#this goes for any other fiber craft too!
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I wish people really understood how much effort, time, and money is takes to knit something.
Even if it's small!
Like yeah no sorry dude I'm not going to make 30 pumpkins for you for free. I'm honored you think I have enough time and generosity for that.
#knitting#fiber arts#fiber arts and all that jazz#this goes for any other fiber craft too!#my mother thought doing 25 name cards + framing them all#(somehow????) method: unclear#would be “easy”#bitch if it's so easy you do it
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Anyways since it's not common knowledge that you can get into doing stained glass really easily nowadays i thought I'd go ahead and put together a quick and dirty explanation on it. Prices are given in USD and are based on how much they cost at my localish stained glass shop in jul 2022 but all items can be gotten at larger craft stores or online.
Hobby Lobby has an extensive stained glass section usually. They also have coupons and don't put barcodes on their merchandise so they don't always track their stock super well. do with that last bit of information what you will
skip to the bottom of you just want to see steps
Supplies:
Mandatory Tools, buy these once and never again (unless they break or somethin):
Glass cutters: Pencil grip if you're confident in your hand strength, Pistol grip if you have joint issues (most of the folk i know irl that are into stained glass are arthritic and swear by the pistol grips, do with that tinfo what you will)
Pliers: You'll need 2 types, grozzier pliers and curved jaw pliers. these are not the same as the pliers you use in most other applications. you can usually get both bundled with a glass cutter for less than 30$
Soldering Iron: Get one that comes with a soldering station and a flat chisel shaped tip. Weller is the industry standard. 40 bucks.
semi optional: a wet grinder: not 100 percent necessary but it makes life a hundred times easier and lets you do more complicated shapes with less skill than you would need otherwise, so I'm putting it here. It's vital that it's a wet grinder because aerosolized glass dust is bad for your everything. 90$. if you don't get a wet grinder you will just need some 400 grit or higher waterproof sandpaper. Wet sand your pieces. Do not dry sand.
70-190$ to start
consumables:
Glass: comes in two main types, Translucent/Cathedral, and Opaque. From there there are Many variations including waterglass and iridescent glass. Prices range from 8$ a square foot up to a couple hundred for handmade artisan stuff, but most seem to be between 10$ and 20$ 1 square foot of glass goes further than you think it will
Solder: Must Be Acid Free. Solder with an acid core is really common because that's what's used in every other application. it will not work for stained glass. Solder comes in 4 main types but there's plenty of others out there: lead free, 60/40, 70/30, and 50/50. Get 60/40 to start out unless the lead scares you, then get lead free. (the lead content in solder is not dangerous so long as you aren't regularly licking the final product/using it for food. The fumes can cause migraines tho so ventilation is a good idea) 26$ per pound, goes a long way
Flux: any solder flux will do, 4$ lasts forever
glass cutting oil: it's what it says on the tin, use this with the glass cutter to make it work. 10$ per bottle lasts forever.
copper foil tape: used to make the solder stick to the glass. comes in may sizes, just grab one that's thicker than your glass and Feels right. what width you use is entirely personal preference on anything that's not too big. 7$
Homasote/compressed cellulose fiber board/ cork/ ceiling tiles/ drywall/ plywood: You're going to need something to solder and pin your glass pieces on, any of these will do. All of them are reusable but you will probably need to cut them down to more comfortably fit your project which is why I'm putting them here instead of the buy them once category. 69¢ for the cieling tiles to like 50$ for a sheet of homasote get whatever is easiest/cheapest. or solder on a heat proof surface you already have.
tarnish/patina: the solder will naturally turn black overtime but it won't look pretty while doing it. you either need to clean it regularly or just accept that it will tarnish and do the work for it. Tarnish commonly comes in black and bronze. don't let these get on your skin. it won't hurt but prolonged and repeat exposure is a cancer and chemical burn risk. 11$
~100$. everything besides the glass and solder will last a couple dozen projects at minimum, most will last Mucho longer.
optional:
Nick's Grinder's Mate. it's a special made item for stained glass grinding but if you don't like your hands getting wet or have issues with your hands it makes the process So Much Easier.
Metal or glass head sewing pins. they're used to help hold your glass in place while soldering many people don't use them at all.
plastic waffle grid: it catches the tiny little glass shards that flake off while cutting. It just makes clean up much much Much easier and reduces the amount of shards that end up on the floor and in your feet (please wear shoes while cutting glass, i don't, but you should.)
Safety:
Eye protection, you don't need anything super extreme but yeah glass shards bad.
gardening gloves with thick palm and finger protection to reduce cuts and handle pieces during soldering.
bandaids, glass cuts don't usually hurt but they do bleed. think paper cut in terms of severity.
additional bits you probably already have:
scissors, paper, sharpie or dry erase markers, glue sticks
Basic process
find or draw up a pattern
make 2 copies of it, one to use as reference one to cut up and glue to your glass as a pattern. Alternatively you can trace your pattern onto the glass if you'd rather not use the paper
number the pieces on both the glass and the pattern to avoid having to do a broken glass jigsaw puzzle.
score the glass
use the pliers to break along your score lines
wet sand the sharp edges or grind to final shape
(if you're starting with a pre cut kit which are apparently becoming more common, skip to here) clean the pieces to remove grunge so the tape will stick
wrap edges in copper tape,
burnish them to smooth out the foil, i just use the handle on my scissors
arange the pieces in their final shape, pin them if desired.
coat the copper tape in flux and tack the joints together with solder.
run a bead of solder along the lines.
flip the piece and repeat 10 and 11
cover the edges.
add tarnish if desired.
ooh and ah over your final piece.
Full Written Instructions Here
YouTube channels for English instructions and demonstration (if you have non English recommendations please let me know so I can add them):
SunBearGlassCraft / ALEX GREENFIELD
Stained Glass For Dummies PDF
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👁👁 i recall you bookbinding at one point in time, what would i need in order to do the very basics?
So I have great news for you: bookbinding is SHOCKINGLY ACCESSIBLE and very very easy to pick up as a hobby! (But it's an unusual enough hobby that everyone around you will just ASSUME you have highly specialized and developed skills, hahaha).
I made my last few bookbinding projects out of stuff I had around the house. But prior to that, I got almost all of my supplies from the dollar store.
You will need:
-Paper (any. Big enough to fold to whatever size you want your book to be)
-Some sort of chip board or cardboard (I like buying dollar store sketchbooks...the backs are this perfect dense-but-thin cardboard, and I tear out the pages for my paper. I basically flip a cheap generic sketchbook into a unique hardcover sketchbook!)
-Acid-Free White Glue (Elmer's makes a good cheap one. Scrapbooking glue is great too. Anything that dries clear and is suitable for archival, meaning it won't degrade the paper over time. Some people even mix their own!)
-Needle and Thread. (Any. Curved needles are easiest, but straight needles work just fine. Use those until you can find the curved variety. Any thread works, but pro-tip: get ahold of some cheap wax --beeswax probably-- and then run the length of your thread along it to smooth the fibers. Do that, and your thread will never tangle, which saves a lot of time. It also helps prevent your paper from tearing!)
-Something to wrap around the cover. (You can get really creative with this. You can use paper or fabric or leather or cardstock or basically anything that you can wrap and glue down to the board of your cover. I've seen people use old jeans: I've seen people use giftwrap. Experiment!)
-Something to puncture the signature holes (the actual tool for this is something called an awl, and I have one at this point, but dollar store push-pins work fabulously if you're just giving it a try)
-Something to fold your signatures (you can use your hands, but it's much easier with a tool called a bone folder. Craft stores sell them. A small ruler made of wood or plastic works very well, too.)
And that's it!
There are a few other things (like book paper for the covers, corner protectors, book tongues, ribbon for attached bookmarks, cheese cloth to strengthen the spine, etc.), but I don't consider those the absolute BASICS needed for a first project. All the things I've listed are cheap, easy to find, or easy to substitute. Try it out before you decide if you wanna invest in the fancier stuff!
Sea Lemon on YouTube makes great, easy to follow tutorials for the actual construction. I also recommend watching a few bookbinding ASMR videos; watching someone apply their skills in a relaxed but steady way is a great way to learn, imo.
If you give it a try, let me know how it goes!
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BUNNYYYY CONGRATS ON 2K!!!! Your blog always brings me lots of joy (among other feelings 🫢) thank you for creating and sharing so much excellent content 💜
It took me a little while to think of some good facts, but i landed on:
1. I love making things! Mainly fiber arts but I've yet to meet a craft I didn't like
2. My love languages are quality time and letting me put stuff in your bag
3. According to my bestie, the most on-brand thing ive ever done was drunkenly scold a man i did not know for making a derogatory comment about women
(And my fav aesthetic is naturecore, but only if you genuinely feel up for it! The match-up offer is already so generous i can't wait to see who everyone gets🌻✨️🫶)
ok so this is giving shoto so much but i’m not great at writing him so forgive me if this is way off. 😭
your match: shoto
he might have some ‘dom’ energy, but you have a bit of a nurturing side that compliments him and makes him feel safe with you. he’s in his head a little too much, and you have the ability to pull him out of that.
your love languages is what sealed it for me. he’s letting you put stuff in his pockets, in his bag, carrying your bags when he goes shopping. it’s a silly little thing, but it makes him feel needed, and he likes that.
i feel like shoto would be an appreciator of your craft. he’s not really an artist of any kind, but he’s enamored by how beautiful your works are, how much work you’re willing to put into them, etc.
shoto loves that you’re not afraid to speak your mind… even if it only happens like that when you’re drunk. 😂 but really, he needs someone who will speak up in a relationship and who’s willing to put in a lot of work towards communication. sometimes he doesn’t fully understand what you mean if you’re not very direct with him, or maybe he’s a little more harsh than he intended to be.
