#i had to backtrack many times because i wanted those chests | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lostmyremembrall · 2 years

Text

༒ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅 ༒

Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader Genre: smut

Summary: Ever since you gave yourself to him, it seems that Tom has grown tired of you. In a desperate attempt, you call him by the word you learned the other day. It is time for your next lesson: how to turn on a man.

Warning: Toxic relationship. Manipulative! Tom. Minors DNI. Daddy kink. Spanking. Slut shaming. Voyeurism. Dumbification. Degradation.

Nav to the Series ->{𝑷𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑻𝒉𝒚 𝑨𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒕𝒆}

You skidded to a halt when you spotted a certain dark-haired man with his head buried in the book. You backtracked in between the shelves, plopping onto the table beside his book with a small thud.

Tom did not raise his head. You frowned.

You were starting to catch onto Tom who had grown much cooler and indifferent to you, ever since you gave yourself to him that night.

It was as if Tom had grown bored of you, even.

You blinked away the awful thought.

“What did you want, Y/L/N?”

A tired voice. A cold murmur, as if dispelling the sentence was a nuisance in itself.

“Just passing through the library, and I happened to come across you,” you responded.

Tom hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I would have believed you,” he breathed out, closing the book. “If it weren’t for the very suggestive ribbon you’re wearing around your neck.”

Your fingers flew to a black string tied in a bow knot. It was a new thing that you decided to give a try, ribbon thoughtfully purchased from Hogsmeade. It was a wonder how Tom always knew everything without ever looking up.

Tom raised his eyes from his book from your lack of response. “And your shirt, apparently,” his gaze flickered down to your chest underneath the V that subtly dropped lower than usual from one more button that you decided to unbutton.

“You can always read me like a book,” you chuckled. But, your chuckle soon died down as his tired gaze already shifted away from you.

Without a word, he closed the book, tucking it into his satchel.

“Where are you going?” you asked, trying to conceal the panic behind a pitchy, forcefully jovial voice.

“Greenhouse,” he sighed, resuming to pack his things. “ Beery’s asked me to plan the next lesson for him.”

“I’ll come with you,” you hopped off the desk and jogged after him, ignoring the very audible sigh through Tom’s nostrils.

You quietly followed behind Tom. It somehow felt like it was not in your place to walk beside him. You pondered, gazing up at his large, silent back as you two went up the stairs.

It suddenly hit you how much their relationship had changed. You furrowed, thinking back to when Tom used to be the one chasing after you, waiting for you at every corner.

You’ve just become one of them, a sinister voice whispered in your head. All those stories that so many girls used to tell you. The woeful story of how the magnificent Tom Riddle had left them, used and forgotten. You’ve never paid any heed to them, mostly because you never understood what caused them to obsess over Tom Riddle. But now, as you looked up to the ever-silent back that was growing more distant from you, you were hit by an unsettling feeling that you were quickly becoming one of those cautionary tales.

It was a foggy, damp day to be in the greenhouse. You perched yourself on one of the student stools, your absent-minded gaze following the recognisable shapes and colours of students' house robes. laughing and walking by behind the fogged-up glass panes.

Your eyes caught sight of your chest showing through the top of your shirt. You winced and buttoned it up to your usual spot again. You pulled your arms together, shuddering in the greenhouse air that was somehow too cold contrary to the sunny day outside.

You watched silently as Tom gathered up a few books and set to work at the professor’s desk. It drove you crazy, observing every twitch of the muscle, every sigh, searching for any sign of him growing tired of you.

You cleared your throat. Tom did not raise his head, still scratching something across the parchment with his quill. Your eyes agitatedly wandered around the room, your feet tapping against the legs of the stool.

You swallowed hard, deciding to use a term you came across the other day.

“Can I help you with anything, daddy?”

The distinct scratching paused. Tom’s shoulders tensed, the silence growing.

You stifled a smile as Tom’s eyes blinked a few times at the parchment, his expression still as marble. But, you were certain his eyes weren't t really following the lines of his notes. Instead, his eyes perked up.

Tom heard you, and it got his attention.

As if being released from a spell, his shoulders relaxed as the constant scratching of the quill returned to the room.

Disappointed, you sighed. You gave it your all. It was time to admit defeat and return to your life. You hopped down from the stool, ready to leave the greenhouse. Perhaps you could join Abraxas and his friends on the Quidditch pitch, most likely practising for the next match.

“Y/L/N.”

The calm, deep voice called to you from behind.

You turned on your heels, finding Tom, still in his seat, the quill immobile in his hand. But, he was now looking at you. Hesitation flashed for a moment in his stern eyes before he angled the chair out of the desk. Without a word, he eyed meaningfully down at his lap before his challenging gaze returned to you.

A smile broke out on your lips and you skipped up to the front of the classroom, and gladly took on the offer. You perched yourself down on his left leg and watched Tom return to his work, the elegant lines running across the parchment under his quill. Tom lazily wrapped an arm around you, placing his hand on your arm somewhat possessively.

It was then when you noticed Tom’s cock, already hard, against your hip.

You restrained a grin that was threatening to spread on your face. Perhaps you haven't lost Tom Riddle just yet. “So,” instead, you tilted your head up at him, “there’s really nothing I can help you with?”

“Daddy?”

You added, inwardly cheering victoriously when you felt his cock twitch to the word.

Tom, however, refused to admit his involuntary reaction. He continued his steely gaze down at the parchment. But, his lips parted, taking in a breath to choose his words wisely.

“I know what you’re doing, Y/L/N,” he said coolly.

You hummed, standing up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumbled. You leaned forward over the desk, pretending to show interest in his notes, while very aware of his eyes that flickered over to your ass cheeks, clad in lacey thongs, peeking through your skirt.

You gasped as Tom skillfully slapped your ass cheek, making it shake for him. “We’ve got to do something about your attitude,” he murmured.

That one actually hurt. You bit down on your lips, still feeling the throbbing heat that was bound to leave a handmark.

“Well, you’ve asked for it,” he raised his brows nonchalantly at the scandalised eyes that you directed at him.

“Here’s your lesson,” Tom nudged at the desk, urging you to get up on it. His voice was more frigid and unsympathetic than before, if that was somehow possible. “Turning someone on.”

You climbed onto the desk, suddenly very aware of the precarious height you were at. He threw his feet up on the desk, crossing his hands behind his head.

“Go on,” he nudged his head once more at the spot you stood on. “Turn me on.”

You swallowed hard. All the time you wanted Tom’s eyes on you, now that you had his complete attention as he stared up at you on the table, you wanted nothing more than Tom to look away.

Even while looking down at him, there was something about his gaze that made you feel so exposed and vulnerable, just an eye candy for him to carve into and dig his teeth into.

“Well,” Tom waved his hands in the air, “You have my attention now. What did you have to show me?”

It made you feel dirty, the way he looked up at you. Like some sex-crazed, depraved animal. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt. You dropped on your fours, and turned your exposed ass towards him. Your nervous eyes hesitantly flickered back to him. Your ass felt cold, exposed to the air of the greenhouse, but perhaps more so under the scrutinising gaze of Tom.

Tom waited for any more acts you were going to pull out. But, understanding that that was all you had, Tom leaned forward in his chair.

“No, Y/N,” he stifled a chuckle. “No, that won’t do at all.”

You huffed and composed yourself, crossing your legs off of the edge of the desk. “Well, men are visual creatures,” mortified that your attempt at turning Tom on caused him to laugh instead, you found yourself stammering defensively.

Tom covered his quirked lips with his fingers, still stifling laughter. “Yes, that is true,” he mused. “But, lust is an art form. Men aren’t so different from women in that sense. It requires a certain level of creativity. An element of surprise,” he explained with a languid imitation of jazz hands.

“Think about the man in front of you,” you tilted your head at his words, actually starting to find the lesson insightful. “Who is he? What does he like?”

He leaned towards you, his mischievous eyes glinting as they looked up to you.

“What is his deepest desire?” his voice dropped into a whisper, as if he was disclosing humanity's darkest secret.

You sunk into deep contemplation with the new challenge. Your furrowed eyes traced a line across the stone floor, soil and leaves scattering it.

“Come now, you’re a smart girl, Y/N.”

His collected voice brought your eyes back up to him. He was studying you, as always, his hand supporting the weight of his head. His index finger drummed a rhythm against his cheekbones, waiting. His sharp, intellectual eyes gazed at you head-on, challenging you.

You’ve known Tom Riddle jr. for 8 months now. Abraxas Malfoy for your whole life.

Your eyes hardened with determination.

You slid down onto the floor under the watchful gaze of Tom Riddle, crawling towards him. You watched his neck tense as, little by little, your face moved forward in between his legs, approaching his cock.

With a long exhale, you placed your head on his crotch, tilting your head. You pouted, the most innocent look that you’ve masterfully recreated from one of the magazine covers. “I need you, daddy,” you mumbled into his cock.

Tom Riddle remained still as a statue, his steely gaze taking you in.

You pushed on. “I’ve been such a good girl, haven’t I?” you nipped at his cock over the cloth before looking up at him with doe eyes, your saliva staining his black trousers. The butterflies fluttered in your stomach, your thoughts nervously wondering what it would be like to taste a cock. His cock, specifically.

Not easy, you figured, from his size.

“Not bad,” he said nonchalantly, shifting his weight in the chair, “Creativity based on my preferences.”

You smiled proudly. Encouraged by his praise, you stood up from the floor. Under his confused eyes, you climbed up to the desk again on all fours.

You placed your head down on the desk, your two hands on your ass cheeks. You looked back at Tom, his curiosity evidently peaked as he slightly leaned forward in his chair.

You spread your ass cheeks for him, your red laces splitting into the middle.

“Use me, daddy?”

Now, this was too good. You stifled a smile, watching Tom’s jaw drop. An element of surprise, you smirked to yourself.

You waited patiently as Tom drew in a long breath. Now the notes, the books, the plants were forgotten. The air thick with lust, all Tom could see was your pussy, waiting for him, beckoning him.

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

You nodded obediently, smiling up at him.

He shook his head, his eyes wandering around the room in search of another way to rephrase this. “You realise I am not going to be gentle this time,” he said. “Now, I ask you again: Are you certain?”

Your eyes wavered for a second. The curiosity peaking at what Tom Riddle would be like if he didn’t pull back. A taste of Tom Riddle at his 100%.

It scared you, how far you were willing to go, what you were willing to do.

If it meant having Riddle’s long cock up inside you one more time, you were ready to kill a man.

You nodded once more, this time ever more certain of its consequences.

#professor!tom riddle #daddy!tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle au #tom riddle #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fic #tmr #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #harry potter #dom tom riddle #dom!tom riddle #tom riddle series #tom riddle x fem!reader #harry potter fanfiction

375 notes · View notes

cornershopcowboy · 2 years

Text

Icemav - Flying Solo

Hurt/Comf Words: 820

Maverick didn’t like to fly alone. Not many people knew. Goose had known, but now Goose was gone. Ice knew too, but only because he’d walked in on a Maverick Panic Attack, and hadn’t left until he knew the root cause of it.

He’d rubbed his back as Maverick ugly-cried into his chest, heaving sobs racking his frame. “I don’t want to fly,” he’d said, “I can’t fly on my own.” Then and there, Ice had taken it upon himself to make sure Maverick never flew alone if he didn’t have to. He’d hold his hand on the way up and on the way down, easing them into the air. Wingman, I won’t ever leave you.

