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simphellscape · 6 months

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SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13TH, 2020 - 2:38AM // SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13TH, 2020 - 10:49AM // next | tw: cursing, vomit

This is the second time you’ve found yourself waking up on your couch, wrapped up in Kei. This is the way you two seem to handle intense nights, indulging in each other’s touch for a few hours. The nagging feeling that this moment is fleeting, that Kei will inevitably retract and return to his strict no-touching policy, is agonizing. Even after what happened last night, you can’t shake the thought. You’re almost afraid to open your eyes; if you do, the moment might immediately end. You can’t handle that, not yet. So, you feign sleep, focusing instead on the feeling of his arms folded securely around you, on the way your legs are tangled together. The generated heat from hours of such close contact is intense, but it further grounds you to him. You sigh into the cloth of Kei’s t-shirt, sinking deeper into his embrace.

You’re so engrossed in your thoughts that you jump when his calloused fingertips brush against your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice husky from sleep, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

You debate on whether or not to speak. While you fear that doing so would begin the chain of events that cause him to leave you, you also can’t help but want to continue hearing his voice. The latter eventually wins out.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you murmur, finally opening your eyes and peering up at him.

As your gaze settles, you think about how good it is to know that you didn’t miraculously invent the sensation of Kei’s body enveloping you. He’s wearing his usual pleasant smirk, amber eyes half-lidded with morning haze. Any casual viewer wouldn’t be able to notice anything amiss, but you’re able to notice the slight differences. His lips are still slightly pinker from kissing you, and the hold he has on you seems to have tightened now that you’re awake. Maybe, just maybe, he won’t run away this time.

“M’kay,” he coos, continuing to stroke your hair.

That dread you were feeling is slowly overpowered by a wave of hope and confusion. He’s conscious and sober, and aware that you are too, and he hasn’t made any sort of attempt to run away yet. You’re glad, no doubt about that, but the signals he’s sending are all out of whack. His usual contactless approach is far from what’s happening right now. As much as this baffles you, you don’t want it to end.

“This is nice,” you breathe.

Kei hums in response, his eyes searching your tired face. He seems to be contemplating something. Don’t go, you repeat silently, please don’t go.

You feel his core muscles shift beneath you, and your stomach immediately churns. You expected him to leave, to untangle himself from you. Instead, much to your delight, he simply leans forward to plant a kiss on your forehead.

Though it’s brief, it’s infectiously warm. His lips are feathery soft against your temple, blessing it with a short-lived, tantalizing fever. Your heart practically does a backflip in your chest. Before you can even breathe again, it’s over. He resumes stroking your hair, as if he didn’t just set your entire body on fire. It’s silly, the reaction you’re having to such a simple act of affection, but after last night -- no, after the past month, all of it is totally involuntary.

Your mind wanders to the night you met Kei. You remember how scared you were by the idea of him. Your heart knew before your brain could even try to understand; he was meant to be yours. Whether that was for a brief while or for the rest of time, whether it was platonic or not, it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t. You love him all the same, and you have from the moment you laid eyes on him. It feels important that you express this right now, while the tenderness allows for it, but you lack the facilities to. So, you settle.

“So last night was… something.”

His pleasant expression drops, and his hand pauses near the crown of your head.

“Something good, I hope,” he replies, a nervous edge to his tone.

“Oh, yes! It was good, yes,” you scramble, reaching for Kei’s hand and encouraging it to continue caressing you.

“Good,” he sighs, responding to your touch, “you scared me there for a second, birdie.”

“Birdie?” you question.

Kei had never called you that before. He usually either called you by your name or other choice terms. The ones that come to your mind are ‘big-head’ or ‘butt-face’. You questioned those at first too, but he insisted that he called you those things out of love. “If I mean it, you’ll know,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You called me ‘birdie’ just now.”

“I did?”

You nod slowly, biting back laughter.

“Well, that’s embarrassing for me,” he sighs.

You let your cackling loose, causing Kei to giggle too.

“Listen, it just slipped out!”

“It’s fine,” you reassure through your fit, “I thought it was kind of cute.”

“Yeah, your laughter really shows me that!” he fires back sarcastically.

“No, really!” you insist, “it was adorable and not at all something I’ll bring up every day for the rest of time.”

It seems like all the two of you do together is laugh, you think as the two of you devolve into uncontrollable giggling. It takes the pair of you a fair chunk of time to compose yourselves, but soon you’re wiping the tears away. With a long sigh, Kei tucks loose strands of hair behind your ears.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he declares.

“Yeah, I could go for breakfast!”

“Excellent,” he smiles, giving you a quick peck on the lips before getting up.

“Woah, woah, woah,” you contest, “hold on!”

“What?”

“That was lame as hell, Kei.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just a little smooch? Where’s the passion?”

You don’t really know where all of this is coming from. This situation is entirely foreign to you, so it’s natural to have new urges to act on. You never knew you were such a tease, though.

He cocks an eyebrow in response. The seconds of pause he’s taking are beginning to make you nervous.

“Oh?” he returns as he slinks back toward the couch, “I guess you’ll have to teach me, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A mixture of nerves and butterflies settles in your stomach. You’re pleased that he’s matching your energy, to put it lightly. You’ve never been in the position where you’ve had to make the first move, however. As he settles himself above you, supporting himself by planting his arms on either side of your head, you resolve to lie in the bed you’ve made for yourself. You bite your lip instinctually as you search his face. The smug look on it, the glimmering honey-pot eyes, the galaxy of faint freckles… it’s almost too much.

“Well?” he drawls.

“No,” you breathe, “this is part of it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You have to build tension,” you pause, reaching to meet him slowly, “Make them excited.”

As you approach him, you notice the breath fanning across your face start to quicken. You are starting to mirror his enthusiasm, but you continue at your glacial pace.