#really i have a talent for writing soft assholes i feel#and shoto is not like that lmfao#bunny’s 2k celebration#todoroki shouto
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Tools Tuesday - Fiber and Fabric Craft Support + What To Do During Breaks
Happy Tools Tuesday, everyone! Today's topic is especially for all the yarn and fabric crafters participating and sharing their progress in the discord!
Just like with any other medium, it can be easy to get into the flow when working on a physical craft project, and totally lose track of time - only to reap the consequences of cramped muscles and aches. That's why setting a timer can be a great strategy. There are many guides online about different work-break timer strategies; my personal favorite are these Pomodoro timers from How To ADHD, which have break timers built into the video (and no annoying clock sounds except when the timer is about to end)
https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvq9Tp5JZ8oAV7wsRBIZjlQqVrTSjKeVs&si=6rDaZSORbJ85lzN3
(though I admit, I also have a habit of "timing" myself by watching episodes of a show, then forgetting to stretch in between!)
Figuring out what balance of time will depend on you, your mood, and your project. But sometimes, "taking a break" is too nebulous a concept. What could a break entail?
The annoyingly simple answer is: it varies! The long answer is figuring out what works for you.
I try to remember to check in with my body during a break and address basic needs I neglected while focused. Ask yourself:
Are you hungry?
Are you thirsty?
Do you need to use the bathroom?
Are there any physical aches?
Are you curled up oddly?
Do your eyes feel strained?
Addressing 1, 2, and 3 are simple but easily forgotten. For 4, I have shared a sheet on some common stretches previously, but there are a wealth of stretches, yoga poses, and exercises recommended for knitters, crocheters, and sewists.
As with any exercise, be aware of your body and mindful to not hurt yourself!
This video has some hand stretches not covered in previous posts here.
https://youtu.be/WxV_lpjEGvI?si=gKCLqNSi1SugT8d0
And here's a full playlist of yoga moves put out by the yarn brand Lion Brand, aimed at knitters and crocheters. Many of the moves are designed to be done from a chair, so you don't even have to get up if all you need to do during your break is stretch!
https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2VjAZ-N13BC4KrE6DGYs3ag1mON6-Zns&si=_LGdOtXqZ35IMQAl
Many back stretches covered in that playlist also help with 5, posture. If you find you're curling uncomfortably over your work, or that your hands regularly ache after crafting, perhaps it is your tools that need to step up their game. A little support can go a long way.
I often crochet with a pillow on my lap, to keep my hands up in a comfortable, relaxed position, and to keep me from leaning too far forward. A rolled up blanket or long plushie can do the same job. Ergonomic shaped needles and hooks can help if your hands cramp when working or you find you have to tightly grip the tools. Likewise, supportive gloves or wrist braces can aid when repetitive motions make your wrist ache. Better lighting or magnifiers make seeing stitches easier.
There should be no shame in using assistive devices! Do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself while you create!
For 6, eye strain, we can forget this can be an issue even when not working at a computer. The 20-20-20 idea (look at something 20ft away for 20 seconds after 20 minutes of close-up focus) goes for reading a book or doing crafts as well. Anything where you're staring at something right in front of you for a long time can make your eyes ache. I really liked this video that goes over ways to mitigate eyestrain from a computer, as well as some exercises that I regularly do myself when I feel my eyes get sore.
https://youtu.be/rPfCtJ1PX9I?si=qGMO1lJ1WiFZlNIs
As always, these tips are just my personal recommendations that you can use as starting off points for finding what works for you. Your breaks don't need to be structured to be beneficial. Moving your body in a change of scenery to get a snack might be all you need. Or you could start a load of laundry and work while it's going, which gives you a timer and a different physical task to do during your break when it's ready to be hung/changed to the other machine.
Do whatever works for you, just please take care of yourself! We artists might suffer for our art, but creating art shouldn't make you suffer.
Got any tips or resources? Or a tool that helped you craft more comfortably that you think others should know about? Share it in the comments or reblogs!
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Cashmere Women's Jumper: Elevate Your Style and Comfort
This timeless piece of attire is a must-have for any wardrobe, offering a blend of sophistication and coziness that stands unparalleled. From chilly autumn evenings to brisk winter days, a cashmere jumper is your ticket to a refined yet snug experience. In this article, we delve into the captivating world of cashmere, explore its extraordinary qualities, and guide you through the benefits of choosing a cashmere women's jumper that not only enhances your style but also keeps you warm and comfortable.
The Allure of Cashmere: A Brief Introduction
Cashmere, often referred to as "soft gold," is a luxurious natural fiber sourced from the soft undercoat of cashmere goats. Originating in the high-altitude regions of the Himalayas, this exquisite material has been cherished for centuries for its incredible softness, lightweight feel, and exceptional insulating properties. It's no surprise that cashmere has become synonymous with elegance and refinement.
Unparalleled Softness and Comfort
One of the most captivating features of acashmere womens jumper is its unparalleled softness. When you slip into a cashmere garment, you'll instantly understand why it's considered the epitome of luxury. The fine fibers of cashmere create a gentle caress against your skin, providing an unmatched level of comfort. It's as if you're enveloped in a cloud of softness, making it perfect for those moments when you want to feel pampered and at ease.
Lightweight Warmth: Stay Cozy Without the Bulk
While cashmere offers exceptional warmth, it does so without the bulk that often accompanies other winter wear. This unique attribute of cashmere makes it an ideal choice for a women's jumper. You can stay cozy and snug without feeling weighed down by heavy layers of clothing. Whether you're heading to a sophisticated evening event or enjoying a leisurely stroll in the park, your cashmere jumper will keep you comfortably warm without compromising your style.
Timeless Elegance: Elevate Your Fashion Game
Investing in a cashmere women's jumper is not just a practical choice; it's a stylish one too. The timeless elegance of cashmere transcends passing trends, making it a staple that never goes out of fashion. Whether you opt for a classic solid color or a tasteful pattern, a cashmere jumper adds a touch of sophistication to any outfit. It's versatile enough to pair with your favorite jeans for a casual-chic look or to complement a formal ensemble for a special occasion.
Durability and Longevity: A Wise Investment
Quality matters, and when you choose a high-end cashmere jumper, you're making a wise investment in durability and longevity. Unlike other materials that wear out quickly, a well-crafted cashmere jumper can withstand the test of time. With proper care, your cashmere jumper will continue to grace your wardrobe for years, maintaining its softness, shape, and luxurious feel.
Choose Your Perfect Cashmere Women's Jumper
When selecting a cashmere women's jumper, it's essential to consider factors such as the quality of the cashmere, the design, and the reputation of the brand. Look for reputable retailers known for their commitment to producing premium cashmere garments. Take the time to explore various styles and colors that resonate with your personal taste and fashion preferences.
Elevate Your Style with a Cashmere Women's Jumper
In conclusion, a cashmere women's jumper is a true embodiment of luxury, elegance, and comfort. Its unparalleled softness, lightweight warmth, timeless elegance, durability, and longevity make it a standout choice for any fashion-savvy individual. When you invest in a high-quality cashmere jumper, you're not only enhancing your style but also indulging in the exquisite feeling of wearing a piece of clothing that's truly exceptional.
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pretty eyes & starshine: ii
(NSFW)
hawks | takami keigo x reader
ao3
part i || part ii || part iii (epilogue)
beta’ed: @shadowworks & @firein-thesky
word count: ~15.2k
Healing takes time, but it’s easier with someone else around who’s on the mend with you.
(You and Keigo learn to start living again.)
warnings: codependency but make it sexc, injured reader, post-trauma symptoms, reader has abandonment issues, angst, ouchies <3
a/n: part 2 :’^) we made it!! soft hurt and very horny codependency that involves keigo’s immaculate d*ck. all that is left after this is part 3 which will be more of an epilogue :’^)
enjoy loves <3
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
The doors to exit the hospital scare you.
How can they not?
They’re... automatic.
The glass panes are wide, sliding and slapping as folks come and go, the quiet ring of metal on metal and the slap of the plastic padding makes your heart race.
Get over it, get over it, get over it—
It’s just some doors, they’re normal.
You’ve walked through automatic doors so many times. Never before had you even taken conscious note of them.
(But that was before you heard them let in that man who—)
Without thinking, you take a little, tentative step back from them.
Consider you are leaving your own slice of healing hell; you are shakier and sweatier than you would’ve liked. Your clothes are like the ones... he used to wear, cheap garments obviously pulled from some industrial multipack that stank like plastic and rubbing alcohol.
You hate it.
But you didn’t have another choice. Your old articles were bloodied and disposed of long ago, and the hospital gowns you wore during your stay were far more uncomfortable than your scratchy, wide pants and crewneck long sleeve the same pale, lifeless blue as your old bed sheets.