He’d tried to say it before, but the words got stuck in his throat every time, so he resorted himself to squeezing Maverick’s hand and hoping he knew what that meant.

The first time Maverick went up alone in a matter of months, he came down pale and shaking, collapsing into Ice’s arms as he held him, stroking at his hair. The held hand before had done nothing to dull his nerves, the unreasonable fear of falling that no pilot should have. Maybe not unreasonable.

He’d seen it happen.

He was shushed and cradled until the burning question started pricking holes in his tongue, jumping up and out his throat: “What if you’re not there before anymore” His voice was weak, trembling as he tried to stay upright, looking up through long eyelashes and knitted brows.

Iceman’s heart melted, aching in his chest. And to think he was ice cold, no mistakes. Well whoever said that hadn’t seen what Maverick did to him, especially when he was like this; so small and vulnerable. Ice hadn’t known Mav was capable of such displays, but here they were, the smaller man cradled to his chest as if the world was out to get him.

As if Ice could protect him from it. A lovely fantasy, surely. “Mav.. Maverick-” He began, biting his lower lip. The aforementioned pilot looked up, expectant, hanging onto his words, which only piled on the pressure of what Ice was expected to deliver. “Maverick, I care about you. I didn’t- I didn’t realise how anxious flying solo made you. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. Christ, Mav, I promise you won’t fly alone again, not if I can help it. I’ll talk to the Admirals, hell I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen, I swear-” Ice’s hands travelled to grip Mavericks shoulders, holding him firmly as if he’d melt into the floor at any given moment, swept away by the tide. Ice blinked the unshed tears from his eyes. He looked so.. unsure, scared, even. It broke Ice’s already melting heart. A hand drifted up to cup Mavericks face, watching as he leant into the small touches, the thumb Ice ran across Mavericks cheek as the tears started rolling. Say something. Say something goddamnit. Ice kissed Mavericks forehead softly, closing his eyes. Say something.

“Wingman..” He forced out, letting his eyes wander over Mav’s face, those big green eyes, those worried creases, the slight pout of his lips. “Wingman I won’t ever leave you” He managed, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He had to be strong. For Maverick. For his wingman. His wingman who was trying to stop his sniffling, trying to be quiet as Ice continued, trying to pull words from thin air. “When you said I could be your wingman, I was ready. I’d never been more ready for anything in my entire life. You mean so so much to me. I will happily be your wingman. For however long you’ll have me” Despite all his blinking and desperate hoping, a tear tracked its way down Ice’s cheek as he looked down at Maverick. His whole body ached, as if it wanted to wrap around the smaller pilot, shield him and hold him close, all at once.

“I love you Maverick.” The words were out before he could process them, Ice’s eyes widening along with Mavericks. “Shit no- Maverick I’m sorry- I didn’t-” Ice hastily backtracked. Surely it was just the emotion, the effect of the shell-shocked man in his arms. “I love you too, Ice” Came the small reply from the even smaller pilot.

And just like that, the solid ice cube of Tom Kazansky’s heart melted. I love you too, I love you too Ice.

A grin split his face, both hands holding Mavericks' lovely, pretty face. It was the kind of face Ice would never get bored of looking at. His twinkling green eyes, his soft lips, the squint lines forming in the corners of his eyes.

Maverick pushed himself up onto his tiptoes, kissing Ice quickly yet sweetly. “You massive sap” he chuckled, shoving the taller man gently in the chest, causing his chest to ache further. “I won’t leave you either, wingman.”

#top gun maverick #top gun #icemav #maverick x iceman #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #fluff #topgun #hurt/comfort #im hurtin #love these two #icemav fic #fic #fanfic

163 notes · View notes

queenofyumcha · 4 months

Text

excerpt from 'take heart, beloved'

CW// unhealthy relationships

Ship in this excerpt - Geralt/Duny

-/-

Emhyr can feel himself growing attached.

It is inadvisable to grow fond of a man whose place in the court's hierarchy is even lower than yours, even less certain. And yet, here he is. The Witcher, in his quarters far later than is appropriate, at a time when he ought to be gracing his wife's bed. He cannot help it, that is the lie he tells himself. It is odd, in a court full of nobles, that by far the kindest man is here, by his side. A monster-hunter, kinder and more accepting than any lordling.

The fire is dying low in the hearth, but a gesture from Geralt and the flames leap up again, licking ferociously at the barrier that prevents them from spilling forth and burning all that they can reach. Geralt's thigh pressed next to his, they sit side by side, with an intimacy that is- damning, should anyone see them.

"Why do you stay, Geralt?"

He's uncertain he meant to say anything at all. Perhaps it was whimsy that pulled those words forth, as he sits warm from the fire that had never brought comfort to these cold rooms before. Perhaps it is Geralt's company that warms him and not the fire, perhaps it's merely that he's cheered from the good company- perhaps that is why he asks.

Say you stay for me.

Say you stay because you cannot bear the thought of leaving me. I care not if it is a lie- if you must lie, tell me a comforting one.

He gestures, flippant and casual, and he knows the wine has softened him. "I know this child is, by law, and by destiny's hand, as much yours as they are mine, but I did not think Witcher's wished for children."

"It is a tradition for Witcher's to claim the Law of Surprise when asking for a reward. Children... are often the desired outcome."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"...You know many things, Duny, but not this?"

"One cannot know everything, Witcher, but I am flattered you think so highly of me."

The Witcher laughs, the sort that is startled out of you- an honest, sudden burst of mirth. It is a sound that brings Emhyr a soft sort of joy, the kind that emanates heat, the kind that makes its home in his chest.

He wants to hold that emotion close and never let go.

What he would do, what he would endure, if only to be able to feel that joy for the rest of his life-

"I do."

Geralt smiles, settling back against the cushions.

"Think highly of you, that is."

Emhyr looks at him in askance, measures the width of Geralt's smile, scans his cat eyes for dishonesty, and searches for anything, anything at all that will discourage him from the foolishness of what it is he wants to do. He finds nothing and cannot be disappointed with it.

He places his hand on Geralt's thigh, too high up, too intimate for it to be mistaken as anything other than what it is.

A proposition.

When Emhyr cups his face and kisses him, Geralt stiffens beneath him, all of sudden tense and still where he was once passionate and eager.

Emhyr has misstepped and he backtracks to apologise, uneasy in foreign territory. Geralt catches him by the wrist before he can fully retreat, pulls him close with a shuddering breath exhaled and Emhyr automatically feels himself run through the location of each and every weapon he has secreted away in his quarters.

The Witcher is not violent, does not press his advantage now that he has it, and has Emhyr braced against his chest. At this range, there is little he could do to defend himself, even if he had a dagger in hand. Emhyr knows that if the other man wanted to, he could snap his neck with little effort. He can feel it now, the power in the arm that holds him close.

But Geralt looks at him with something like startled pleasure- disbelief.

Geralt allows him to reposition them as he pleases, and allows him to touch and take as he pleases. As long as he keeps touching Geralt with care, with tenderness, his touches soft, affectionate, like those of a lover, the other man lies there and allows him anything. Emhyr kisses his brow and watches the Witcher melt beneath him, so used to cruelty that a dash of kindness is enough to undo him.

He pities Geralt. He is not used to pitying others, but that a single gentle touch could undo this man?

How cruel the world must have been to you, for you to see these acts of manipulation as kindness.

It will take years for Emhyr to remember these thoughts. It will take decades for Emhyr to realise he should have pitied them both.

Geralt must know that these touches are lies. Kind lies, tender lies, comforting lies-

But lies nonetheless.

They lie side by side, entwined in an embrace of lies.

#geralt x duny #emhyr x geralt #emhyr var emreis #geralt of rivia #UGHHH I forgot how much i loved this fic

7 notes · View notes

screechthemighty · 8 months

Text

Me when I actually finish a four part drabble collection for a possibly dead-ish ship in a fandom I don't even take part in anymore: Am I...better than everyone? (This is a joke, I know I'm not.) But yeah, last Miraith drabble! Is here!! I'm going to be switching pretty exclusively to Titanfall fic for the foreseeable future, so hopefully this is a good note to go out on! Full fic below, but I'll include an AO3 link in a reblog as well!

Having the impulse control of a toddler on crack was going to be the death of him one day. If not physically, then definitely psychologically. The only good thing he could say about the situation was that they weren’t mic’d up when it happened. No recording devices were allowed on the training grounds at all, actually, and security was tight enough that he wasn’t staring down the risk that their training sim run was being illicitly recorded. That left him the perfect opportunity to let this gem slip out of his mouth:

“Wraith, babe, I love you dearly, I’d follow you into pretty much anything, but…” Elliott doubled over and took a deep, gulping breath. “...I’m not doing that. I’m sorry. Like I said, love you dearly, but…”

It took saying it a second time for the words to sink in.

…that was out loud. That was out loud with my whole chest.

“...uhm.”

Wraith stared at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to backtrack, say he meant it as a joke or in a not-at-all serious kind of way. Elliott knew he should say something, but every single word died in his throat. She looked great that day. Well, she always looked great, even covered in blood in the hospital, but…

Wow. Yeah.

“...you don’t have to say it back,” he said quietly.

Wraith stared for a bit longer before turning away. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

She didn’t sound angry, not to him. Just kind of…soft? Hesitant? Elliott almost asked if that had been too much, but bit the question back at the last second. That felt like walking it back in spirit.

He didn’t want to walk it back.

They didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the session. The closest they came to talking about it came when another thought wormed its way out of Elliott’s brain and into reality. “You look beautiful today, by the way.”

That one, at least, got Wraith to smile. “Thanks,” she said.

Elliott took that as a sign that he hadn’t completely botched it up.

Or, at least…he hoped not.

Deciding how she felt wasn’t the hard part. Really, Wraith knew from the second the words left Elliott’s mouth. She’d been quiet in the moment because of how unexpected it was. Now…

We’ve already had so many rough conversations. Why is this the thing I’m struggling to say?

Paper cuts could hurt worse than broken bones, and sometimes three words were harder to say than thirty. Honestly, the more she grappled with the thought, the more convinced Wraith was that she was naturally not the kind of person to say those things, even if she felt them.

But I need to. I need to somehow. Elliott liked verbal affirmations. It was one of the first things she’d figured out about him. Even if she never directly said it out loud again…

Once. Just once. For his sake.

The unfortunate thing was, much like the kiss, it never seemed like a good time. They were at the start of a new season and it felt like most of their days were spent training, studying the new rule sets, giving interviews, or dodging giving interviews. They didn’t spend every second of down time together, and most of the time they did spent together either involved slouching on a couch watching bad television or Pathfinder being there. Not exactly the most romantic settings.

So what? Ellliott said he loved you at the shooting range. The location and off-the-cuff nature hadn’t made her feel less romantic. Considering their relationship history, she could probably say it anywhere and it’d make sense for them. She just had to get over her mental hurdle and say it. Preferably before we start doing matches and getting shot at. Or shooting at each other. She’d like to avoid saying it then if she could.

When an opportunity finally arrived, they were in Elliott’s room. The new season started the next day. They were supposed to be relaxing over dinner and not worrying about it. Elliott, of course, was worrying about it.

“Is the suit too much?” he said. “I dunno, I’m worried the suit is too much. Especially for a one-time thing.”

“Everyone’s doing too much. That's what opening day is for.” Wraith paused. “Okay, everyone but Narita.”

“I think they might’ve bullied him into a costume change this time, actually.”

“...oh no.”

