tried saving time by painting on top of my sketch instead of doing lineart bc i got sick again + have been feeling the spring sads :’v i want to do nothing but still need my weekly dose of attention lel
I can see your whole history in your eyes. You were born with nothing. So you’ve had to struggle and connive and claw your way to power. But true power, the divine right to rule, is something you’re born with. The fact is, they don’t know which one of us is going to be sitting on that throne and which of us is going to be bowing down. But I know, and you know. Well? You’ve beaten me at my own game. Don’t flatter yourself. You were never even a player.
Contrary to popular beliefs about Oikawa’s self-centered personality, he’s not the type to really take care of himself. He’s got naturally pretty hair and pretty skin and pretty face - he says he’s blessed by the Oikawa genes, everyone believes it to be true.
But, again, he’s not the type to take time out for himself. He’ll cut his fingernails really short to handle the ball better and subconsciously bites what’s left out of anxiety. His hands are normally dry and rough, sometimes scraped if he landed wrongly on the ground from going after a ball; it’s a sad sight when you look at the bony structures of his wrists and his slender fingers that would, without a doubt, make his hands look beautiful if it weren’t for his lack of care towards them.
The thing is that he doesn’t care what happens to his hands or his knees or his legs or his ankles - he’s focused on one goal and that’s to improve himself. He thinks he just needs his pretty face to get by so that his other imperfections are overlooked - and he manages to get by too, except with one person.
That one person that carries moisturizers and lotions in his bag, along with polysporin and bandages and tylenol and protein bars (and maybe milk bread, if he’s got the time to get some). He watches Oikawa flirt with danger, serve after serve, set after set, spike after spike. All until he feels it right in his bones that Oikawa’s about to hit his limit and he drags him out of the court, anxious but relieved.
And in the silence of the locker room, Oikawa sits there in a blissful peace, letting Iwaizumi take his hands in his own and attempting to moisturize them, rubbing polysporin on the scrapes and cuts, whispering little warnings about overworking and not taking care of his body enough with furrowed brows. Oikawa lets his fingers wander around Iwaizumi’s jaw until his lips are kissing Oikawa’s hands - one by one, each finger, his palms, his knuckles.
“Do they feel better?”
“Mhm, much better.”
Oikawa doesn’t really take care of himself, but he’s glad there’s someone out there that’s willing to take up the challenge. One day, he thinks, he’ll learn to love himself just as much as Iwaizumi loves him.
Dean’s head still throbbed by the time the [Lebanon - 13 miles] sign gleamed in the Impala’s headlights. The three cups of coffee at dinner had not helped to ease the pain, and neither had the four Ibuprofen Sam gave him once they got back to the car. Sleep – that’s what he needed now.
He rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing at the stabbing ache behind his eyes. “Want me to take over?” Sam asked, Dean dropping his hand to the wheel. He sounded concerned and rightly so. If Dean was being honest with himself, Sam should have been the one to drive.
But since when was he honest, especially with himself?
“Nah, I’m good.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel when Sam scoffed. “Besides, we’re almost home.”
Dean could almost feel Sam roll his eyes. He scanned the shadowed turnoffs for the one that would lead them home. His inner autopilot told him that it was coming up soon, but the actual location was escaping him right now. Panic fluttered in his chest and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing his concerns. He could figure this out; he could remember this…there was no need to worry Sam.
“Dean.” Sam pointed off to the left side of the road. “Did you forget our turn?” He recognized it then, his anxiety decreasing a little as he slowed down and turned onto the gravel road.
It was not too long before they reached the bunker. Dean was relieved, if not a little overwhelmed, by the rush of memories flooding. Everything would be back to normal in the morning, probably…He just needed to sleep off the lingering remains of the spell.
“Go inside,” Sam said once Dean parked the Impala. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“So bossy.” Dean slipped out of his seat and grinned back at Sam. He closed the car door and trudged to the front door, his keys jingling in his hand.
The muted sounds of a far-off TV greeted Dean once he was inside the bunker. He squinted, the florescent lights grating against his headache. The high-pitched ring of the TV led him to the study where he found Cas. He glanced over to the doorway when Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, Cas.”
“You’re back.” His brow furrowed as Dean staggered into the room. Little specks of light danced around the edges of his vision as Cas sat up on the couch. “Are you okay? Dean?” Dean nodded, his temples throbbing in protest at the quick movement. He must have winced, judging by the concerned tch of Cas’ tongue. Dean sat on the edge of the couch next to him and met his eyes. “What happened?”
“Witch. Lost my memory for a while. Now all I’ve got is this headache.”
Cas extended his hand, placing his fore and middle fingertips on Dean’s temple. The vice-like pressure vanished in a blink of an eye. Cas’ gentle touch lingered for a few seconds before he dropped his hand to the space between them on the couch. “Better?”
Dean moved to stand, happy to find that the world was no longer topsy-turvy. “Much. Thanks, buddy.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
Dean looked down at Cas who had gone back to watching TV, anxiety tightening around his chest. The mantra he had chanted to himself all day sprang unbidden to his mind once again. My name is Dean Winchester. Sam is my brother. Mary Winchester is my mom. And Casti –
“You’re my best friend.” He blurted before the panic he felt earlier could settle in again. “You know that, right?” A tiny smile curved the corner of Cas’ lips as he nodded. “Promise me you won’t forget that.”
Cas glanced over, looking like he was about to make some sort of sarcastic remark. His smirk, slight as it was, dropped when he took in Dean’s solemn expression. “I promise.”
A sigh of relief loosened the anxious tension constricting his chest. Dean smiled as he headed for the door. “Night, Cas.” He paused when he reached the doorway, glancing over his shoulder to find Cas watching him. “See you tomorrow?”