It would be enough.
You shift the crutch under your right arm and shuffle the backpack on your shoulders. It contains just enough to get you to the shelter, where they’d supposedly have a bed— a cot, more than likely. You had a toothbrush, some extra socks, and a prepaid card for a single, one-way train trip across the country and into the unknown.
Tears stung your eyes as you lingered by the doors.
It all feels so uncomfortably real. The world kept moving, and you’re reentering it far-more battered and perpetually bruised.
And completely alone.
(The thought horrifies you to your core, but you try to ignore it.)
Despite the time you spent at the hospital, you were leaving without a hint of reverie. Everyone, nurses and doctors and anyone who has fucking eyes is too busy dealing with the casualties that had lasted months.
It didn’t matter how long you stayed. You were just a body. A fucked up one too.
You count yourself lucky to even have the backpack, as cheap and sterile as it smells.
It all unnerves you, but you didn’t have a choice. Numbness settles over you as you accept your future.
There... is a little glimmer that he will show up.
(He won’t. Empty promises.)
(Everyone leaves.)
(Why’d you call him, anyway?)
(Because no one had spoken to you like a human in a month.)
Solitude makes people desperate and crazy.
You are a little crazy, you know. Maybe not in a bad way, but certainly in a way that is eating you up and out in ways you don’t understand. You don’t have the energy sort through it all. You just have to finally start moving forward. Or try to.
Tentatively, you walk toward the doors, stepping out and onto the pavement. You lurch and you would’ve tripped if not for the crutch shoved under your arm.
For the first time in a long time, you suck in fresh air and the trickling sunlight. It feels fresh, cleansing you with each little inhale as you face your cheeks to sky. You have your moment, basking before your journey.
Then someone whistles. You ignore it at first.
The person whistles again, calling out—
“Your ride’s here, starshine!”
Your breath punches from your lungs. You whip your head to the sound.
Though it’s overcast, you do see your morning sun.
Your steps stutter as you nearly trip over your feet.
He is standing, not far at all, leaning against a shiny black car, sleek and expensive and out of place. He’s all overgrown hair and lazy-expressions, one which stretches into a grin as he sees you.
And you see him.
(He really came?)
(Of course he did.)
Your crutch nearly clatters to the ground as you stumble toward him. The moment you waver, he’s running to catch you.
You meet each other halfway.
And without a goddamn lick of shame, the moment you near him, your arms lock around him. Your face buries into the hollow of his throw and you inhale. The scent of him, a bit spiced but mostly skin and sweat fills you. Not a hint of antiseptic.
And you shudder at how good it feels.
He stabilizes the two of you, greedily wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing as if to give a much-needed greeting.
There’s a moment of heat between you, familiar and blessed and so damned missed that you both share shuddering breaths.
“It’s good to see you, starshine,” He soaks up any part of you he could get to. So casually, he touches like he wants to consume you.
You squeeze him just as hard.
“You came?” Your words muffled into his skin.
He simply nods, and the only confirmation you need to sink into him. Perhaps, there’s onlookers, but neither of you have the mind to care. All you care about is the shift of his muscles beneath your fingertips, the heat of him, his golden, pretty visage—
Like he had so many times, he tucks hair behind your ears and tension drains from him.
So tenderly does he squeeze around your middle where he holds you up, “Let’s go home, starshine.”
You want nothing more.
...
The drive to your new home is long, but you don’t mind.
The world has changed in the months you’d been tucked away in the forest-hidden hospital. As disconnected as you were, you still heard of the unrest and upheaval across the country. The political clashes are marked by the... contrarian billboards lining the highway, new slogans battling each other every mile or so.
The scenery slowly goes from flatlands, to wetlands, to rolling hills that are a lush green. From the safety of the car, you could see that the air even looked wet, and you could imagine the way it would stick in your throat and tacky the tips of your fingers.
“Where do you live?” You finally ask, voice soft in the melancholy softness of the light mist that sprayed the car.
“In the mountains, high-up,” He squeezes your hand (the one he’s been holding the whole ride). Quietly, he adds. “I still couldn’t bear to be too close to the ground.”
He laughs, though it fades into the suddenly heavy air.
This is the world, isn’t it?
You blink, gulping at the face of your reality, and let your eyes go half-lidded as you trace the shapes of growing evergreen as your drive takes you higher and higher.
...
Keigo had made up the guest room for you.
He doesn’t have much for extra sheets and softness, let alone decor, but he does what he can. The bed is made and pressed with clean lines, freshly washed. The curtains on the windows hang heavy, but warm up the room with their clement, tan fibers. It’s a start, with lots of space for you to add your own touches as well.
He’d spent the night prior on it, laboring, like he was preparing a nest as opposed to a simple bedroom.
(It is a nest, but he doesn’t need to accept that just yet.)
There wasn’t anything else to do for a while when he first escaped that fucking hell. He’d really given up. Keigo was uncomfortably content to rot away as he had dreamed of since he’d been burnt. The little, dusty corners of the cabin would’ve made perfect places to waste away in peace and alone.
Except, he didn’t.
Keigo started to make the home better.
He isn’t sure if it was out of some need to just do something, and the outdated, worn cabin was his most available canvas. Part of him is convinced it’s some buried avian instinct, and without the Commission’s constant hovering, he has no reason to suppress those more animalistic urges. The need to nest somewhere cozy and safe took him over, and he had gotten to work.
The cabin is cleaned up incredibly well. New appliances, floors patched and polished. The furniture is mostly old, but it’s obviously been shined and tended to. The living area isn’t horribly large, but it’s more than enough space for the two of you. It has wide windows that looked down upon the slopes and peaks that your home is nestled in. The colors are warm oranges and tans that are easy on the eye. Nothing too red and nothing too blue.
Nothing too imposing.
(Nothing too reminiscent.)
He leads you from the car, gingerly helping you up the rickety stairs to the front door.
The wound on your leg may be ‘healed’, but you don’t appear comfortable in the slightest. Your expression pinches with half of your steps, the bending of your scarred flesh undoubtedly painful. It makes something in his chest squeeze as he navigates you into his house, from the snow into somewhere warm. A place that he crafted all on his own. Shaped with his own hands. A real possession, all his own.
When you enter, you don’t say anything, only tightening your grip on his hand.
“I like it,” You smile, soft and dreamy, worrying the strap of your backpack. “... Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?”
“Of course,” Keigo assures you. Of course, it was okay for you to stay. “I’m happy to have you here, especially when the other option is one of the shelters.”
You wouldn’t have lasted a day with your bum leg and natural softness.
The thought has him gulping, the heat flaring in his chest as he tugs you closer, ghosting his lips over your temple.
With only a bit of stumbling, he shows you the rest of the home.
...
You’re quiet the rest of the day, curled up on the couch in the same clothes you left the hospital in. There’s clear exhaustion in your face, from the dark circles ringing your eyes and the tremble in your hand and leg. Keigo is content to cover you in a nice knit blanket he purchased down in the nearby town, and let you rest.
His own back burns when he catches glimpses of your scar. It ran down all the way to your ankle, even bleeding onto the top of your foot. The gnarled flesh brings back memories of screaming and metallic exam rooms.
And he, like you, stares at a wall for a while before making dinner.
You can’t manage much.
The TV glows with some show you might’ve watched and been engrossed in it. But the hollow feeling in your chest keeps you submerged in the static of your skull. It’s more comfortable than acknowledging how quickly the picture moves in front of you.
Your only motion is a ‘light’ scratching over the thin fabric of your pants.
‘Light’.
He enters sometime later, bearing food and an easy smile that falls all-too quickly.
“Hey, starshine— oh fuck,” His voice clips as he enters, setting down steaming plates on the coffee table and pulling your hand from your thigh. The tips of your fingers are stained with enough blood to make your eyebrows shoot up.
Your eyes shoot to your leg, where you’d apparently tore through the thin fabric of your pants and torn your skin up without even thinking. So close to the scar—
Heat flares between, light bouncing in your eyes as you cover the hole, “S-sorry, fuck, I didn’t even realize.”
“It’s okay, it happens,” Keigo assures you, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Let’s clean you up quick and then eat, okay?”
You nod, exhaling a weight from your chest as the light skitters out of your eyes.
And the heat fades from the room. The absence of it chills Keigo, and the abruptness makes his nose scrunch.
He patches you up quickly and with a precision that screams ‘yes, I have done this far too many times.’ The wound isn’t too severe, just a nasty-looking scratch. The dried blood on your finger is wiped away.
You both settle onto the couch, eating in silence.
Something hangs in the air, thick and unsaid. Questions and paragraphs that have been ignored up until now. Not out of will, perhaps just tired negligence.
But, Keigo has always been the blunt type, so he finally asks one of the many facets that needs to be broached.
“What’s your quirk?”
A little surprised sound lodges in your throat with a bite of baked fish, “My quirk? I thought you figured it out already.”
Keigo raises a feathery eyebrow, “I’m a bit slow these days, starshine.”
The nickname makes something settle pleasantly under your ribs, and the light, little orbs of yellow and orange return to your eyes.
And heat fills the room, like it had so many times before. Like those first nights in the common room, stargazing in the lamp and starlight. It’s warmth that bleeds between his bones and tendons, through and through.