“Yeah, they’re going to regret that one for sure. I don’t know how, but they’ll find some way to make him regret it.” Elliott laughed anxiously. “Maybe he’ll do something with his old mercenary group? Then again, that might be putting a target on his back out here, depending…sorry, I’m rambling again…”

“It’s fine,” Wraith said immediately. Elliott still buried his face in his hands and groaned noisily. “I get it. New season jitters.” She carefully took his hands. “Listen…”

She almost pointed out that he was expected to rank Apex Predator that season, but figured that would read as more pressure, not flattery. So, she tried something else.

“Just remember, I’ll have your back. And I love you no matter what happens.”

And there it was.

Wraith didn’t know why she’d stressed so much about saying it. It felt so natural, so…right. Even the startled look on Elliott’s face when he lifted his head didn’t take away from that. “...you mean that?” Elliott said. “I mean. Wait, that sounded bad…”

Wraith cut him off with a kiss. “I mean it,” she said. “Really.”

Elliott stared for another second. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Love you, too.”

It was so simple. And yet, at the same time, so beautiful. Whatever worries she had about the upcoming season didn’t matter.

One way or another, they’d always have this.

#apex legends #miraith #no but fr is this ship dead I literally haven't followed this game in. forever. last legend I heard about was uhhhhhh #-checks the lineup-#catalyst? and also kind of ash.#I think I maybe saw some ballistic fanart but #-points at vantage- who the shit is that #anyways there's probably like five of you left who appreciate my stuff so here have at it

9 notes · View notes

rikeijo · 11 months

Note

Hello! I hope I am not bothering but I just wanted to get someone off my chest. I was wondering what the Kubo meant when she said that rinks were similar to what members of the same club wears. It just kinda confused me when she says that considering how romantically the ring exchange scene is (seriously who gives each other rings in front of a church platonically!?)

No need to worry, I like discussing things too deeply😂 so you are not bothering at all! But another fujo rant comes in 3... 2... 1...

So yeah, the those rings are for clubmates interview... Imo, to understand why she said that, or why it was written (because she didn't say that publicly, so we can never know for sure), we need to talk about the difference between how western fandom approaches "representation" and how Jp fandom does.

Japanese fandom and representation

Things are progressing in Jp, too, but even to this day, a lot of people (that doesn't mean all) who call themselves "fujoshi" don't want "representation" and don't want to be allies. They simply consume BL and, let's face it, p0rn, for their own enjoyment. It's in Jp only, but some time ago, somebody posted on twitter their graduation project on this topic - an article and video - if anyone can understand some Jp and is interested in this topic, it's worth giving a watch. The title is "同性愛嫌悪的にBL・GLを愛でる私たち", "We, who homophobically love BL and GL" .

I've mentioned it before, but in case of YoI, there was, eg., a random article from a gay journalist, a figure skating fan, who wrote about how good that dinner scene in ep. 10 was. And it was really, really good - Jp is a country, where a lot of people still think that being gay is bad for society, that gay people are unproductive, so it's okay that they face discrimination. So that scene, where Phichit just congratulates Y&V on their marriage like it's the most natural thing in the world, is incredibly powerful. Yet in fujo spaces, that article was bashed, obviously - "Why did he write something like that? It doesn't have anything to do with those LGPTs. We just like playing with the characters, but they are not gay...".

BL is not LGBT?

Why you ask? Well, if you like fantasies about semes raping ukes etc. then you probably don't want to be told "hey, that's actually discrimination and homophobia, you really should stop that... Semes and ukes don't exist, most people switch...". That's why a lot of fujos insist that BL is something completely separate from LGBT issues. And that leads us to...

Another thing that I also ranted about in the past - that fujos hijack almost all depictions of same-sex attraction between men in mainstream media deeming them "fujoshi fanservice". So YoI is most often discussed as "fujo-pandering anime", and not as "anime with gay representation" the way it is in the western fandom... And it also had a lot of antis, because quite a lot of people dislike fujos. Some of the most popular lines you see in YoI reviews are: "it would be so much better without the weird fujo pandering...", "it was good, but that weird fujo pandering was unnecessary".

Went so far, so why no confirmation?

So finally giving the answer to the question... I believe, that there was very little incentive from the marketing point of view - society is homophobic, industry is homophobic, fandom is homophobic - to actually announce that Y&V are really gay and in love. Most fujos are only interested in Yuuri being uke and Victor being seme (so many fujos wished for IceAdo to fail and I hope that karma will come back to them...). So after the show ended, in my opinion, what is in Jp called koushiki (so people who run the IP and seriously it's not "Mappa"...) really wanted to get rid of the "fujo pandering" reputation (and fujos to a certain extent too, probably, because they've got so rabid that a bunch was even sued for online harassment) and started to backtrack on some things - avoiding rings, avoiding Y&V only arts, even avoiding Y&V only merch, which would sell like crazy. And yeah, Mitsurou and VAs sometimes pushing the narrative that "it's not that serious". They also started promoting Yurio instead. I think, from their perspective, it was the safe choice for the IP... Make it for "everyone", not only for fujos.

Where we are now...

Only it wasn't, in the end... The great koushiki vs. fujos war started (fujos started acting as "rings police", attacking staff members on twitter, doxxing Avex's employees, so on) and long story short, two years later YoI+IceAdo trailer did very bad at cinemas (in the first week out of ~170000 seats, only ~17000 were sold, that's ~90% empty seats - well, a little less maybe, because I'm not sure if special tickets are included in these statistics)... That's my opinion, but I think that was the most likely reason why IceAdo wasn't released in 2019. With such a big Jp distributor, they probably started to fear it will flop. Or the other way - the distributor decided that it would probably flop after seeing these numbers - allegedly, the first rumor that something is wrong was from that distributor's employee.

The very sad reality is that we are in 2023 now, and koushiki pretends YoI doesn't exist... If you think about it, it's really extraordinary... Even without the movie, they could release "VicYuu merch" and it would sell like crazy, but their stance has always been "Well yeah, but we prefer to not earn money, actually 😘 Want to play a game where Victor and Yurio bully Yuuri together, maybe?".

That was long again... I'm sorry, but it's just not possible to give an honest answer in a few sentences.

#yoi fandom and fujo culture #ask

16 notes · View notes

spaceshipkat · 1 year

Text

I posted 22,566 times in 2022

That's 7,231 more posts than 2021!

1,416 posts created (6%)

21,150 posts reblogged (94%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@satan-incarnate-666

@itsrapsodia

@sleepingfancies

@rollingwiththedead

@longsightmyth

I tagged 11,264 of my posts in 2022

Only 50% of my posts had no tags

#our flag means death - 2,675 posts

#blackbonnet - 1,068 posts

#fanart - 963 posts

#spoilers - 673 posts

#anti sjm - 661 posts

#our flag means death - 586 posts

#the witcher - 549 posts

#ask - 405 posts

#anti hosab - 387 posts

#our flag means death - 384 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#‘you’re one of us!’ and bc she and i both have undercuts and i am not out when my mom asked ‘one of us how?’ she quickly backtracked to say

My Top Posts in 2022:

this is a fantastic interview. some highlights:

“There are no interactions between Izzy and Jim in the first season,” says Vico. “Now Jim is stuck in Blackbeard’s or the Kraken’s ship. So, it’s like, how would that look like? And there is this sort of potential dynamic for both of them to admire their skills because they’re both incredible fighters. [They’re] both the most skilled people on both ships.”

“So now they’re in the same space, and it’s like, who is better? How can we outdo each other? And then in that process, end up actually connecting and being like, ‘hey, I respect you. And we actually might be getting along in our own weird ways. It’s like, actually, we have more in common than we thought. And actually, we are able to open up each other in that way,'” adds Vico. “So I’m super down for that. And then as Vico, I’m like, yes, if I ever get to wear Izzy’s clothes, I would love that.”

and

“What’s beautiful about Jim’s arc in the revenge [sic] is that the second the beard is off, even though there were the questions and stuff on episode four, the crew treats Jim the same, and it’s something that for them, ‘it’s like, oh, hey, wow.’ So it would be interesting to explore if the beard comes back on [for season two],” says Vico, adding that they “literally have no idea what the writers are writing for a second season.”

336 notes - Posted June 2, 2022

small moments in our flag means death that deserve more attention

Ed's jaw clench when Lucius says "and that bizarre little man over there likes you very much and you like him"

Stede's eyes remaining closed for several seconds after the kiss

how, while Stede is pulling the sword out of Ed and they’re making those hilariously weird sounds, Izzy goes from a horrified "oh my god," to a teary "oh my god," and finally to a furious "oh my god"

Stede's "fab!" upon finding the trousers he was looking for only to then strip out of them for Ed to wear

Ed comes out of the fancy party in episode 5 visibly upset and immediately both Stede and Frenchie are like "WHO HURT YOU? I'M GONNA FIGHT THEM"

Stede’s indignant “eat an apple for God’s sake!”

the subtitle in The Art of Fuckery for the Swede’s singing being “angelic singing”

Roach clutching his chest when Stede says his cake barely tasted of oranges in ep7

feel free to add on

565 notes - Posted April 24, 2022

not really doing the whole season 2 wishlist blah blah thing but. just imagine, for a second. the absolute unbridled chaos that would erupt in the fandom if, the first time Stede and Ed are reunited, Ed tilts Stede’s chin up with the tip of his sword. i’m going into cardiac arrest just thinking about it, can you imagine how many deaths would result from it really happening?!

896 notes - Posted June 1, 2022

when Stede returns to the Revenge i want Ed to be dressed in this

for reasons. either one will do.

2,503 notes - Posted October 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

congratulations! you’re now a pirate. your seventh most recent emoji is the symbol on your flag. mine is ™️

37,739 notes - Posted October 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #false #okay but why are there three ofmd tags 😂#all spelled exactly the same

4 notes · View notes

one-sad-human · 3 years

Text

•Worth It• Duff Mckagan

Pairing: Velvet Revolver era! Duff Mckagan x Younger! Reader

Requested? Nope!

Theme: Little bit of everything/???

Warnings: Language, panic attacks, anxiety references, drug references

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Fic 2 of 2! This is the longest fic yet! Took a different approach to writing this one, hopefully it payed off. Let me know if you guys liked it or if I wasted my time with this one lol.

You had met Duff in a coffee shop in LA. It was crowded and you were lucky enough to snag a chair before the lunch rush. Duff wasn't, and asked you if he could sit at your table.

You grew up with Guns n Roses, bought his solo album the day it came out when you were just 15, and now listened to Velvet Revolver faithfully. To see your idol, your celebrity crush stand right in front of you holding a cup of coffee and a scone sent you for a loop.

"Of course," you had said, starry eyed. You were only hoping he was as kind as the interviews made him out to be. Maybe have a conversation with you and be polite for a while before leaving and never seeing each you again. That would be good enough.

It didn't end with a coffee, it had just begun. He asked for your number, and you stared at him for a moment thinking you had imagined it. That was until he tilted his head a little and looked at you with a nervous expression. He backtracked and you immediately stopped him.

"No! I mean— yes! Yes, you can absolutely have my number." You scrambled for a pen and paper and ended up scratching your number on a receipt from the record store. You shook so hard you could barely get the numbers down.

Out of all the record store receipts you've stuffed into your bag, the one you gave Duff Mckagan had to be the one for when you bought Velvet Revolver's 'Contraband.' He didn't say anything, just smiled and promised to call.

You honestly didn't think he would've. You played it off as just him trying to be nice. It didn't stop you from answering every call you got for the next three days, however, even if you recognized the number as the tax collector you'd normally never answer.