“You have to make them want it,” you finish.

Finally, you meet him. You take your time at the start, taking everything in. The difference between this kiss and your first one with Kei is remarkable. Last night, it felt like a bomb had been set off in the confines of your rib cage. This one feels more like a match dropped on a trail of gasoline. You see it in the movies all the time -- the villain drizzles the contents of a gas canister from their target to a safe distance away, they drop the lit match, and the fire starts. A perfect trail of fire travels to the unassuming building, lazily at first. Then the pace picks up. Then, without fail, the building catches fire and explodes. With your eyes closed and your lips leisurely exploring, the image of the trail of fire is clear in your mind. You match its careful pace, allowing the curls of the flame to guide the way you move your mouth. You realize that this plan is working when you feel Kei’s encouraging hum rumble against you, followed by his body shifting down to meet yours. With his hands free, they’re roaming you, seemingly making up for lost time. They are their own trail of fire, calloused fingertips leaving what feels like pleasant burns wherever they graze. You find your own fingertips tangled in Kei’s hair, your own legs tangled with his. He nips at your bottom lip, begging you to give him more. So you do.

And you do.

Until the familiar chime of his phone ringing breaks the euphoria.

You’re alarmed at the speed at which you come hurtling back to the planet Earth, as you open your eyes and find Kei resting his forehead against yours. He’s panting and groaning.

“Now?” he complains.

“Duty calls, number two.”

“You know,” he says, reluctantly getting up, “I’ve heard that Americans call shitting ‘going number two’.”

“No wonder they’re so obsessed with winning,” you muse, earning a chuckle from Kei.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and his brow furrows upon seeing the caller ID. The atmosphere of the room, which was previously dense with excitement, is now immediately turned tense. You suddenly feel inexplicably uncomfortable looking in Kei’s direction, so you find your gaze shifted to the floor.

“I gotta take this,” he mutters, rushing to your balcony.

You simply nod, even though his back is turned to you before you can even register his leaving.

____________________________________________________________________________

There are thousands of different ways this could go; Keigo knows that. It seems too early for Dabi to remind him about the meeting he’s supposed to attend today. Hell, it seems too early for Dabi to even be awake. In the time between telling his little white lie and showing up at your doorstep last night, Keigo considered the possibility of the League finding him out, and planned accordingly. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to tell another lie to cover up his original lie.

As he shuts the glass door to (Y/N)’s balcony, he inhales deeply and answers the phone.

“Yes?” he groans.

“You have a little too much fun at your… ahem… press event last night, bird brain?”

Keigo can practically hear the air quotes around the words “press event”. Even if it’s a simple deviation in Dabi’s speaking pattern, which happens occasionally to everyone, since he can’t see the body language of him, Keigo has to assume that he’s been caught. He wasn’t looking forward to enacting this plan, this second unnecessary lie, but a part of him is excited to indulge his inner child.

“No, I didn’t go.”

“Oh, is that so? Care to tell me why you didn’t turn up at our spot then?”

“I’ve got food poisoning. Didn’t think you’d appreciate me losing my lunch all over your fresh linens.”

“Should have brought a barf bag.”

“Then I would’ve needed a barf bag for both ends, if you catch my drift. I’ve been hanging out real close to my bathroom since about eight last night.”

“Eight seems a bit late for a press event to start, don’t you think?”

“The event actually started at six-thirty, but I was feeling nauseous. I figured a late arrival would -- hang on.”

Keigo holds his phone a reasonable distance from his head and starts making retching noises. Funnily enough, a brief section of the espionage training he received as a teenager was spent learning how to feign illness in a convincing manner. He never thought he would use it, though. As he returns the phone to his ear, he makes a conscious effort to make his voice deeper and more strained.

“Sorry, did you hear that?”

“You know, there’s a mute button on most smartphones.”

“I was a little distracted, forgive me. Listen, I haven’t forgotten about what you said last night. I’ll be there, just give me an hour to take a Pepto or something.”

“Good. Wear a fucking diaper if you have to.”

With that, the line goes dead. Keigo sighs, understanding that the worst is most likely over. He knows that the League will remember this, however. In order to make it up to them, and the HPSC, he can’t be absent from any more meetings. Even if he actually is puking his guts out.

Even if it involves you.

He gathers himself and prepares to tell yet another lie.

Upon reentering your apartment, he finds your spot on the couch empty. His stomach drops.

The possibility that the League employed surveillance on him that he hadn’t detected had crossed his mind, but he didn’t take that thought very seriously. They’re a small team, with moderate investigative skills. Enough to fool a lot of people, but not Keigo. If this is real, if this is actually happening, then they are much more skilled than he gave them credit for.

He’s broken from his spiral of thought when he hears the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen. Slowly, quietly, he rounds the corner.

There you are, turning on your rice cooker. Humming a tune. Not a worry in the world.

He swears that he will keep it that way, as long as he possibly can.

“Hey,” he sighs.

You look up from your task and beam at him.

“Hey, you! I was just about to make some food. Hungry?”

“Yeah, but uh…”

He doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t want to do this.

“That was the commission. It’s urgent. I gotta go.”

A look of concern washes over your face.

“I can’t really discuss it, but don’t worry. I’ll be just fine.”

He offers you a reassuring smile, the best one he can muster.

“Alright,” you concede, placing your utensils down and making your way towards him, “be safe.”

When you reach him, you place a soft hand on his cheek. Without thinking, he leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Meetings with Dabi put him on edge, and lying to you makes him hurt, but you seem to have a healer’s touch. You stand on your tip toes and plant a delicate kiss on his nose. It seems like that heals him a little, too.

But when he collects his things and walks out of your front door, the wound rips wide open all over again.

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