villain’s head to help lean them forward. For a brief moment, the villain is struck with embarrassment at their situation; however, the intent and caring attention of the hero feels so nice that the villain shoves down any of their embarrassments for the time being.

The first spoonful of soup is the most amazing that the villain has ever had. The involuntary hum of appreciation verifies as much. At that, the hero smiles, carefully pulling the empty spoon from between the villain’s lips. The villain doesn’t notice the slight pause of the hero’s gaze there. They continue like that, one spoonful of broth being passed between the villain’s lips, until the villain notices the hesitation that follows.

“I would like a saltine, if you wouldn’t mind,” the villain whispers. Their eyes are trained on the hero like a predator on their prey. The words startle the hero out of their moment of distraction, and they nod. When the cracker is held just in front of the villain’s mouth, they make sure to bite off half at first. The hero’s eyes follow the path of a few stray crumbs that dot the villain’s lower lip and chin.

“You’ve got something…” the hero trails off, raising a thumb to wipe the crumbs away. The villain purposefully sits perfectly still as the hero’s thumb swipes across their skin. The hero mumbles an apology and then offers the other half of the cracker between two fingers. The villain leans forward slightly to meet the hero’s hand and wraps parted lips around unsuspecting fingertips. The hero visibly jumps when the villain’s lips close around their fingers. The villain pulls back at a crawl until the hero’s fingers are left suspended in the air where the villain’s mouth had just been. They don’t break eye contact as they lean back and chew the other half of the saltine.

It is the hero’s eyes that give them away. Despite the light from the bedside lamp, the hero’s pupils are blown to the edges of their irises – a pool of black that the villain relishes in. They press into an upright position, if a bit clumsily from their fatigue, until they are nose-to-nose with the hero.

“Weren’t you ever told not to enter the lion’s den, my dear?” The villain, for what they are able to accomplish with a weak voice, practically purrs the words onto the hero’s lips. The hero’s mouth opens and closes, floundering, for a moment before the villain closes the gap between their mouths. The hero immediately melts and curls a desperate hand into the villain’s hair. The villain makes a point of opening their lips and nudging their tongue against the hero’s until the two are a feverish, panting tangle of scathing lips and tongues and teeth.

If the hero eventually trails their lips to the villain’s throat to kiss and bite messages into their skin, the villain would simply attribute it to their ingenious plan. The villain would never admit to the flush that scorched their skin and was entirely unrelated to their sickness. The villain would also deny having murmured out the hero’s name like a prayer when they dotted kisses as sickly sweet as roses across their body. Yet, for everything that the villain would deny, they would proudly accept the sight of one fever-ridden hero angrily curled up in their blankets a few days later after the villain returns home from a meeting. They are not at liberty to discuss what would happen after.

[keeblochan]

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“Please, drink more water.” The words are teasing, biting from the villain’s lips. The hero spits and jumps back up, body pulsing with adrenaline and anger. “You know, losing as much fluid as you tend to during our fights, you might also want to add something with electrolytes.” The villain’s teeth are sharp behind their grin. The hero snarls and thrusts a fist towards the villain’s face. The successful jab results in a satisfying thud and following distressed sound from the villain; however, a searing pain shoots up the hero’s arm, freezing their breath in their lungs. This time, it is the villain who spits and looks up with fire in their eyes.

“You might need to cut back on the milk,” the hero grits out, cradling their already swelling knuckles. Their gaze meets the villain’s for a single moment of absolute stillness. The villain smiles and straightens.

“Now that is more like it,” the words are a purr, barely louder than a murmur. The hero has to catch their self from their shock. When they reorient their self, a crooked grin reaches their own lips. Then they meet.

Over and over, fist to flesh followed by raging bruises, welts, and cuts that hiss with pain and heat. They tumble over each other, dancing back and forth until they are both covered in a layer of sweat, panting from their mouths with fatigue in their eyes. Eventually, they circle each other with an arm’s length between them. They fill the space with their ragged breaths. Somehow, they always ended up like this – two tired people circling, bodies thrumming with heat and the sweet taste of adrenaline on their lips. Their fights always ended like this. Now, all it is is a waiting game to see who will crack first. The villain stops. The hero stops as well.