But then he called.

"I tried calling sooner, but I kept calling the wrong number. You don't have the most eligible handwriting," he had told you. You laughed but really, you were in shock.

You set up a date at the fancy restaurant downtown that always intimidated you. You didn't say anything though, even though you knew you wouldn't want any of the overpriced food and you'd end up eating something you couldn't pronounce and was two portions too small. Maybe even hit up a fast food joint afterwards.

When the day finally came, you couldn't even figure out what to wear. You couldn't tell if you looked underdressed or like you were trying too hard. Did the clothes even fit the right way? What would Duff think? Would he even care?

All questions were answered when you left your house. Duff was leaning against his slick car parked in your driveway, a button up that was barely buttoned and dress pants with boots. He stared at you and you wanted a hole in the ground to shallow you up until he smiles.

"You look gorgeous," he said. You blushed and grinned, thanking him before saying that he looked great too. He drove you to the restaurant and on the way, you talked about music.

You shared some of your favorites, he adored how well rounded you were. You liked pretty much everything from punk rock to the mellowest of mellow. Duff mentioned some of his favorites, some you made sure to remember the names of so you can check them out.

When the ride was over and you finally got to the restaurant, your previous fears came back. Duff reassured you looked better than 90% of the people there and you knew it wasn't true but it made you feel better anyway.

Your eyes widened to the size of saucers when you saw the prices of the food. You knew it'd be pricey but you thought there'd be more options that stayed within two digit numbers.

Duff saw your panicked expression and said not to worry, he'd pay. It didn't settle your nerves enough and when the waiter came, you ordered the cheapest and simplest thing you could find.

"Chicken noodle soup?" He teased. You shyly looked down and shrugged. "This isn't your scene, is it?"

"Not exactly, no."

"Want me to be completely honest with you?" You nodded. "It's not mine either."

That's all it took for you and Duff to scramble sheepishly out of the restaurant. You both shared a laugh in the car and went to Burger King. It was much more your speed and, as you'd find out that night, Duff's too. You suppose all the money he's had since such a young age didn't completely change his ways. He was like a kid trapped in a 40 year old man's body.

You'd thought at first the age gap would feel strange, after all, you were 15 years younger than him. But after that night, it was barely noticeable. Funny looks from strangers every once in a while was nothing.

By the second date, Duff was already aware fancy spots weren't your forte. He told you it was a surprise and to wear something cozy, as LA nights got chilly.

He packed a picnic basket and drove you out to the most beautiful flower field you had ever seen at sunset. It was secluded and high up, giving a perfect view of the city skyline. After gawking and taking in the sights for a few moments, you regained your ability to speak.

"It's gorgeous. Pretty far from the city, did you take me here to kill me?" You joked. He laughed and rolled his eyes. His lighthearted laugh sent sparks straight to your heart, and you decided that it was your favorite sound.

You unfolded the blanket Duff brought and you both sat down. You ate the sandwiches and sliced fruit Duff packed and talked. You talked about everything, from your family to fears and insecurities.

You told him how you suffer from nightmares. Flashbacks from your broken childhood coming back to bite you in your sleep. Duff shared how he's suffered from panic attacks since he was a teenager. You felt you knew each other for years.

Neither of you felt weird for sharing and neither made the other insecure. You were completely open and honest with each other. It was strange, you've never connected to quickly and effortlessly with someone before. Sure, you've had men in your life, but never had you clicked with someone so fast, never had you fit with someone so perfectly.

Hours passed and it felt like minutes. Only did you realize how late and how exhausted you were when you saw most of the city buildings light have gone off for the night. The city that didn't sleep was dark.

"I should get you home," Duff said to you.

"Will you stay the night?" You felt a little silly for asking. Were things going too fast? Would he even want to stay over?

He agreed, and that's how your first night together went. You both stayed up even later and had more lighthearted conversations, unlike the ones that partook at the field. Like how one of Duff's first jobs was at a bakery and could bake a mean cake and how you can't cook to save your life.

You ended up waking up without remembering falling asleep. You're head was placed comfortably on Duff's lap while his head was lolled back against the couch cushion. He looked so serene and peaceful you couldn't help but smile at the sight.

You made toast and somewhat successfully cooked some eggs and bacon. It might have been the first breakfast in years that didn't end with the smoke alarm going off.

Duff eventually wandered into the kitchen and you both ate. By the time he left, another date was already set up. He was like a drug an you were already hooked.

Months later and the addiction still wasn't kicked. You didn't want to, and Duff didn't seem to want you to quit either. You both soaked each other up like the sun on a warm day.

You had almost weekly dates and you stayed over each other's houses almost every other day. Duff did have his kids some days, though, so some days dates were cut short or Grace and Mae slept over his house and you wouldn't see each other.

You were always understanding, his kids came first and you'd never blame or get upset about it. It's something Duff admires about you, your never ending understanding and empathy for him.

One of those days where Duff stayed over at your house started normal. He cooked dinner and you washed the dishes, and then you put on an old Ramones concert you had on DVD.

You were laying on his chest, his fingers running through your hair when all of a sudden, he tensed up. He quickly stood and excused himself to the bathroom. You frowned but before you could think much of it, you heard a loud bang and something clatter to the ground.

You jumped up and rushed to the bathroom. You swung open the door because you were perfectly aware the lock hasn't worked since you moved in.

Duff was sitting on the floor, a pill bottle laying on its side not far from him. You quickly spot the name of the medication and identified it as your anti-anxiety pills. You shoved them aside and sat next to Duff.

He was sweating bullets and his skin felt cold and clammy, his breaths were labored and heartbeat was loud and pounding erratically. You coax him gently to take deep breaths, holding onto his hand tightly and talking quietly.

"I'm sorry, they come on randomly sometimes," he apologized after he'd called down, but you quickly shushed him. You reminded him of just how many nightmares he'd comforted you for and he stops feeling so bad about it.

It was always a true partnership with Duff. Never had you felt you gave or took too much, it was always equal. Always a two way street, with everything.

That wasn't the last panic attack you had to help him come down from. Later down the line you've gotten better at calming him down and learning his triggers, even though sometimes they really do come on suddenly without reason.

A year into the relationship was when you met Grace and Mae. They were young and didn't completely understand why their parents weren't together anymore, so it took them a while to warm up to you. Luckily, they eventually came around.

Duff and Susan met up regularly to discuss their kids and co-parent properly. And while you had all the reason to be jealous of your boyfriend with his ex wife, you never did. You had complete confidence in him, he was honest and loyal and you doubted he'd ever hurt you purposely.

That's why it destroyed you when he left you. Tears were shed from both parties as he gave his reasons for breaking up with you. His insecurities he tried his best to bury had come to light and nothing could change his mind.

You thought you were completely honest with each other, but you suppose his doubt in his relationship with you was the one thing he kept secret. He had somehow convinced himself you'd be better without him, between the constant touring and the baggage that came with him and his kids, he finally buckled under the weight and stress.

You had tried to convince him that he was worth it, but if Duff is one thing it's stubborn. The best relationship you'd ever have and the best year of your life went down the drain within the matter of one conversation.

You were down in the dumps for days. You barely left your bed and didn't ever leave your house. You were in a depression and couldn't get out. A few of your friends eventually found out what had happened and broke into your house and shoved you into the shower before taking you to your favorite Chinese restaurant.

You felt like a disaster. Your hair was ratted despite the shower and you refused to put real clothes on, instead wearing sweatpants and a shirt Duff had left behind. You were a mess.

The hole in the wall restaurant was never busy but always had the best food. You were almost happy your friends dragged you out of your home until you saw Duff sitting at a table, eating egg rolls and lo mein.

You've came here together all the time. The high sodium in the food always made him sick to his stomach and you'd always end up giving him nausea remedies and tea. He never changed his order though.

You locked eyes with him for a while. Dark bags were under his eyes and he looked more pale than usual. He looked as terrible as you felt. You weren't sure if you were spitefully glad he felt awful or if the despair on his face just made your heart break further.

When you couldn't take his intense jade stare anymore, you looked up at the menu. The next time you looked back he was gone, you weren't sure if he was really there at all or if you were finally losing your mind for good.

Another week crawled by. You got better enough to continue working. You had to pick up extra time for calling out for a few days after the breakup. You wouldn't say things were going well, but you weren't crying in bed every day all day anymore.

You had constant dreams about him. Some were nice, ones where he didn't leave and you were together, holding each other tightly. Most were nightmares, flashbacks of when he left. You didn't have him to comfort you anymore when you woke up soaked in sweat and tears, and that might've been the worst.

Another week went by, and you were starting to get back into the swing of things. You still thought about him, even silly little things reminded you of him. Like when you would catch a sniff of freshly baked sweets like he'd bake you or certain songs playing on the radio. It also didn't help that you ran into people wearing Guns n Roses shirts on the daily.

You also refused to get rid of anything he'd left behind. Tee shirts, guitar picks he left from when he'd play for you, or CDs from bands he introduced you to. Reminders of what you lost were scattered around your home but you couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it.

Suddenly, it's been a month. You weren't over him, but you had a feeling you'd never be completely. He was something special, you can't forget things as special as your relationship with Duff.

His items still weren't thrown out or returned, instead all packed in a box sitting in your closet. But you'd be lying if you said you would never reach into the box to grab a shirt to sleep in or a CD to listen to when you needed a reminder of the good times. You were making progress though.

You decided to leave your house one evening. You were feeling especially terrible and wanted to take a walk to clear your head. You went to the coffee shop you had first met Duff in. Maybe it was a mistake to go and get a flood of memories but you couldn't stop yourself.

You sat in a seat near the window and people watched, taking occasional sips of your drink. It was quiet except from the talk of the workers and the hum of the overhead speakers.

There was a sudden squeak of a chair of hardwood floors and it broke you out of your daze. You snapped your gaze up to meet the very familiar green eyes you've been trying to forget.

"Can we talk?" He asked, and you couldn't say 'no.' Duff sat across from you and started off by apologizing.

He said he wanted to talk to you sooner, but was too afraid you wouldn't want anything to do with him. You rolled your eyes at that, if only he knew just how much you missed him.

He then started from the beginning and explained why he made the decision to leave you. As it turns out, it was mostly because of stress. His bandmate Scott was having problems with drugs and the flashbacks from his GnR days frightened him. He was worried he would end up relapsing and he didn't want to drag you down with him.

Combine that with all the troubles that came with dating a single father, and he couldn't take it anymore. He felt too guilty.

It all seemed like ridiculous reasons to you. Even if he had made the mistake of falling off the wagon, you still would've stuck with him. And you didn't mind his kids at all, after nearly a year of knowing them and you were very close to them.

"I love you, Duff. I wouldn't have left you over that, I'd help you through anything. And I love Grace and Mae, too," you told him.

"I know, but I didn't want you to have to deal with all that baggage." You frowned at that. You reached your hand across the table and grasped his, squeezing it tenderly.

"You're worth it."

After that day, you and Duff started seeing each other again. It wasn't the same as before, but maybe even better.

You were more transparent with each other. If one had a worry or problem, you'd go to the other. You talked everything through with him and he did the same. Even if it seemed insignificant, talking everything through never failed to make it better.

You were happier and healthier than ever before. Sure, there were a roadblock or two, but they only made the relationship even stronger, and you wouldn't have changed a thing about it.