Keigo puts it all together, jaw going slack and eyes going wide.
Had he never realized it?
It does make sense, in retrospect and without a sinfully heavy dose of painkillers swimming in his veins. The heat that permeated all of the nights you sat, eyeing the stars and each other.
The odd heat of it all.
You’d been warming the two of you. Souls cold from the sterility of it all.
“That’s your quirk?” Keigo leans in closer, inspecting the little specks of light in your irises. The tell. “This whole time?”
“U-um, yeah,” You worry a hangnail. “I don’t mean for it to be activating all over the place, but it has been since everything happened.”
“Why’s that?”
You chew the plump of your bottom lip, brows pinched.
Without thinking, Keigo bows to the will of the ever-present, needy feeling in his chest and presses a little kiss to your forehead, willing it to smooth away some of your worry.
I’m not upset, the action says, but the cabin is quiet.
“... You know how cats purr?”
Keigo quirks an eyebrow, “I do.”
“Well, I think it’s kind of like that,” You met his eyes, the light returning and the fire-like warmth tickling the hair on your arms. “Cats purr when they feel good, but sometimes, they purr when they’re not doing well.”
“... ‘Not doing well’?”
“If they’re in pain, or if they’re really scared,” You go quiet, tracing a seam on Keigo’s jeans. “They’ll purr to comfort themselves. It’s like that.”
Comfort themselves.
No wonder all those nights you spent together, you felt so warm. It was your quirk—
And you must’ve felt awful.
Part of him feels betrayed, just for a moment, before it dissolves with the watery look you wear as your injured finger traces over his knuckles.
And the heat of you flares.
Your quirk is a part of you.
“I didn’t think to tell you.” Your voice wobbles, yet remains vacant. “‘M sorry.”
You don’t need to apologize.
If anything, the knowledge only strengthens Keigo’s resolve.
...
The first weeks at the house are odd as you both settle into rhythms of living. There’s an orbit to how you choose to live, though it’s not predictable or reliable. It can’t be, there’s no way for it to be. You float around each other like little planets to a fickle sun, unstable and wavering, but elliptical, nonetheless.
You’re both learning to be human again with your own rhythms.
Keigo’s biggest challenge is dragging himself from bed each morning. The lazy bones he thought the Commission had broken and beaten out of him still remain somehow. Now that he has no obligations to tend to at the break of dawn, he thoroughly enjoys lazing about in the sheets, even if he’s just staring at his wood-paneled ceiling wishing that Dabi had finished the job and burned him dead.
He’s doing great.
Despite his sluggishness, you move about on your own.
You make coffee each morning, and curl up on the couch under the same knit blanket. A few patches of the multi-colored throw have been pulled apart by your restless hands.
Neither of you comment on it.
Though Keigo takes longer to rise, you move far less during the day during those first weeks. You’re tethered to the cushion until the sun goes down.
It’s like the nylon straps at the hospital never left your wrists.
Your vacant nature scares him, if he’s honest. There’s an unspoken, massive wound you carry with you, both physically and mentally, and its manifestation is a little haunting.
Keigo knows about trauma, knows about how the mind worked and how to, you know, deal with it. He is— was, a hero, for fuck’s sake. Trauma is in the job description and he’d had his fair share of bruises before he went undercover, before he killed Jin (REALLY don’t think about it—), and lost his wings. He’s stitched himself up by filling up his schedule with anything he could. Distractions. Things to occupy him, help him forget for a while. If that didn’t work, he always had a bottle or two of imported soju that he could nurse.
Again, coping.
The state you’re in is the opposite of coping, it’s being. Existing. The strain you carry from everything shows in you, and the way that it’s manifested terrifies him.
Keigo is smart enough to know to keep a few boundaries. He can’t fix you and he can’t get it in his head that he can. He’ll smother you; he knows he will. The solace he finds comes from being there when you need him, and always being close by.
It’s all he can do to soothe what’s obviously an open wound. He has his own, that you tend to in your own way as well when you can. It’s all give-and-take, naturally and easily.
You’ll find yourselves on the couch together, leaning and touching so naturally, but with no intent. Your little fingers trace shapes over his clothes, hearts and lettering he can’t catch. The heat of you will cling to him, whether your quirk activates or not.
He holds you, simply and truly. Tries to be a new, kinder being.
...
You don’t have much that is solely yours.
You’d been living in an odd combination of Keigo’s clothes and the single outfit you arrived with. It works, enough. Most garments are worn until they’re filthy, but it takes you a little too long to notice.
Keigo notices.
One day, he sits down with you and his heavy, black credit card and helps you pick out... whatever you wanted. The guy is loaded and will be until he dies, and he’s smitten to help you pick out whatever you need.
You’re more challenged by the task.
“I’m fine, you don’t need to do this,” you murmur into his collarbones, narrowing your eyes at the laptop screen. “I have enough.”
Keigo clicks his tongue, rubbing the fraying fabric of your shirt, the same, cheap scratchy fabric from the hospital. Your pants are soft cotton, old ones of Keigo’s that he should probably throw away. You adore them, and spend most of your time in them, too.
“You deserve some nice things that are yours, don’t you think?” He coaxes with some extra soft touches as you glare at the screen.
Perhaps, you think to yourself. Your jaw locks.
You deliberately avoided thinking about your lack of... things. The absence of all the bits of you that you had once carried tugs at something deep in your chest. Grief, probably. Loss at the very least. Your home has been torn apart and you have nothing. Not a single remnant of then except you. And you’re hardly a good cast of the existence you once lead.
The world feels dimmer with the thought.
...
The house gets cold at night.
It’s inevitable, with the chill of the snowy valleys and peaks slipping through drafty windows and cracks in the woodwork. It slunk into the house once the stars rose, sinking bone deep. It’s easier to ward off during the day. The little stray touches and the ambiance of shared presence helps.
But, you slept separately.
It’s cold— so fucking cold in your beds. Keigo hates it. Despises the way how it makes his eyes droop and his body heavier than it should be. Despite not having wings any longer, his other avian traits lingered, and torpor was definitely not in his top three faves. He can only be thankful that he thought to invest in an electric blanket for himself, for his nest.
Though it would be a lot better with you in it, the last thing he wants to do is push you. You’re fragile. Everything is fragile. Keigo has laid awake on more than one night, trying to make sense of all of it, everything and coming to the conclusion that sleeping in his too-big, too-cold bed would have to do.
Sometimes, there’s no way to swallow the state of things.
...
“Your packages are here.”
You look up, eyes wide and sweet.
Oh, yeah. Material goods.
Clothes.
Objects.
It takes a while, but the result of your shopping spree is a small horde of packages down at the town post office, all with your name attached. The idea of so much newness is daunting, but your few remaining garments are threadbare and practically falling apart. It’s necessary, you acknowledge, even if you’re terrified of not living in Keigo’s worn crewneck.
(Change can be good, you remind yourself. The thought is quiet.)
Keigo stands by the door, buttoning up his coat and lacing up his boots as you watch from your soft perch on the couch. The blanket has a new, wide hole picked in it, but you don’t notice.
“Would you like to come with me and pick them up?” Keigo flicks his gaze to you with a careful, easy smile.
You hadn’t left the house since you’d arrived.
The thought sends your stomach knotting and sweat gathering in your palms. You jerk your head side to side, sinking back down into the cushions.
Keigo doesn’t hold it against you. You can tell by the way his expression softens around his eyes.
He leaves after kissing you on the forehead a few times, telling you he’ll be quick to return. It’s not often that he leaves, though he’s always timely on coming back. His excursions are never more than a trip to the town market, thankfully. An hour or two feels like a lot, but the too-still air and quiet of the floorboards without Keigo’s pacing unsettles you.
Not having him near unsettles you. The thought of having him gone for too long shoots something hot and needy in your chest.
(Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave—)
Thankfully, just like always, Keigo isn’t gone for long. And he returns bearing a few armloads of packages and some takeout curry. You take it all, and him, greedily.
(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)
...
It’s a few days later when Keigo wakes to you knocking on his door in the early hours of the morning.
It had been a... rougher day. You had been a bit livelier early on, joining him on the snowy patio for morning coffee and even taking a quick walk around the neighboring forest. With the snow so deep, you could only go so far though. The motion of it aggravated your injury, left your gasping and clawing at Keigo’s arm as the scar tissue pulled.
The scar is still dead, thank god, but the impact is just as present physically as it is mentally for you.
The rest of the day you spent curled up on the couch, taking little sips of water between short naps. That night, you hardly touched your dinner. Keigo was smart enough to cut up some fruit and lay it with a handful of crackers and offer it to you throughout the rest of the night. You nibbled at the bits, but hardly consumed much at all.
You went to bed early, giving him a hard hug before retiring to your lonely room.
Those days are the worse, the bad ones. They’re the ones where Keigo wants to break all the boundaries he still has. The little touches and kisses he gives you are one thing, but there’s much more he wants to do. Craves doing. But, pushing you too far or too hard would break you. He’s smart. He knows that. So, Keigo doesn’t wait. He satiates all those protective needs.
He accepts circumstance, just as he always has.
(He doesn’t understand how much you crave him, but that’ll come later.)