“Would you care to get lunch sometime?” The hero nearly blanches. The villain doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t do anything that would suggest insincerity. Only their chest moves from the expansion of their lungs as they breathe deeply. The hero doesn’t say anything at first, unsure. They look and look and look for something to nudge them towards the correct response, but there is nothing. Only a pair of tired of eyes watching them. They imagine that they look nearly the same to the villain.

“I…I don’t understand.” Their words trail off into silence. The villain cocks an eyebrow and sighs.

“Have you never been asked out to lunch before? I suppose I wouldn’t find that entirely hard to believe-“

“No, I have! It’s just,” the hero shrugs, “I don’t think it’s very common to ask your enemies to lunch. Especially not in the middle of a fight.” Despite how true it is, the hero can’t help but to feel slightly foolish as if for some reason it was common and they have simply never been asked. Insecurities flood their thoughts.

The villain watches with slight disinterest as the hero appears to wage an entirely different battle inside of their body. “We don’t exactly get very far whenever we do this. Besides, what’s a get together between enemies?” The villain takes a step forward, closing the distance between the two. The hero has never seen the villain this close without being accompanied by flying fists and rapid movements. They notice for the first time that the villain’s eyes are a deep pool of brown as opposed to the inhuman black they had always assumed they were. They’re startled from their observations by the villain’s hand on their mask, tugging it down past their face.

In their mind, the hero sees a plethora of ways to get away, for their identity to remain secret. Instead, they remain motionless until the slight breeze is cool on their hot face. The slight widening of the villain’s eyes is almost imperceptible. Before they have a chance to return the favor with the villain’s mask, the villain turns away. The hero jolts and shoots out a hand to grip onto the fabric of the villain’s jacket. The villain stops but does not turn back around. There’s a slight movement followed by a quiet sound of air being released.

The hero drops their hand when the villain turns back around, features no longer obscured by the high-tech mask they usually wear. The villain looks young. Perhaps as young as if not younger than the hero. They swallow a lump that forms in their throat. God, the hero wouldn’t have wished this life on anyone, let alone someone as young as they their self are.

“I suppose that wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting.” Without the mask, the villain’s words seem less deep, less gruff, more…innocent. The hero closes their mouth when they realize it had been open. “Am I truly that hideous? Personally, I think I have some attractive attributes, but I guess your look of horror would say otherwise.”

“You’re so young,” the hero blurts out without a thought. “How old are you?” The villain looks a little taken aback at the question.

“I’m really not that young. I’m twenty, why? How old are you?” The hero’s eyes widen.

“I’m twenty-two. You’re a child!” At that, the villain scowls.

“I’m no more child than you, hero.” A series of conflicting emotions crosses the hero’s face as they flounder for something to say. Finally, the hero sighs and, unthinking, raises a hand to rest calloused fingertips on the villain’s cheek. The villain visibly jumps at the touch, but they do not move or shirk away. The hero’s face falls into something resembling being forlorn.

“We’re both children. How did you even get here? To this?” The villain’s pupils dilate at the question. Their response is a whisper of breath between them that tickles the hero’s wrist.

“Want to go get some lunch?” This time the hero does not hesitate. They nod their head and before the villain can step away, they wrap their arms around the villain and hold them tightly in a hug. Their chest aches for the villain, for the youth that they both would likely never get back. Would they have been friends if they hadn’t been enemies by occupation?

After a long pause of hesitation, the villain returns the hug and they stand in the early morning breeze quietly breathing against one another. They stink of sweat and blood and they are covered in grime and dirt. The hero’s body aches to the touch, yet the almost dainty arms wrapped around them seem to sooth something within the hero. When they pull apart, the villain offers their phone number, a time, and a place to meet. They both leave much slower than they were able to arrive.

The hero gets home and cleans their self up, eats, drinks some water – rolling their eyes when they remember the villain’s taunt -, and gets some rest with the villain’s singular text on the backs of their eyelids. They have so many questions they want to ask, but they force them all down for their lunch with the villain.

We have the same history class.