#classic rock imagine #guns n’ roses #guns n’ roses x reader #guns n’ roses imagine #80s #duff mckagan fluff #duff mckagan x reader #duff mckagan #duff mckagan imagine

211 notes · View notes

undertaker1827 · 3 years

Note

Hi again! How are you doing? Can you a scenario with Undertaker, Edward, Ciel and Sebastian with a s/o who is scared to love because in their life, they only see relationships that end up with both people end up hurt and they're afraid to be in one? Keep up your work! You're doing amazing! :)

Hello! I’m good, hope you are too! And of course, (though I’m sorry, I kind of forgot about the tsundere-ish bit until the end) enjoy!

Masterlist

Undertaker

Undertaker had known for a while now that you loved him, and he loved you back. It took quite a bit of courage for him to even approach you to confess his feelings, even though he already knew you returned them, for fear of rejection. He had trust issues from various things that had happened to him throughout his long life and he also knew how short a human life was compared to his own, how quickly you could be ripped out of his arms by so little with him able to do nothing but watch. In the end, he decided to just go for it anyway, to tell you. And he felt like his chest had imploded when you rejected his advances.

Sadness radiated from you as you quietly told him you weren’t interested, then walked slowly away to his small kitchen where you put the kettle on for tea. He didn’t mention it again.

He worried over your reaction until he almost felt sick, worried that he’d upset you, that you would now want nothing more to do with him and that he had ruined this little piece of happiness he’d managed to scrape out of eternity. He’d never imagined your rejection came out of fear as well.

The mortician had been different since that day, try though he had to remain the same, and you too worked yourself up until you were fighting back tears as you tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, it was all down to you. He watched you spiral rapidly downwards for all of a few seconds before he realised where this was going, then did the only thing he could think of in that moment. Undertaker shoved his bangs to the side so you could see his eyes then kissed you, hard, for all of a few moments. It was enough to shock you out of your impending panic and with your chest still heaving, he gently told you that he was scared to love as well, scared to lose you. But if you were both scared of the same thing, you would could work through it together.

“I think,” you whispered, “I think I would like that.” The mortician offered you a small smile.

“I think I would too.”

Edward Midford

Edward had slowly come to the realisation that he loved you. He enjoyed your company, felt happier when you were there and was filled with an undeniable sadness when you left again. You had been walking through the streets of London together, talking animatedly about everything and nothing all at once. This was something you often did together, each taking comfort in the other’s presence and enjoying the escape from real life that your shared walks offered. This particular day though, you had not even made it halfway round your usual route before a friend came rushing up to you, needing your assistance for one thing or another, and you’d had to leave. You looked sad though, glancing over your shoulder at Edward as your friend chatted away, wishing you were still with him instead.

That led the knight to where he was now, wandering around one of London’s great parks and contemplating hi relationship with you. He was never one to beat around the bushes with regards to his personal feelings on any matter, least of all one where somebody else’s emotions were involved and they could potentially get hurt. As such, he decided that he would tell you everything as soon as he saw you again, which would be tomorrow’s usual morning walk.

Your heart leapt into your throat as soon as Edward asked if he could court you. You had both dreamed of and dreaded this moment for as long as you had held feelings for the man, which started to come about almost as soon as you met him. You swallowed once before politely declining his advances, the next few minutes of the walk continuing in silence. Upset as Edward was, he absolutely respected your decision. But he was sure you felt something for him, so he could help but ask you why. When he saw how that made you even more agitated, he immediately backtracked, apologising profusely and swearing never to bring it up again. Which in turn made you feel worse, because now you had inadvertently upset the man you loved even more.

That was how you ended up telling him, right there in the middle of your walk, that you would love nothing more than for him to court you, but you were too scared to say yes. You explained all of the relationships that you had seen go wrong and that you didn’t want you and him to become yet another one. He told you then that he’d seen much of the same as you, with friends and even some families, but he was still willing to give this a try if you were. After all; he loved you.

Ciel Phantomhive

Ciel too came to the realisation that he loved you slowly. There was no one moment where it just hit him, but more like he gradually came to the conclusion that he wanted to be with you for as long as he possibly could. He didn’t know if you returned his feelings or not, so he decided to wait a while before telling you, firstly to see how you behaved around him and try to decide whether your feelings for him went further than a strong bond of friendship, and secondly for him to get his courage up.

You were having tea in one of the Phantomhive manor’s many drawing rooms, Sebastian having left at Ciel’s request some time ago and no doubt going about his duties around the estate. This was the moment then; it was time to ask if you would allow him to court you. Of course, when you graciously and elegantly declined his request with an apology on your lips a light frown across your brow, he had no idea that in truth, your heart was breaking just as much as his. You loved him, you truly did, but you dared not admit it for the fear of any relationship ending in tears just as you had seen with those of your friends. Outwardly, Ciel took this rejection in a calm and collected manner, offering you his own apology, but it left a gaping hole in his chest in which there had been the hope for something more with you.

You each tried to continue like you had before, but with Ciel’s sadness and your fear, in the end you felt like he deserved the true explanation of why you refused. The moment you told the earl, a spark of joy lit up within him once more. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance that you would give this relationship a go, if the pair of you went slowly enough and if there was a solemn promise that your friendship would remain unchanged if and when your romantic partnership came to an end.

Sebastian Micaelis

Sebastian could help but admit that he was a little surprised at his own feelings when he came to realise what they were. He was a demon after all; demons weren’t supposed to acquire romantic attachments for anyone, let alone a human of all beings. Any human’s lifetime was a blink of an eye compared to Sebastian’s and the thought did give him pause when it came to you, though only for a moment. He could at least enjoy a romantic partnership with you while it lasted, and surely some time spent with you in this way was better than none at all.

The demon was sure you felt the same way about him. Identifying the emotions of others when they were so clearly displayed in their every action was simple, it was dealing with one’s own thoughts and feelings that was the difficult part. Sebastian was visiting you at your house when he told you how he felt about you, a cup of your perfect tea in one hand but the drink long forgotten. He saw the panic rise in your features as soon as the words left his lips, but he asked anyway if you felt the same. He was again surprised at the bleak sadness that filled him when you said you did not. He was sure he could sense conflict in you, but he dared not comment on it lest he push you away entirely. A friendship was better than you not being in his life at all, he decided, and he was determined for your current friendship to remain the way it was.

Sebastian carried on after that as if nothing had happened, simply hoping to maintain some sort of friendship with you after his impromptu confession. You, on the other hand, simply grew more concerned as the days passed by. You wanted to say you loved him back, because it was the truth, but you were scared that everything would go wrong as you had seen so many times before. Eventually, with trembling hands and a total lack of the courage you really wished you had, you told him everything. Sebastian was quietly overjoyed that you returned his feelings, though his only words to you were ones of comfort. He told you that he understood your fear and that it was perfectly normal even, but asked if you would give things a try anyway. For both your sakes, just in case things could really work out. It was hesitantly, if not with an air of excitement, that you agreed.

Ronald Knox

Ronald was well known amongst other reapers for being someone who moved very quickly between partners. He knew this about himself as well, it was just the way he was. That was why he was so surprised to find he was actually interested in you in the context of a long term relationship. You were interested in him too, though you didn’t expect him to feel the same way. On top of that, even in the unlikely event that he did feel the same way about you, you knew you would be too afraid of getting hurt and having any potential relationship end badly to try anything with him.

You felt a deep, aching sorrow in your chest when the one almost impossible scenario that you spent your time both dreaming and worrying about started to play out right in front of you. Ronald didn’t ask you out in a big room filled with lots of people, instead asking if he could walk with you after you both clocked off from work. The hurt was displayed clearly on the reaper’s face, much as he tried to hide it then brush it off entirely when you went to apologise. You felt awful when he made an excuse and went on his way not a few moments later, but what was worse was that when you went into work the next morning, a massive fire had broken out in the early hours somewhere in the centre of London and the night crew hadn’t been able to collect all of the souls. Which left you being paired up with Ronald to finish the job.

You each tried carrying on like nothing had happened the previous day, but found it was very difficult. Things changed though when you tripped over a charred piece of wooden beam and would have fallen straight through the fragile floor and down a storey to the ground below had Ronald not caught you.

“Guess you fell for me after all, huh?” He said this with a small yet sad grin, but the look quickly turned to a teasing smirk when your gaze dropped off to one side. “You did as well!” You grumbled something unintelligible as you still refused to look at him. “You know, you’re so pretty when you’re upset.” The reaper’s eyes were practically glowing with mirth and he knew full well you didn’t mean your next words.

“Oh, shut up!”

William T. Spears

William couldn’t really believe that he was about to do this. He always did his utmost to remain stoic and emotionless, void of attachments and only at work long enough to do his job and then go home. But then, along came you. He found quite quickly that he couldn’t keep his mind off of you,the way you acted and how you always seemed pleased to see him when nobody else was.

This was it, then. You tended to stay late and end up leaving around the same time he did, meaning you would both end up walking together until you left dispatch’s confines and went home your separate ways. You were coming out of your office at the same time as he was making his way down the corridor on this particular evening, and you gave the reaper a broad smile as he paused a minute to wait for you. He was collected as ever on the outside, even if internally his every nerve felt like it was on fire. Neither of you spoke as you headed towards the main exit from the office building, keeping pace with each other as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

William waited until you were outside to finally tell you how he felt, the soft and quiet confession feeling entirely foreign on his tongue. His apprehension steadily raised as the seconds went past until you finally answered, expression sorrowful yet decided. You looked up at him as you declined his offer, sadness settling in your chest as his characteristically stiff posture remained unchanged and he stared straight ahead.

“Alright, then. I apologise for having wasted your time.” With that, he was gone, long strides taking him away from you far too quickly. It was a decision made just as quickly that had you running after him, calling his name and asking him to wait. You were almost surprised to find that he did indeed stop and turn to face you.

“I - I’m sorry,” you attempted to explain yourself, “it’s just that I only ever see relationships end badly, and I just... don’t want it to be the same with you. You matter too much to me.” The reaper paused, an unexpected warmth settling in his chest at your words.

“Would you be willing to try?” William asked you cautiously, wondering if he could bear it if your answer was no. That worry dissipated, though, as he watched your lips curve up into a small smile.

“I think I would.”

494 notes · View notes

keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

612 notes · View notes

tennessoui · 3 years

Note

29 G.A.t.W. AU - The C.W.s start 2yrs early bc of Galactic Law EVERY Natborn in the GAR MUST be 18yr old. Obi-Wan is forced to leave behind his young Padawan. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.. Without the Masters being able to be there physically they have to start training programs to help the Pawadans. Every Master now has to teach certain subjects. Anakin finally sees a mind healer & finds inner peaces without the Council breathing down his neck. The Temple Locked Down so No Sith Influenc

so this is a beautiful ask and beautiful future and i followed it like i follow my google maps directions which means maybe 30% of the way but i was watching lord of the rings and thinkin about braids so here is this and i'm very sorry it's what it is

29. Going Away To War AU (Tatooine slave culture, 17!Anakin, preslash/Anakin's pining, mullet!Obi-Wan)(2.3k)

The Padawan braid isn’t the first braid Anakin learns about. It’s not even the fiftieth. By the time Qui-Gon Jinn, Queen Amidala, and Obi-Wan Kenobi land on Tatooine, Anakin is well-versed in the language of braids and what each means. He hadn’t had any of his own yet, seeing as how he was only nine with no accomplishments or triumphs or romantic entanglements to advertise, but if he had stayed on Tatooine, he’d probably have gotten his first braid after he won the podrace.