That night, things begin to shift.
His voice cracks with sleep as he calls for you to enter. You linger in the door frame, clutching a pillow to your chest, like a scared child who’s had a—
“Nightmare?” He asks, sitting up and tugging a blanket with him to cover his bare chest.
The cold air of the cabin hits his scars. He hisses under his breath, shoulders drawing tense. You must notice, eyes going a little wider as you recede from his room. The darkness of the hallway nearly dissolves you. His chest aches, hands tightening around the fabric in his fists.
“Come back here, starshine, come on,” Keigo calls, praying you’ll heed him. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?”
Keigo half-recognizes that that’s a very loaded question, but you’re both a bit sleep addled. Maybe it will slide.
Your eyes alight in the pitch of the room, sputtering with little orbs of amber. Your atrophying arms squeeze the pillow, and you take a few more tentative steps closer.
“... We’re safe, right?”
The question surprises Keigo, enough to make his old wounds ache.
One loaded question answered for another.
It’s reasonable to ask. It’s very reasonable to ponder. Keigo has wondered about it too. The townsfolk don’t know who he really was, and he was quite secretive about the initial move. The world hadn’t caught onto the fact that ‘Hawks’ had moved him and his new love to an isolated little cabin in the woods, and hopefully they never would. Society had a lot bigger problems, according to the over-processed news channel he tuned into on occasion.
Keigo was old news at this point.
So many heroes had been called out for poor behavior. Scandal after scandal, coverup after coverup. Corruption, everywhere. It was an industry secret, all of the bullshit behind closed doors. Keigo’s little double-agent schtick and you know, murder of a good man (for the love of god, do not fucking think about Jin) was still bad, but the public had a whole new slew of bullshit to torch people at the stake for.
Still.
He’s glad no one knows about your little hideaway or you.
“We’re safe, starshine. Very safe.”’
It makes his answer easier to say, more honest.
You inch closer from the doorway. There’s a tremble in your shoulders that runs to your hands. You’re only wearing a t-shirt and thin shorts, maybe just panties, he can’t tell. Your scar runs down your thigh and calf, gnarling and twisting the flesh it dared to mar. The seam of it is a shining black that Keigo had failed to notice before.
It reminds him of why you’re so scared and the types of nightmares you must have.
“... Promise?” You stop at the foot of the bed, throat bobbing with a thick gulp.
Keigo gives a sympathetic smile, patting the sheets next to him, “I promise. You’re safe. We’re safe.”
You look skeptical, but climb into bed with him all the same.
Something stirs in Keigo’s chest as you do. As he watches you clamor over the sheets and blankets he... nests in, the heat of it fills him. A combination of yours and his own, spills through his ribs and down to his toes.
He shudders with it, something needy wriggling down from
You sit up on your knees, sinking into the mattress and holding the pillow tight to your chest. Watching, eyes still alight and wide.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Keigo asks.
You don’t, you both know that, but breaking the silence is a start.
You push the pillow against the headboard, trading it to link your fingers with his, over his chest and pressed to the linens.
You squeeze and let out a breath you’ve been holding. There’s a weight to it, like there’s something you’re actually carrying. There has been something you have been carrying, but only you are able to see it— feel it in its actuality.
But, that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder the burden alone, especially on darkened, lonely nights.
He tugs you closer, mindful of your tenderness and the scars you both bear. The night is only lit by starlight, and the room is dark with the new moon. It makes it easier to be closer as you settled into the bedding next to him.
It’s uncomfortable for a few moments.
Despite how much contact you share, this feels different. The little touches, kisses and caresses you trade throughout the day are second nature. Comforting someone else who so obviously needs it. His person who needs it.
(He wonders if you think of him as your ‘person’ too.)
You lay on your side, facing away from him as you fall into his nest, still tense, still on edge and unsure. It reminds him of those first days at the hospital, when you both had lost your tongues and yourselves and just enjoyed the stars together in oddly comforting silence and broken conversation.
It’s a process, he reminds himself.
Keigo slides closer, throwing an arm over waist and adjusting the blankets with his other. There’s plenty, piled on top of each other without much reason. Careful hands properly tuck you into it all, next to him, with him. He brings them up to your chin, pressing stray hairs back into place and laying a trailing kiss or two over the back of your neck.
“... Is it okay if I stay?” Your voice sounds far-off, like the question is more for yourself than for him.
He can feel the unease and fear still bound up in your shoulders. It’s always there, whether it’s a moonless night or a snow-glitteringly, sunny day. The tension he presses his thumbs into is held in all of the muscle of your back, in your hips, your hands— everywhere.
It makes part of him ache.
A few little coos, soft little rumbles, roll from the back of his throat.
Normally, he’d be a bit embarrassed. But at the birdish chirps, you’re falling deeper in the sheets, the nest, and against his chest.
“Please stay,” He assures you with a squeeze. A small comfort, one he’d keep giving.
The odd quiet returns, sans the little sounds in his chest.
Slowly, tentatively, you turn in his arms. Your own lock over his waist, splayed low on his spine. The pads of your fingertips brush scars, the old ones and the new. It makes him writhe a bit in his own skin. It’s unfamiliar, compared to all of the cold prodding and meaningless pleasure he was used to.
It is the closest anyone of familiarity has been to the scars in a long time, and you, preciously, grace him with the softest touch. No expectation in it, just some much-needed, shared bits of love. Once again, precious.
And you both relax into it all. The ambient thrum of the other's body, the shared breath and smells that mingle between you. There’s little pains and stings that never really go away, but with the other so close, neither of you mind.
It’s hard to tell when your quirk settles, and the organic heat you create together fills the rooms and your lungs.
All Keigo knows is that he falls asleep with your lips brushing the hollow of his throat, still and warm against his chest. The feeling of the living rhythm of your body with your breath lulls him off, content and hazy.
...
You never sleep alone after that night.
Keigo pulls you into his room, or you pad in after brushing your teeth and pulling on your soft, soft sleep clothes. The bed feels a lot less big and lonely with the two of you wrapped up in each other, fully giving in.
It puts Keigo at a remarkable amount of ease.
The urge in his chest to ‘keep you safe’ feels the most sated at night, when he can keep as close as you both can bear. Your hands always make their home at the base of his spine, or the fat and flesh between his lower back and his rear. The pads of your fingers rub away years of stored tension and weight, quietly and kindly before you fall asleep each night.
During the day, you’re equally as needy, though you’re slowly becoming a bit more independent. You’re more lucid in general. Though the couch and worn blanket are your greatest comforts (other than him), you’re beginning to stray and poke around the house a bit more.
The shelves have a few more familiar comforts, things Keigo had slowly accumulated to pass the time. There’s a video game console or two he’d never used, a few stacks of books he’d heard were good, and some tucked away art supplies if inspiration struck.
As much as he urges you to take and use whatever you’d like, you’re still tentative. The first few times you pluck a crisp book from the shelf, Keigo’s back aches with how the old muscles that once controlled his wings tried to puff-up non-existent feathers. Despite how it tugs at all the wrong parts of him, he still glows at the progress.
You start to help him with dinner too. That’s some of your favorite time.
There’s a rhythm to it, when you both start preparing meals together. Keigo can’t season food for shit, (though, he’s made leaps and strides with cooking that pats himself on the back for) but he’s quite skilled with a knife. Remnants of his training that have domestic applications.
He doesn’t tell you that that’s why he’s so good at dicing vegetables and paring meat, he just chatters to fill the air. You tend more to the process of cooking, seasoning and watching and nodding along to his words.
The more meals you share in creating, the more you start to speak up.
It’s progress, even in something so small.
...
But progress isn’t linear.
It’s not even a goddamn line and it’s fucking infuriating.
...
The depth of winter bears down on the hills, the house, and the two of you. You’re coping, both of you. But the momentum of it is fragile.
It scares you, secretly and privately.
You feel fragile, and you have for a long time. Your scar remains tender, gnarled and ugly on your leg. You avoid looking at it at all cost, though Keigo has free reign to graze tender touch nearby it.
That’s how you find yourselves, leaning on each other on the cushion of the couch and idly watching the glow of the television. Your cheek tucks over his shoulder and you watch with half-lidded eyes. You’re only half-there as Keigo changes the channel.
He hums after a few moments.
“There’s a storm coming tonight,” Keigo tells you, lips just a touch dry against the shell of your ear. “I’m going to go to town and—”
Oh wow.
You interrupt, fisting the front of his shirt, “Can I come?”
The question stuns both of you.
Your eyes are honest as you peer up, genuinely unsure if you can.
“Of course, starshine,” Keigo assures. You notice the way his eyes, his pretty eyes, look wide and bright. All for you. Wow. “Let’s get you out of the house, hm?”
Getting out.
Time has stretched out and you can’t remember the last time you left for anything more than a little stroll on the backroads, Keigo on your arm. Going to town and seeing people strikes something odd that has your stomach churning.
You’re nervous when you finally pile into the car, both bundled up with hats, mittens and scarfs (Keigo wears a mask to better hide his identity, but he’s sure some of the townies have figured him out.) The tasks are simple. Stock up for the coming storm and make sure he pays to plow their little backroad out once the storm passes. Easy, things that wouldn’t take too long, but it still makes your palms sweat.