HIs mother would have done it with gentle hands and a proud smile, and their neighbors would have gathered outside their door to try and be the first one to congratulate him.

Braids are important. They’re sacred. Their style and the beads woven through the strands signify everything important to know about the Tatooinian wearing them. He’d see the freed people’s braids in the marketplace and burn with envy. He’d see a blushing girl braid her lover’s obsidian into his hair to signify courtship, and know one day he’d do the same to someone else. He’d practice his braids until his hands hurt from the motion, wanting to be perfect at it before he’d need to know. After all, as a slave, there wouldn’t be much else he could offer them except beautiful braids and beads.

There is only one braid he doesn’t know the meaning of, and it’s the one that hung down Obi-Wan Kenobi’s shoulder when they first met.

He thinks about asking him, even though it might be considered rude, but before he can, they’re at the Jedi Temple, then on Naboo and then Master Jinn is dead and Obi-Wan’s braid is gone, and Anakin thinks, oh. So the braid means love.

Mourners on Tatooine cut the braids off their dead and then a single braid from their own head, to mean that a part of themselves has died as well. Obi-Wan tries to be extra nice to Obi-Wan after that.

That is, until the man approaches Anakin with a serrated knife and a rueful grin and tells him that because the Council has allowed him to take him as his padawan, it’s time for Anakin to have the Padawan haircut.

The fit Anakin throws at these words could probably be heard back on Tatooine, but his new master must be made of the same strength Lukka crafts the sandstorms from, because an hour later, Anakin is looking at his shorn locks on the floor in a state of horrified shock.

Obi-Wan kneels down at his side as he begins braiding together the lone strand of hair Anakin has been allowed to keep.

“I’m sorry,” his master says quietly. “I know that your hair is very important to you on Tatooine.”

“How will I practice my braids now?” Anakin asks despondently. If he is to have short hair until he’s Obi-Wan’s age (ancient), then he won’t ever be able to practice the courtship braids. The engagement braids. The marriage braids. All the other ones too. Do the Jedi just present their beloveds with sloppy braids?

The thought has him near tears.

Obi-Wan looks very panicked. “Please don’t cry,” he begs. “Jedi apprentices shouldn’t cry.”

Anakin’s vision becomes even more blurred at this. Now he’ll never be able to practice his braids and he’s a bad Jedi.

“Oh blast, that’s not what I meant,” Obi-Wan backtracks, hesitantly putting his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. It’s not very comforting, but it’s the best Anakin has so he resolves to make do and lean into the touch. “Well. You can, uh. You can braid my hair?”

Anakin sniffles. “Your hair is short. And ugly.”

His master laughs and ruffles Anakin’s own short hair. “I’ll grow it out, just for you if it’s that important to you.”

He would? Anakin looks up at him hopefully. That could work. It even makes sense, kind of, for Obi-Wan to let Anakin braid his hair. After all, Anakin’s going to be wearing Obi-Wan’s braid, even though he doesn’t love him yet.

Maybe the Jedi do things differently. Maybe the Jedi weave the braid, and the love comes later.

---

“I remember a young boy telling me my hair was ugly,” his master says consideringly, as he lets himself be pushed to the floor while Anakin clambers onto the bed behind him.

“You bring that up every time, Master,” he sighs as he strokes his hands through Obi-Wan’s admittedly beautiful mane of hair. It’s not as long as he’d like, not really, but it doesn at least go down to his shoulders. “I don’t know how many times you want me to apologize.”

“Oh, just once more,” his master smiles with his voice. Anakin will miss this. Anakin doesn’t know how he’ll live without it, without Obi-Wan’s quiet wit and wry humor, his willingness to indulge Anakin no, even if it’s been eight years of braid-practicing.

“Once more might be all we have time for, Master,” Anakin whispers. His fears are not the sort one can say loudly.

“Do not think like that,” Obi-Wan turns his head to the side just enough so that he can look up at Anakin. “It will be fine. I will be fine.” “You’d be better if I came with you!” Anakin argues loudly. “You know I’m old enough! It’s not fair!”

His voice cracks on the last word, making him wince as Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow.

“The Jedi Council and all Republic legal branches have spoken. We will not take children into a warzone--”

“Then don’t, but I’m almost eightee--”

“--And I agree with them.”

Anakin’s fingers slacken on the strands of hair, loosening the braid. “You do?” he asks, feeling betrayed. “You want to leave me here at the Temple while you go get yourself killed on some Mid-Rim planet?”

“I want you safe, Padawan,” Obi-Wan corrects, breaking away from him so that he may stand up and sit beside him on the bed. “A war is no place for Jedi, but while us knights have no choice but to fight, we would keep our younglings as far from it as possible--even those younglings who are only a few months shy of being eighteen.”

“You’re taking away my choice,” Anakin says quietly, anger abating enough that he has to struggle to hide the fear in his voice. He brings his knees up against his chest and curls tightly into himself. “What if you die and--and--” he breaks off and pulls useless at his Padawan braid.

He knows what it means now after eight years spent at the Jedi Temple. It’s supposed to denote the Padawan from the Master, and signify the respect an apprentice has for their teacher.

But he’s never been able to shake his original conclusion that it was a representation of love, though he’d never say that aloud.

But when he touches it, sees it in the mirror, he’s reminded only of the love he bears for his master. A guilty, shameful love that takes up too much of his mind and heart. He’d fallen in love with Obi-Wan somehow. Now when Anakin dreams of marriage beads, his fingers are invariably braiding them into coppery blond hair. Now when Anakin dreams of--well, other things, it’s always Obi-Wan’s body beneath his, over his, inside of his, around his--

And now the galaxy is at war, the Knights and Masters of the Jedi Temple called to defend the Republic, and Anakin is too young to follow his master.

“And what, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks gently, hand coming up to unclasp Anakin’s fingers from his braid. “If I die, you will let me go as any Jedi would. I will become one with the Force and you will continue forward.”

Anakin almost wants to shake his shoulders. Doesn’t his master know anything about Anakin at all? How could Obi-Wan say these things as if he believes them? If Obi-Wan were to die--if he were to die away from Anakin, without Anakin--if the unthinkable were to happen--Anakin doesn’t know what he’d do.

A part of himself would die as well, he knows that immediately. He’d cut Obi-Wan’s braid from his hair so that the man could be buried with it, and he’d never weave another.

“Have faith in me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan tells him softly, hand falling to rest on his shoulders. “I will come back. Or perhaps in a few months you will join me.” He sounds falsely enthusiastic, like he’d do anything to keep Anakin away from the war.

As if Anakin would let that happen as soon as he’s legally able to fight.

“Will you let me braid your hair?” he whispers, slowly sitting cross-legged.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says immediately, sinking back to the floor.

“Will you keep them in this time? For as long as you can?” Anakin asks, shily, running his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair slowly, savoring the softness of the strands.

“I will do my best,” his master promises him. “What will they mean?”

“Good fortune,” Anakin replies, seeing the braid come together in his mind’s eye. Yes, good fortune, a plea to the gods who see Obi-Wan in battle to look the other way. To take someone else instead. He gets to work, collecting a chunk of hair on the left side of Obi-Wan’s temple to braid back.

Nothing’s fixed. Nothing’s better. The person Anakin’s pretty sure is the love of his life will be sent out to fight tomorrow at dawn, and he might die never knowing how Anakin feels about him.

But it’s not like Anakin can tell him either, not when he’s seventeen. Not when he’s Obi-Wan’s Padawan.

He’s always planned to wait until after he’s been Knighted, after Obi-Wan has been given enough time to see Anakin as a man who has a choice whether or not to love him. And, yes, the Code forbids attachment and Jedi cannot marry, but it’s not like Anakin would ever be able to marry Obi-Wan legally even on Tatooine.

But he could give him the braids, if Obi-Wan wanted. That way, when they both died, in their sleep of natural causes, the Goddess Leia knows to keep their souls intertwined as she transports them to their afterlife.

Anakin’s fingers pause as he thinks of something that would make him feel better.

He bites his lip. His mother would disapprove. To give the braids to someone without their knowledge is heavily frowned upon.

Anakin winces, even as his hands change direction. These are extenuating circumstances. There’s a lot at stake here. Anakin can’t risk a life and an afterlife without his master. And he’s going to ask him eventually. Just not now. Just not yet.

The braids for good fortune form a crown over one’s head. The braids for marriage…

They start similarly enough at the temples, but connect to each other at the back of the head, where a third braid is begun. Then each braid is braided into each other. The left braid represents the braider. The right braid represents their beloved. The third braid that begins when the two meet represents the life that they will create together.

Anakin holds the three braids loosely in his hands, staring down at them in some sort of surreal shock. This is not the circumstances he has imagined doing this under, but he’s heartbroken. Not when it’s Obi-Wan who will be wearing his braids.

“Dear one?” Obi-Wan asks, breaking the heavy silence. “I do not mean to rush you, but my knees are starting to hurt.”

“You’re so old,” Anakin quips back, stroking a thumb over one of the braids, the right one--Obi-Wan’s.

“And you are so very young,” Obi-Wan retorts. “The two of us together is the equivalent of one good soldier.”

Anakin’s heart pauses for a second. “Would you want that?” he asks nonsensically.

“What?”

“If you could choose. If I were eighteen. Would you want to be…” Just as suddenly as he gained that sudden burst of confidence, he loses it. He sighs, mostly in disappointment at himself.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan prompts.

“You’d want me there with you if I weren’t too young, wouldn’t you, master?” Anakin finally says.

Obi-Wan hesitates, and Anakin’s chest feels tight. “I would want you safe, regardless of age, dear one,” he settles on saying.

Anakin’s fingers clench down on the almost complete marriage braids. “But if there were no war,” he forges ahead. “If the war never happened. You wouldn’t want to leave me behind. You’d want to stay together.”

Anakin can just imagine the furrowed eyebrows Obi-Wan must be sporting as he tries to figure out what Anakin wants from him.

“Just answer the question,” Anakin begs, tightening his hold on the braids to prevent Obi-Wan from turning around.

“You are my Padawan, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says slowly. “And someone who will one day be my partner, my friend. I would like...very much to be allowed to see you finish growing into the fine man you will be. The one that in many ways you already are.”

“And then?” Anakin asks doggedly. “When we’re both knights. And you’re assigned...a mission. And you get to choose your partner. And it’s me or. Or someone else. I don’t care. Who would you choose?”

“Well, I suppose it would depend on if this fabricated mission depends on stealth. Secrecy. The ability to tell a believable falsehoo--”

“I’m being serious,” Anakin insists, cutting his master off. He almost wants to drop the braids, let them fall apart. Clearly Obi-Wan doesn’t...perhaps won’t ever--

“It’d be you,” Obi-Wan murmurs very quietly, as if afraid to speak louder. “We are better together than we are separate.”

Anakin blinks and then smiles, only a little teary-eyed at his master’s confession. “Yes, Master,” he agrees, finally--finally--braiding the three braids together and tying them off neatly. He pictures the material of their souls responding the same way that Obi-Wan’s hair has. The thought makes him feel equal parts giddy and guilty.

“After all, someone needs to make sure you don’t crash every ship in the Jedi Temple,” Obi-Wan continues dryly.

“Yes, Master,” Anakin agrees again, running a hand lightly over his work.

He’ll tell him when he’s a Knight. Really.