Keigo massages your thigh as you drive into town. The comfort of the snowy hills and evergreens disappears, and it has you in goddamn knots.
You squeeze his hand, locking your jaw.
“I’m scared.” You break the silence as the small structures of the town come into view. “I don’t know if this was a good idea.”
You haven’t decided again.
He kneads his thumb into the tension in your thighs with a little smile, “Let’s give it a try.”
“It’s scary, though.”
“I know.”
You pull at a hangnail with your teeth but say nothing else as you roll in and park at the small market.
The first thing you notice is the goddamn doors. Automatic doors.
When you see them, you want to climb back into the car, maybe the trunk for fuck’s sake, and hide like you’ve never hidden before. Go home and bury yourself in a snow pile with how your heart hammers in your chest and your breath catches.
Deep breaths.
You catch yourself, just a little.
You keep walking, Keigo’s hand in yours and you enter the market like nothing feels as wrong as it is.
The store is small, but there’s a decent selection, all things given. Keigo places a basket in your hands, tells you to ‘go nuts’ and ‘literally get whatever you want, especially if it’s salty or sweet’ and you heed him the best you can. He busies himself talking to the clerk, organizing with that honey-voice you crave.
You take a few deep breaths and walk around the market like a normal person.
(Even though, the last time you were in a situation close to this, you got that nasty, cute scar on your leg.)
(You suppress the thought for as long as you can.)
The basket gets filled quickly, but you stuff it to the brim. Keigo picked out plenty of good food, and had learned how to cook decently, but having some... agency felt nice, if not fucking terrifying.
You’ve got your back turned to the entrance of the store when the (automatic) doors suddenly swish open.
A chill so cold and hard shoots down your spine and you freeze, hovering over a box of breadcrumbs.
One...
How long was it between that sound and when he touched you?
Two...
This was a terrible idea.
Three—
It was four—
Four—
Four seconds, you propose, as your heart beats out of your chest and you sweat under your arms. Four seconds from the door opening to pain.
You wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Nothing.
Just more voices from the front of the store, a figure entering your aisle and then leaving.
You hate the way you're so rigid, tense enough in your shoulders for it to hurt. The ghost of the wound on your leg makes you want to fall to the ground and writhe, but you grab the box of breadcrumbs and try not to think.
It works, and you land next to Keigo, presenting your filled basket to be rung up.
You bury your face into his shoulder and take a deep inhale. Keigo keeps you close, tucked in your side with an arm around your waist. Your anxiety must’ve been quite visible, as he takes to quietly rubbing your shoulders over your sweater.
Things get hazy as you feel safer. Keigo laughs and sways the two of you as he speaks to the clerk.
(Her sons are going to blow your little house out when the storm passes. The family cat recently got out and came back pregnant. Her husband has been reading some odd literature he found on the internet. Something about ‘the strong triumphant over the weak’. Her daughter might be able to return from her foreign university now that the travel restrictions had been lifted.)
Everything moves forward, even if it’s unpleasant.
It’s an awful reminder at an inopportune time.
You watch your feet as you crunch your way back to the shotgun side of the car, only relaxing when you hear the doors lock and the engine thrum.
...
The storm comes, just as the faces on TV said it would.
You’re in the country, in the hills and mountains where the weather is already turbulent and changeable. All the same, the overcast skies dump snow over the land and blanket the world in quiet and cold.
Snow silence sucks the sounds from the air, sans the howl of angry wind.
You’re tucked away and safe. It’s Keigo’s only solace.
After going into town, you keep more to yourself as the storm takes it sweet time rolling in. He recognizes the far off look in your eyes; it’s the one you wore stargazing, but there’s no kind smile on your face. Just a thoughtless frown as you go through the motions of your day.
It makes his chest ache.
(Part of him regrets bringing you with him to the market. It rots part of him, and he can only hope it sprouts again.)
Finally, when the storm truly comes and the hills get heavy and crisp white, a bit more of you returns. Keigo wants to take the fragments you’re willing to give him and tuck them close, horde them and squeeze. The way he’s gotten abashedly greedy for you has him handsier and needier.
He’ll take what he can get, and give what he can too.
It’s easiest to bear at night, probably out of habit. Maybe the time in the hospital fucked both of you up (yes, for sure, it did), but nighttime was the time where you were open and easy with each other.
The storm gives the perfect opportunity to all of your time shamelessly twisted together, only leaving for brief coffee breaks and light meals. Otherwise, you’re both nested.
Pillows and blankets piled on the oversized mattress, all soft against your scars and old scratches. Keigo’s still fond of the color red, he can’t let that go, but he trades in the scarlet that was once his ‘brand’ for a deeper burgundy. All the sensations are rich and velvety, whether it’s the bedclothes you’re wrapped in or the touches you share.
It feels safe.
The feeling is something almost foreign to Keigo. He’s been getting used to it, even as the isolation weighs down on him. No one around means no reason to be so alert. The house isn’t bugged, there’s no villains or Suits watching his every move. He’s just a flightless bird, with no cage, but no captors either.
It feels amazing.
It feels even better that you’re always the heat against his side. That you and your perfect, sweet hands always know how and where to touch. Your words flow easier when you’re so close, so surrounded and so deliciously suffocated.
Keigo fills you up in all the best ways, and you’re finally able to breathe easier.
You tell him your secrets, little stargazing facts and facets of you that you’d held away and far from him before.
“Do you know what cosmic microwave background radiation is?” You ask, sweet as your lips nip at his jaw.
“No, not a clue,” He laughs, the giggle only you get to hear.
You hum, shifting your thighs so it lies over his. Your hips grind, slow and unhurried as wind rattles the windows.
“It’s this ambient radiation that’s just everywhere, all the time, forever,” You tell him, voice going a little huskier despite the fact you’re talking about theoretical astrophysics. “It’s left over from the Big Bang. A little bit of the beginning that never stops.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“A documentary, love.”
The questions fade as your lips slide together, lazy hands sliding into each other's hairs. You pull, only lightly, just to bring him closer. Keigo gets greedy, (again, always), licking into your mouth and tasting you. It’s all cheap coffee and the stale mint of toothpaste, and he drinks you down like the finest nectar. He sucks on your tongue, moaning at the way you keen and shift next to him.
It’s not enough. It never is, so he rolls to sit himself over your hips and grab your jaw in a tight grip. He can’t be too forceful, he can’t— his little birdbrain won’t let him do anything too rough to you, even if neither of you would mind it. He tilts your head just right.
You roll your hips up, breath mingling with his as it hitches and shudders from you. It’s so much, so much good, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Keigo pulls away, eyes half-lidded to take in your own blown pupils. It makes something purr in his chest, to see your eyes already glassy and wide for him. Your neck is thoroughly covered in darkened splotches, already sucked and bitten while the storm sang.
Little marks of him.
“You’re all mine, you know?” Keigo nearly moans at the way your expression goes gooey and sweetened. He tightens his grip on your jaw just a fraction, enough to make you gasp before he licks and nips below your ear. Just to make sure you hear him. “‘Everywhere, all the time, forever’, I’ve got you.”
“Y-you do,” you gasp as Keigo shifts your sleep shorts off, pushed away forgotten in the nest. The thin tank top you’re wearing is hardly covering anything, not that either of you care. The nearly-sheer fabric of it stretches over your collars and curves beautifully. It does nothing to hide the way your breaths heave or the sweat and heat gathering on your neck.
You’re bared to him.
And if Keigo’s being honest?
You own each other, in the most pleasantly fucked up way.
“Y-You’re so good,” The word holds weight, so much heaviness. Keigo groans, palming one of your breasts and rolling one of your nipples. It’s ambient, something to occupy himself as he resists your words. Just a little—
Your hand slips into the front of his sweats, bare beneath, and wraps around the velvet of him. Thick and hot, firm in your hand but not close enough.
You squeeze, almost in warning.
“You are good.” You gasp as Keigo pulls off you, leveling gazes with you, all pretty eyes reflecting the starshine and snow. He is good. There’s so much more to it than that, but your poor, fucked up little mind can’t synthesis it yet. Only that Keigo is good, warm, safe, and wholly yours. And you’re his. You stretch to ghost a kiss over his lips. “My good boy, always keeping me safe. You keep me so well.”
He stills, even as you slowly pump in his cock. It twitches in your hand, your thighs squeezing between his hips.
Keigo’s mind races, in the best way.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmurs, head tilting and body sagging to drink down your kiss-bruised lips. More, more, more— “You just need to be taken care of.”
“I don’t need to,” You lie, huffing.
Keigo raises an eyebrow, biting his lips as your grip floats down to his balls, massaging them in your soft grip. It’s tender, weirdly vulnerable, as the whole of you two are.
“Maybe you don’t need to, you’re very capable,” Maybe not right now, but he knows it’s in there. “But you want it.”
“I-I like it,” You scramble the wording, shoving down his sweats, huffing again and urging Keigo to kick them away. Your palm goes to his cheek and drags him closer. “I like you a lot, love you, you know. You make me feel... safe. It’s a good feeling.”
It’s the most honest you’ve been in a long time, and it sits in the air. Keigo remains silent for a moment, silent and trying to control the way his birdbrain wants to take you. Wants to fuck you up and ruin you for anyone else.