#mmmmm i like to think obi-wans just like. at a spaceport or something wearing these braids when anakin's 19/20 #almost a knight #and someone from tatooine sees the braids and compliments him on how nice they look and how pretty #because being well cared for is also a signn of a good marriage #and obi-wan is like 'thank you my padawan did them #and the person is like 'padawan? i havent heard that word before. is it the word for husband in your language'#and obi-wan is just ext.crash #asks #my fics #obikin #(anakin is so mortified and obi-wan DEFINITELY chews him out but then he uh notices the next day that obi-wan...didn't take the braids out)#and then anakin is like ext.crash #prompt fill #braid au

194 notes · View notes

theweasleysredhair · 4 years

Text

Intoxicated [G.W.]

Character: George Weasley

Word Count: 1484

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: George and Y/n have a cheeky snog in the Gryffindor common room during a party after a Quidditch game.

Tags: @dreamer821 @gracemayhateyou @criminalyetminimal @firewhisky-kisses @obsessedwithrandomthings @angelinathebook @iprobablyshipit91 @potterverseimagine @slytherineheir @kpopgirlbtssvt @tinylumpiaa @locke-writes @wand3ringr0s3 @ickle-ronniekins @sehunasbitch @cryingforcrystalpepsi | message or send an ask to be added/removed!

Disclaimer: Gif isn't mine, credit to whoever made it

A/n: i know my next fic was supposed to be one of the fics on that list i posted and i promise i’ll write them but i ended up being motivated to finish this one i’m sorry! but also enjoy some drunk fluff with my main man george (warning: mentions of alcohol and drinking)

~*~

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK! REBLOGS ARE ABSOLUTELY FINE! <3

+ + + + +

“He keeps staring at you,” Alicia spoke, shooting a sly smile at you as she lifted her firewhisky to her lips.

You glanced around the busy Gryffindor common room, frowning a little in confusion as you wondered who she was talking about, your eyes flickering through the faces of a few Hufflepuffs, a group of Ravenclaws and a couple of Slytherins who were stood in the opposite corner, “Who?”

Alicia’s reply came instantly as she let out an amused scoff, “Who do you think? George, of course!”

And suddenly you felt like you were on fire, your nerves being set alight just from the mere mention of his name, your heart pounding at the idea of the ginger boy noticing you. You instinctively gripped your cup a little tighter, tipping the cool liquid down your throat - your third, possibly fourth, drink so far of the night.

“He’s not staring at me,” you mumbled, chewing on your lip as you played with a strand of your hair, staring down into the half-empty cup, your eyes slightly unfocused.

“How would you know? You’re not facing his direction,” Katie, who had been listening to the conversation, pointed out, nodding her head to somewhere behind you.

You so badly wanted to turn around but decided against it, not wanting to bring more attention to yourself, “I just know. Why would he be staring at me?”

“Because he very clearly fancies you,” Alicia rolled her eyes playfully, “Plus you’re hot, there’s a lot of guys interested in you, I just know you have your eye on the particular redhead sat on the couch over there.”

You wished George fancied you. Why wouldn’t you? He was tall, fit, funny. Freckles dotted across his skin, messy ginger hair that made your heart race.

At the thought of him, you turned in his direction casually, as if you were observing the room, but you didn’t fail to notice the way he was looking you up and down.

“Let’s go get another drink,” Alicia suggested, placing her empty cup to one side. You nodded, walking with her and Katie towards the drinks table, joking about something before Alicia suddenly looked at you, biting her lip.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” she grinned mischievously. “Hate you for what?” You asked, confused.

And before you knew what was happening, Alicia gently bumped into you, the force just strong enough to make you lose your balance in your tipsy daze and fall onto someone’s lap.

You were vaguely aware of Alicia and Katie running off just as strong hands gripped your waist, steadying you on the lap as your eyes widened, your head whipping up to set your gaze upon no other than George Weasley’s shocked yet happily surprised face.

***

“I’m gonna tell her,” George announced determinedly as he stared over in your direction, allowing his eyes to wander down your body, appreciating the outfit you had chosen to wear for the party that evening.

“You’re not gonna tell her,” Fred grinned, downing the last of his drink and dumping the cup on the nearest table. George glanced over at him and crossed his arms over his chest indignantly, “I am!”

“Then here, you’ll need this,” Lee joked as he pushed a full drink into George’s hands. George stared at the clear liquid for a moment before shrugging and downing it in a few seconds, before handing the empty cup back to Lee.

“Right, I’m gonna talk to her,” George said, eyes finding you in the crowd again and admiring the sight of you laughing, his lips curling up into a smile. Fred and Lee looked at each other, waiting for him to stand up or even move, however after a couple of seconds, Fred waved a hand in front of his twin’s face, “Do you think you’re already moving right now or..?”

Receiving no response, Lee prodded George’s shoulder and asked, “What’s wrong?” George looked over to Lee and suddenly grabbed another drink from the table before finishing it off too.

“Right I’m gonna-“

And suddenly, George was interrupted as he felt someone fall onto his lap, his hands moving easily to catch whoever it was, before he realised with a jolt of his heart that it was you on his lap right now.

Later on, he’d remember to comment on how cute your scared face was, and thank Fred and Lee for excusing themselves from the couch, however right in that moment, all he could focus on was the way your body was pressed against his, your face literally inches from his and he couldn’t believe his luck.

”Hello there love, fancy seeing you here,” George grinned at you, squeezing your waist.

“Oh Merlin, I-I’m so sorry George! It was Alicia, she-“ you spluttered out, stuttering slightly over your words.

“Don’t be daft, darling, no need to be sorry. Not everyday a beautiful girl falls literally straight into my lap,” George replied cheekily, pulling you further onto his lap as he sat up slightly. You felt your cheeks warm as you smiled, ducking your head down before looking back up at him, “So um...”

“So, what brings you to my part of the common room?”

“Well, I was supposed to be getting another drink but I guess I fell into a cute guy’s lap before I made it to the table,” you replied, before your eyes widened as you realised what you’d said.

“Cute, huh?” George grinned wide, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Um well I didn’t mean- I mean you’re not exactly not cute I suppose...” You stuttered, trying to cover up what you had just admitted to him.

“Don’t go backtracking now, darling! I want to know more about how cute you find me. How dashing, how devastatingly handsome,” he smirked, squeezing your waist again.

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” you pouted playfully. “I am devastatingly handsome though,” he boasted, dramatically flicking a hand through his hair.

You rolled your eyes at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “You played really well in the match today,” you changed the subject before he could tease you any more.

George grinned again, “Oh you noticed?”

“Kinda hard not to notice, considering you and Fred stole the show with how many times you hit those bludgers away,” you replied, tucking your hair behind your ear as you shifted slightly in his lap.

“Seems like you were very focused on me,” he said confidently, wiggling his eyebrows at you. You scoffed out a laugh, “I said you and Fred, don’t get cocky!”

“We all know you just mean me though. Wonder what it was like for you, watching me and my rippling biceps working hard. Bet you enjoyed the view, right?” He teased, his eyes flickering back and forth between your eyes and your lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shook your head but couldn’t help smiling as your hands absent-mindedly fell to rest on said rippling biceps.

“That wasn’t a no,” George commented and suddenly he was slowly closing the tiny gap between you, his lips just barely brushing against yours a couple of times before he moved away slightly, resting his forehead against yours, “I um- I want our first kiss to be somewhere romantic, you know? Maybe with candles, or in Hogsmeade after I finally got the courage to ask you out. I have it all planned out.”

Despite his words, you noticed his head tilting up, his lips inching towards yours, his eyes flickering again back from looking into yours and down to your lips. His tongue darted out to glide across his bottom lip as his hands moved from your waist down to grip your hips.

“You sure we can’t just kiss right here? Because... you kinda look like you wanna kiss me,” you whispered into his ear, your chest pressing against his as you leant forward.

George shifted, his breath catching in his throat as he caught the mischievous glint in your eye. The corner of his mouth curled up into a half smirk.

“Fuck it,” he breathed out.

He pressed his lips to yours properly, kissing you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. His hands ran up your back, holding you close to his chest as he licked into your mouth, your own hands running through his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the back of his neck, making him let out a small groan.

He cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss as he pulled you further onto him, your thighs now straddling his waist as he trailed kisses down towards your neck.

“I reckon you’re glad you fell for me then, right?” George’s breaths hit your neck as he moved to look up into your eyes. You smiled at him, lips swollen and hair messy from his hands raking through it,

“I guess you could say that.”

#george #george weasley #george x reader #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagine #george weasley imagines #weasley twins #weasley twins imagine #weasley twins imagines #hp #harry potter

2K notes · View notes

mel-the-fangirl · 3 years

Text

Toss A Coin to Your Witcher (Part Two)

Henry Cavill x Reader

Words: 3,038

Helloooo Cavillry! I just want to thank everyone who has read and supported Part 1 of this fic. I am really so overwhelmed with how many responses I got and I am over the moon that you all liked it so much that I could write a Part 2. Thank you for welcoming me so warmly, it is amazing to be here!!!

Please like and reblog or leave me some replies if you liked it! Thank you!

Some of you asked to be tagged so, here you are: @novareign1, @libbymouse, @calwitch, @soldade, @happiness-in-the-dark, @seriouslygoodlookinggents, @wolvesandhoundshowltogether

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I am so sorry. Are you alright? I think I heard you fall.”

All those years of your parents teaching you how to talk, all those years of schooling and reading completely failed you. You didn’t know any words. None. You could only stare at the curly-haired Adonis that somehow materialised in front of you.

It was him. Henry motherfucking Cavill was standing at your door. And he was looking at you. Oh my god.

You immediately crossed your arms over your chest, as if it was going to shield his eyes from your Superman pyjamas. You looked right at him, you could see that he was stifling a laugh, the corners of his mouth were quirked up but ever the gentleman, just like you imagined him to be, he said nothing of it.

In fact, no one said anything because you hadn’t answered his question yet.

“Um,” you fumbled for any words at all but all you could do was stare at him

“I’m. Uh.”

How long was this going to last? He was looking at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Amusement was fine but concern you would not take. If you could’ve given yourself a good slap in the face, you would have but that would have concerned him some more.

You cleared your throat and kept one hand flat on your chest, just to check if your heart was still there and not running circles around your sinfully handsome unexpected visitor.

“I’m okay. Just fine, thanks. Fit as a fiddle.”

Fit as a fiddle? Do people still say that?

“That’s good to hear. I was worried you might have hurt yourself.”

You were ashamed to say that you weren’t even listening. All you were doing was watching his lips move, was that bad? Oh, please snap out of it and have a decent conversation with this beautiful man, Y/N.

“No, I'm-”

“Fit as a fiddle?” Henry asked, cocking an eyebrow at you

Was he… Teasing you? Slowly, you met his eyes again and he smiled at you fondly.

Oh fuck.

You wanted to smile back, you really, really did but your face was just frozen in this stoic mask of shock. Was this actually happening to you right now? Or did you have one too many boozy chocolate truffles and conk out on the couch?

Henry, even though it wasn’t obvious to you, was also quite nervous. He'd never done anything like this in his entire life.

His heart continued to hammer in his chest as you gawked at him like he was an alien that had crash landed at your doorstep. He could understand that you were freaked out. He just showed up there without any warning whatsoever, what did he expect?

"You're probably wondering how I got your address," he chuckled, shaking his head at the the ridiculousness of the situation he's put you in

A pensive look flickered across your features, "Actually, this is just like a dream I had of you once where you…" you backtracked when you realised what came out of your mouth

"You.. You were saying?" you recovered, pressing your lips into a thin line

He just knew he had the dumbest smile on his face right now. Henry quickly found that that was his first reaction to you, just a massive, jaw breaking smile. It was embarrassing how many times he replayed your infamous Buzzfeed video.