You’re his, aren’t you?
“Good girl,” Keigo breaks the tension, squeezing your hips to the point of bruises. His, his, his. “I keep you so good, don’t I?”
You nod, spitting out little affirmatives between kisses. They dot his cheeks and forehead, slipping to his nose and downward. You pull his bottom lip into his mouth, letting out a little half-sob as Keigo’s touch drifts to your cunt, to your clit that’s swollen and untouched.
More, more, more—
“You keep me so good,” You gulp, whining and grinding into the heel of his hand. Slick coats your sex, sticky and hot. “So, so good—”
Keigo drops down the bed, ignoring the flare of his scar tissue, to seat himself between your thighs. They get thrown over his shoulders with a squeeze. His hands cup your ass, slipping a pillow beneath your hips before eating your cunt like he’d die if he didn’t.
It’s one of his favorite things. Stuffing you full of him until your belly swells is another, or seeing the way his cock opens and stretches you until you’re gasping for breath and begging for more, more, more—
Keigo slips a finger into you without resistance. He curls it, unyielding as he massages the little knot of nerves in you that makes you arch and beg for more, for him.
You choke on a sob when he adds another finger, and he hushes you so sweet, tears prick your eyes.
“Starshine,” He coaxes, withdrawing only to give your clit, a few kitten licks and slow kisses. His gaze flickers towards yours, holding your wet eyes. “Doesn’t it feel good?”
You nod, the meat of your thighs squeezing around him. Keigo would be happy to die like this, you soft and opened for him, crying for him. Broken and cracking for him, by his tongue, by his touch, Him. His.
“Who takes care of you?” He curls his fingers, and you throw your head back into the nest of pillows.
“Y-You,” Your voice breaks and you rub at your cheeks.
“Who knows just how to keep you so well? How to make you feel so good?”
He presses a third finger in, tending to your clit as you cry above him. You’re molten around him, and he laps you up until the smell and taste of you is all he comprehends.
This is what you both need, isn’t it?
Each other. All of each other.
Your cries turn sour quickly, and it has Keigo jolting up, fingers withdrawn and leaving you to feel empty. The little sobs turned into hiccupping cries, one's stifled with the back of your hand.
Keigo rises over you, tugging you hand away to get at your cheeks, kissing them soft and sweet.
It isn’t often that you cry, surprisingly. You probably should more often.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Keigo urges. Please, please, just tell him what the fuck is wrong. He knows, you know, the meat of it all. But please tell him something he can tend to. Something he can stitch up because god, he needs to be useful— “What’s making your cry sweetheart? Tell me.”
You paw at your forehead, “It’s silly.”
You sniffle and look at him with the most unguarded expression he’s seen you worn. The vacancy is gone, the hollowness and pain has been pulled away in the safety of that perfect nest and all that’s left is—
“‘M scared,” You mumble. Your arms curl over your chest, covering what’s primitively most precious to you. “I’m scared.”
Your eyes grow bright and heat, hotter than anything he’s felt from you, explodes over the room.
He’s half-choking and he fucking loves it.
Something in his chest snaps and he worries your hair, bringing his nose to yours, nuzzling and nudging your hands away. He nips you. His poor little birdbrain.
“I’m afraid you’re going to leave.”
Keigo stills.
He sits with your fear for a few beats.
“I’d never leave,” He says easily, truthfully and fully. He couldn’t.
Those long nights in the hospital and the warmth passed between you had so easily gotten you wormed his chest, right next to his second and third rib. He can feel it, always; you’re ever present. He grabs your arms and holds them to yours sides. You’re exposed, soft flesh and squirming a bit beneath him. He wants to mark you purple and near-bloody, so that no one would think of you as anything other than his.
His, his, his.
He shows you.
Worn hands, a bit chapped with the dry air, pull your high to rest on his shoulders. He massages your calves, kissing your ankles.
“I mean this real lovingly, starshine,” He breaths deep, fisting his cock with a few slow strokes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You don’t get a chance to protest as he slides into you in one stroke. The stretch of him has you burning; he can tell by the way your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his shoulders as your little cries only get harder.
“Bear it, I know you can,” You had before, and you would many times more. The stretch feels amazing, even if it burns something in your core. You like it, how the pain pricks something that shoots into your toes. Only Keigo gets to fuck you up, gets to own you. “You’re always good f-for me— f-fuck, so fucking good—”
His, his, his.
There is, of course, the inverse.
You grab his jaw, your grip tight like his was earlier, and you meet his gaze. You blink away tears, sniffling, but expression set with determination.
“You’re mine too,” You squeeze around him, grinding down to the root of his cock. “‘M only good for you because you’re mine too, Keigo. All of you.”
Without thought, your hands ghost over his scars.
You have avoided them for so long. It was an untouched spot, something tender and from a time where Keigo was being that was entirely and wholly different from who he is now. It’s a piece of him that’s always been off-limits.
But you’re both so cracked open, you do it without thought.
And something in Keigo snaps.
He pushes you down by the backs of your thighs, folding your legs to your torso. And he fucks you.
His hips slam against yours, opening you up with pants and groans. You feel full, full of him in every and all ways, everywhere, always, and forever.
You’re greedy with your touches, tugging him closer and uncaring of the way your nails scrap over his shoulders and arms. His body is yours and you’re his. It’s disgusting, it’s fucked up and perfect the way you slot together. It’s like little, scared pieces of existence slide together, and everything feels whole, yet open and uncracked.
Keigo fills you up with a sob, tears dripping down his cheeks as you pressed down on the burns and scars that rack down his back.
“Fill me up,” You demand, the heat of you swelling as his hand dips to your clit, circling and rolling with the little pleas falling from both your lips.
The world drips as his thrusts go harder, sloppier as you tip your head back and scream. Your voice breaks, hoarse from all your pleading and possession.
Keigo stuffs you, tip of his cock pressed to the deepest parts of you. His cum, all him, leaks from around his cock as he gives a few more weakened grinds. He makes sure you’re full, content and sated and his.
He falls over you, coating your cheeks in kisses and praise. You sputter little sobs for him, begging for him to be closer, despite the way he still fills you even as he softens.
It never feels like enough, the closeness. But you’ll settle for all of him that you can get.
...
The storm passes, and you spend your time much the same way. Fucking, feeling, and for a little, blessed while, forgetting.
Eventually, the snow stops falling. The wind that has been whipping the power into tree trucks and your windows falls still. It’s peaceful, then. Not that it wasn’t before, but without the weather bearing down on you, you’re both less hungry. Still greedy, just not starved.
You share the first morning after the storm outside, on the porch. Keigo had shoveled a little clear patch and you’d brushed off the two, brittle lawn chairs that had seen better days. You fixate on the task a bit too much, the steaming coffee you’re to share is forgotten. The straining plastic of the chairs is a yellowed-white and bright red. It felt strong enough under your fingers, cold fingers, as you cleared away the snow.
It feels like a remnant
Whatever fixation you have on the object passes as Keigo runs a hand up your spine. His hand is wide and warm, still a bit warm from the toasty mugs.
You rearrange your chairs and yourselves to be close as can be, in your little patch of snowless porch, and sip at your coffee as the world begins to wake up.
...
Oddly enough, the storm helps you make forward progress, at least a little. You take up making breakfasts on your own, occasionally carrying plates into the bedroom with a big, previously unseen grin
Keigo returns the smile so big, his cheeks burn for hours.
You take to a few of the little crafts and things Keigo has been hoarding. Paper folding and little canvases with acrylic painting are your favorites. Sometimes, you paint your little strokes and press creases from the comfort of the couch. Other times, you make you place for the day at the kitchen island while Keigo makes his day-long meals.
There’s a rhythm to it that’s so good.
It’s progress, and seeing it visibly start to the fill the walls feels good for both of you. Your little canvases get hung around the cabin, little portraits of the stars and their mother, all for you and Keigo to admire. ;;
...
He gets the call exactly three weeks after the storm passes.
Keigo awakes before you to the shrill ring of his cell. It vibrates against the bedside table, loud enough to wake the both of you. You both startle out of sleep, squeezing each other.
He takes the call in the other room, after he sees the contact name.
[Suits] Calling...
He paces as he listens to her drone on.
There’s no greeting, no “hey, how does it feel to be a flightless fucking failure?”. It’s business. Just business. It’s always been like that with her, and the lot of suits that treated him like a fixture until he got particularly cracked and unsightly.
“So, you come into Tokyo, we’ll do a small event—”
“The event you’re describing really doesn’t sound small,” Keigo tilts his head and gives an angry smile to his own reflection in the mirror. “It sounds like a circus that I really have no interest in being a part of.”
“It’s for the people, Hawks—”
It makes him snap.
“Stop fucking calling me that.” He growls into the receiver, grip tight enough to hurt. “Stop calling me, stop asking me, I am not coming back.”
The woman is silent on the line for a beat, before spitting, “What if I didn’t give you a choice?”
His blood runs cold before burning in his veins. And he laughs.
“You think you could?” He only feels a little hysterical. “You don’t have any power, not over me, not over anyone else as far as I’ve seen, Madam President!”
“Hawks—”
Shut up, shut up, shut UP.