Now there you were, right in front of him, in your absolutely adorable Superman pyjamas staring up at him with your big, magic eyes.

What was he saying?

"I," he tried to clear his head, this has never happened to him before.

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't really as suave as people thought. He was actually a big dork, especially around people he really liked.

Silence settled between you again as you both just stood there smiling at each other like idiots. Henry shook his head once again, some stray curls ended up on his forehead and you wanted nothing more than to brush them away.

"I was, uh, very keen on meeting you but I couldn't get a hold of you, actually. So, I was able to contact Marge, your agent and she sent me your address."

"Marge." you echoed, nodding your head as the puppet master was revealed

You didn't know if you were going to throw hands at her or bear hug her the next time you saw each other.

"Oh Jesus," you held your front door open wider, realising you had him standing out there for almost ten minutes, "I'm so sorry. Come in, please."

Having Henry Cavill inside your home, your personal space, used to be just a daydream you'd have in between takes on a busy day of shooting. But there he really was, tall, muscular, handsome, he seemed to fit in perfectly with the various knick knacks and memories that made up your life.

"I see I was interrupting," Henry noticed the paused scene on your TV and gestured to your couch, "Mind if I join you?"

Netflix and… Henry Cavill? Don't mind if you do.

Subtlety was key though so you tried your hardest not to sprint to the couch and not so accidentally end up on his lap. With the remote in your sweaty hand and a friendly distance between you two, you resumed the episode.

"I hope you aren't one of those douchebag actors who drool over themselves on screen."

The words were out of your mouth before you could even process them. You knew he would never be one of those disgustingly vain types so why would you say that?

You whipped your head to look at him, expecting to see an offended look on his face.

Instead, he scoffed, "Oh God, no," shaking his head adamantly, "I quite dislike watching myself."

"Oh," your gaze dropped to your lap. "You don't have to sit through this with me then. I'm sure you're very busy."

Just seeing the way your endearing awkwardness collapsed into dejection made Henry want to shove his foot in his mouth.

"I will make an exception though. Only for you." he scooted closer to you by just a fraction and shot you a winning smile and a wink

In another one of your finest moments, upon seeing Henry Cavill wink at you, you let out a squeak. Yes, a squeak. How it was humanly possible for you to even make that sort of sound was beyond you, it just happened.

Luckily for you, he didn't seem to notice.

He seemed relaxed, with one muscular arm draped over the back of your sofa. Looks can be deceiving though, his mind was racing. Did it seem creepy what he just said? Was it too forward? Did the wink take it too far?

There was definitely some tension lingering in the air between you. You weren’t sure what kind but you didn’t have the time to think about it, things were getting good.

A few episodes and belly laughs later, the awkwardness thankfully dissipated and your legs ended up resting on Henry’s lap, his large hands were clasped on your knees. You had no idea how it got to that point but there was no way in hell you were complaining.

You whistled low upon seeing the carnival of flesh and pleasure on screen then you immediately burst into laughter at how Geralt’s bewildered expression and dark clothes stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the dreamy trance-like atmosphere.

“You and Joey are hilarious in this one.” you bounced your knee to get his attention but he only nodded his head in reply

Did you say something wrong? Once the initial shock of the whole situation actually being real instead of an alcohol-induced fantasy wore off, your brain-to-mouth filter started working again. You didn’t think you said anything to put him off.

But as much as you wanted to pick at it and overanalyse everything you’ve said to him in the span of almost six hours (six hours alone with Henry Cavill!!), something far more interesting caught your attention.

Henry watched you intently just as the scene changed.

There certainly have been glorious shirtless Geralt scenes in previous episodes but this one took the cake, perhaps even the whole bakery?

You know you'd probably change your mind when another scene like this came along but so what? You would enjoy them all immensely.

Your eyes drank in the scene. It was beautiful, really. The dim candlelit room casting shadows on the strong planes of his body, his hand skimming the water, the White Wolf medallion resting on his well-defined chest. At this point, you weren't really sure if you were appreciating Geralt or Henry.

"Ehem."

You tore your eyes away and found Henry with his eyebrows raised and his head tilted slightly.

"What? I'm looking respectfully. Oh, and both your legs should’ve been up." you shrugged and settled back into your seat, holding your drink up to cover your satisfied smirk

Henry's heart squeezed, it actually did. He really wanted to do something, like engulf you in his arms and bury his face in your neck and just nuzzle.

But, restraint and he was quite sure you'd kick him in the crown jewels if he did that (you wouldn't have, you would've been really into it). Good things come to those who wait.

All he could do was to squeeze your knee in a gesture that he hoped you'd interpret as affection.

-----------------------------------------------

Geralt stood in the middle of the forest, listening intently as the wind whistled through the trees. Through his enhanced senses, he could make out small hurried footsteps crunching against the undergrowth.

He turned his head just in time.

The girl in the woods would be with him always.

Cirilla.

Her feet carried her forward, they had carried her through the sacking of her kingdom, through unknown forests, away from the people who were after her, and into strangers' homes. But now, finally they were carrying her to her destiny, they were carrying her home.

She propelled herself into his arms which were more than ready to catch her.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.” Geralt recited from memory

As he finally held his child surprise, his destiny, close, a million thoughts raced through his mind at once but only one question persisted in Ciri’s,

“Who is Yennefer?”

Your eyes were glued to the screen and you held your breath as Geralt looked at Ciri. What would he tell her? Would he be confused? Would he ask if they had ever crossed paths before?

The scene abruptly faded to black and the Song of the White Wolf began to play.

“No,” you dove for the remote and pressed fast forward. There had to be more, it did not end just like that.

“This isn’t a Marvel film, Y/N.” Henry remarked, positively delighted at your reaction

“Oh my God.”

You sat back in your seat and stared straight ahead, not caring for whatever preview Netflix started playing. No, you were not interested in these suggestions. You couldn’t care less.

That was it. You finished the Witcher. Now, there was a huge void in your life that you weren’t sure how to fill.

Henry recognised the defeated slump of your shoulders, that was exactly how he felt every time he reached the end of one of his countless games. He loved how you were just as invested in the Witcher world as he was, you asked him interesting question after interesting question over the course of your time together and you had him roaring with laughter with every one of your quips.

He hadn’t enjoyed himself like this in the company of someone else in a long time.

“There is going to be more, right?” you repositioned yourself, turning your whole body to face him

“Well, madame,” he patted your knee comfortingly, a move that would have sent you bouncing off the walls if you weren’t still in your Witcher bubble. “If you noticed, the last episode bears the title ‘Much More,’ so you can expect, much more.”

That got you.

You exhaled and grinned at him, “That’s very clever.”

“Isn’t it? I wish I had thought of it.”

“Do you think they’d give you credit for it if you did?”

“Doesn’t matter if they did, I’d tell everyone I know. Have it on my gravestone too: Here lies Henry Cavill,” he made a framing motion with the sweep of his hand, “It was my idea.”

You laughed and snorted unattractively until your belly ached. Only when the laughter died down and both of you were leaning your heads on the back of your couch, gazing at each other silently did you remember the enormity of your current situation.

Henry fucking Cavill!

“So,” he began in his normal voice before switching to Geralt’s gravelly one, “Let’s talk about my reward.”

Oh, sweet Lord Almighty.

Your cheeks were on fire. Literally. Flaming. They had to be. In fact, your entire body was on fire, with five words, Henry Cavill set your entire being on fire without needing a match. You tried gulping down the lump that formed in your throat but it doubled in size instead. You kept your arms crossed at your stomach, fearing you would start undressing yourself right there and then.

Wait, he did say reward, didn’t he? Did he mean…? Well, you finished with the Netflix part, maybe now it was time to “chill?”

You covertly peeked at the first button of your pyjama top, wondering if he would start by yanking that sweater off (where did they even make sweaters that big? Lord help you.) or maybe you’d do a sexy little dance for him? Some hip action? A little shimmy-

“How’s dinner sound? I think I know a place near here.” Henry already began tapping on his phone for the address

“Dinner!” you said a tad bit too loudly

You nodded your head so fast you were pretty sure you’d shaken your brain a little bit but maybe you needed it. What the fuck were you just thinking of doing?

“Dinner!” you repeated in the same volume, still nodding your head. “It’s like you read my mind! I was just thinking of dinner and nothing else at all! I just, I just, I love dinner.”

“I’m glad you’re so… Enthusiastic about it,” he was trying to keep himself from laughing again

Henry figured that at some point he would have to explain that it wasn’t in a bad way, more in a sense that you were definitely the most interesting and easily likeable person he has ever met in his life so far.

“I’ll go get dressed. Give me a sec.” you bolted from the couch and all but ran towards your bedroom. You needed to breathe some air that Henry Cavill wasn’t also breathing.

Dinner with Henry Cavill. How would you even prepare? Would you ever fully be prepared? Your training didn’t cover this. But fuck it if it didn’t right? Were you really going to chicken out of a date with Henry fucking Cavill?

Hold on, was this a date?

Logically, you were looking for answers. So, even more logically and not stupid in any possible way, you asked him.

“Is this like a first date or something?” you yelled from your closet

It was official. You were definitely the most interesting person Henry has ever met.

He chuckled under his breath, clasping his hands behind his back nervously, “Well, yes it is. I can’t really classify the first time we met as a date. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, totally.” you laughed and you kept laughing until you started processing what he said then you stopped laughing.

It’s a good thing you dressed quickly, you didn’t want to march over to him in your underwear and march over to him you did. You needed to know if you heard him right.

His eyes lit up and his lips stretched into a smile upon seeing you, it was terribly sweet but you didn’t have time to swoon.

“Y/N, you look beautiful,” he made a move to put his hand on your waist but you stopped short

“Did you just say ‘the first time we met?’”

He was still smiling but you saw his brows furrow, “Yes?”

What was he talking about? For some reason, your heart started to pound.

“What do you mean? This is the first time we’ve ever met.”

This time, the smile dropped and his eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “Y/N, we already met once before.”

You shook your head adamantly, offering him an understanding smile. Of course, he was an actor. He meets a lot of people, he must be mistaking you for someone else.

“You’ve probably got me confused with someone else. Trust me, I definitely would have remembered if I met you before.” you giggled, rubbing his arm

But he didn’t laugh or smile or smack his hand on his forehead and say, “Oh, yes, silly me! I am so handsome and muscular.” like you thought he would. He was just studying your expression, trying to figure out if you were messing with him.

“Except that you don’t remember. I’m not confused, it was you, Y/N.”

“Okay, why are you being a lying liar who lies right now?” you were starting to get a little agitated, why was he pushing it?

His eyes widened like you just slapped him, “I am not a lying liar who lies. It was you! I am a hundred percent sure!”

Alright, this whole thing was getting less cute by the minute but whatever, you’d play along.

“Uh huh, okay,” you put your hands on your hips tauntingly. “How are you so sure then?”

He stared at you, long and hard. His blue eyes piercing through your resolve. He had nothing, you were sure. Henry Cavill was going to fold like a deck of cards.

“Because. We kissed.”

You wondered how long it was going to take to pick your jaw off the floor because you thought you heard him make a dinner reservation half an hour from now.

--------------------

Read PART 3 here.

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fic #henry cavill imagine #henry william dalgliesh cavill #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the man from uncle

729 notes · View notes