“The Commission is dead, the world is in chaos, and putting the corpse of a hero on the big screen isn’t going to convince anyone that this is all fixable,” Keigo chest gets tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from the uncomfortable laughter he’s spitting or the sobs that are locked in his chest.
“So, you’d rather turn your back on the people you swore to protect?” Suits speaks with no emotion, not an ounce of feeling. “Selfish.”
Selfish, selfish, selfish. The word echoes in his mind, worms its way down his throat and suffocates him.
“You’re really going to say that to me? Of all fucking people?” He feels his nails break skin where he’d been clenching his fist. “Me, selfish?”
“You left, didn’t you? Ran away?” The woman has the stones to fucking laugh. “Everyone’s lost something. You’re not special, and it doesn’t justify—”
“What the fuck are you getting out of this?” Keigo interrupts, burning, burning— “Did you call me to go to this little gala or did you call to dig into your perfect little hero? You told me I could be done. Should’ve known you were lying, you always lie—”
“You’re being childish.”
“Oh my GOD!” Keigo nearly screams and doesn’t notice how you’ve tip-toed from the bedroom. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I hear you screaming at me, the woman who practically raised you, like some petulant brat. Get a grip, Hawks.”
He snaps.
“STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THAT!” He screams into the phone, vision going white and scarlet. “I am not Hawks! Hawks is DEAD! Why can’t you understand that? There’s no fucking hero to attend your little ‘healing’ gala, there’s just me. ‘Childish’, ‘selfish’, and wingless, babe. That’s what I’ve got, and this is what I am.”
Suits takes an audible sigh, and Keigo can almost see how she’s shaking her head at him, “You’re being ridiculous, Hawks. Take at least a goddamn ounce of responsibility for your actions that helped cause all... this.”
Ah, there it is. The thing Hawks has so properly compartmentalized, tucked so far back in his psyche that it’s almost impossible to reach.
How much of the dissolution of... everything is on him?
Something in him snaps, and it slips through his own fingers.
“I’m not going and this, Madam President? This is for me.”
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
He hears her unspoken words echoing in his skull as he hangs up, slamming the phone on the countertop.
Something hotter than rage and more poisonous than pain fills his blood, and it makes him want to both wretch and break his fingers in the same breath. He slams a fist onto the phone, cracking it against the countertop. He can buy a new one—
“S-Sweetpea?”
Keigo freezes.
You’re at the mouth of the hallway, hardly out of the shadows, eyes wide and fearful. His chest somehow gets even tighter.
Normally, he would’ve rushed to comfort you, calmed himself down to console you for seeing his little outburst.
But he doesn’t that day.
He breaths ragged with his lips slowly curling, panic’s ugly cousin turning his spit acrid behind his teeth.
“Here, let’s go back to bed, okay? We can—” You take a few steps closer, hand outstretched and eyes beginning to light.
Oh, and Keigo’s hit by fucking envy, and it’s over.
“Don’t.”
You freeze, “Pretty eyes—”
“Don’t, just don’t.”
You don’t move as Keigo trudges to the door, throws on his thick parka and snow boots, pocketing his keys and grumbles to you that there’s leftovers in the fridge.
It’s shitty and selfish.
And he just doesn’t care.
He can’t make himself care as the door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing off the trees and so quickly dampened by the snow.
...
Keigo drives, white noise in his ear that echoes the wind in the treetops of the mountains he’s descending. He’s only half there as he leaves town.
It’s still too much.
...
You, on the other hand?
You’re frozen, stuck-still, as you watch Keigo climb into the car and drive off. Maybe your mouth has gone a bit agape, you aren’t aware of your body.
You panic.
There’s no other word for it, not that you were able to think of as you were untrenched in it.
There’s something thick and knotted that is rolling unraveling in your chest. The... thing is worse than a feeling and runs deeper and hotter than you can manage.
You tried to manage it.
While Keigo is god fucking knows where, you paced the house, always within eyeshot of a window. Hoping for a glimpse of his dark parka, or the tufts of his blonde sticking out in the snow, a return—
Fucking nothing.
He just left.
No return time, no destination, just a departure with no explanation. He’d obviously left the cabin before, you’d handled those times quite well, but he’d never stormed out. Never raised his voice and screamed and then just left.
Is he okay?
(You heard most of the call, at least his side of it. Is that awful Hero Commission he told you about calling him back? Or even worse, dragging him away.)
(He’d tell you, wouldn’t he?)
(Guess you’ll never know! Because he’s fucking gone.)
It made something seize in your chest, hot and awful as you walked your circuit, praying. Worry is damning.
How could he just... leave?
You need him back.
You alone without him.
Your thoughts rot you, despite the winter’s cold outside. The chill of the cabin seeps into your bones, coats them and leaves you sticky and downright paranoid. The lack of... presence (his presence) was driving you up a wall. The air is too still, the floors quiet and without the telltale old creaks of movement that you’ve become accustomed to, and the cabin is silent other than your breathing and rabbit’s heart.
Beneath the anger was a thick layer of fear.
You are alone.
The feeling rolled its way into you as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.
What if he never comes back?
Of course he is, you remind yourself, hurriedly, worrying the scary on your leg and picking at the core of it. He wouldn’t leave.
Why wouldn’t he?
The thought gets your poor little heart racing faster, air choking in your lungs. Your head whips to the window to see the empty, snowy driveway.
“I-I’m alone,” You break the silence of the house, the walls answering with their pensive quiet and the wind shaking the fresh snow from thin branches just outside.
All alone.
All fucked up and broken and fucking alone.
“He wouldn’t leave,” You start talking to yourself, threading a hand in your hair, gripping. “He cares, he wouldn’t just leave.”
He cared about being a hero too and he left everyone else.
What if things changed?
Insecurities, new ones and old ones, cloud your mind and vision and stuffed your lungs. The grip on your hair goes tighter.
All alone in the mountains.
All.
Alone.
It scares you more than anything, how much you need him.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you tug at the roots of your hair. It hurts, but everything is starting to hurt very quickly, and a bit of hair pulling is child’s play to how it feels like your chest is being hollowed out.
You really have so little. It stuns you in the moment as you choke back a sob. The little house in the mountains, Keigo, and the starlight you still both enjoy— that’s fucking it. You’d never returned to your ‘apartment’, or rather the remnants of it. Any possessions you had were lost to destruction and unsalvageable. Your meager relationships and friendships had fallen away when you were bound to hospital for months.
He’s all you have.
“No, no, no,” You nearly trip in your pacing, dragging your feet as you accept your reality. “He can’t l-leave.”
The world responds with silence. The mountains are cold and lonely, just like you are. It’s cruel, it all hurts and after being in a daze so often, the reality of your situation hurts like a hot brand.
He’ll come back.
He cares.
You desperately try to convince yourself as you tug your parka on, throwing on your boots. You don’t bother to fasten or tie anything, you just stumble onto the deck blindly and scan the hill of the drive.
Not a single soul.
Something rotten curls up behind your teeth. Bile climbs the back of your throat and you have to swallow to keep from vomiting. Your chest is too tight, the world is too bright, and you’re terrified.
You’re not sure what to call the type of panic response you have; it doesn’t make any logical sense. Your heart runs in your chest, your breath is hot and tight, and you simply slip to the ground in the fresh snow.
And you wait.
...
Keigo drives until he’s nearly out of town, into some flatlands near the river that gurgles and churns nearby. The surrounding forest is the perfect place for a pensive walk.
It’s the best place for him to just get it out.
It had been a long time since Keigo had just talked to himself. Audibly sorts himself as he walks along the bank of the almost-frozen river. He doesn’t keep his voice quiet, no, its full volume complaining. It’s anger that’s bundled up in his chest that’s finally being lit and the smoke of it nearly chokes him out.
It’s not fair.
He does feel a bit childish, thinking about it like that. But hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t they told him that he’d done enough? He lost it all and was just starting to the plant the seeds for a new life to sprout. Couldn’t he just have that? He’s not the shiny thing he used to be he’s fucking worthless. And that’s fine. He’s made peace with it and can find worth outside of saving people.
He’s capable. Adaptable. And he’s doing it all at his trademark speed.
But the thing that makes his gut twist is facing everything he (ran away from) left behind. The only short statement he’d given after Dabi’s video was nearly as viral as the actual video of him killing Jin (don’t think about it, don’t think about it—)
He’s not sure what possesses him to pull out his phone and pull up the video. It’s not hard to find.
It hurts to watch, but he does it anyway. Fucking masochist.
He’s standing beside Enji and Tsunagu, all of them in hastily tailored suits. They all had their visible injuries. Scars and brands that had just been carved and burned into skin. They look haggard, they look beaten.
Because they were.
Keigo watches as he adjusts his microphone in the video and gives his statement. Stupidly simple and vague, all at the same time.
“The villain Dabi did not lie. I am the son of Takami, and I killed Twice of the League of Villains. It was all necessary. Please accept my apology for the upset I have caused.”
His voice doesn’t even sound like him. It’s manufactured and broken. He remembers how the smoke had charred his throat and lungs for the first few days, before he was transferred from Central to the big facility in the tall-tree-ed forest.
He bows on the video and Enji begins his statement. Something solemn about the suffering he’s caused his family, how he wants to atone and how he is atoning. The public was too angry to listen and is too angry to listen. And the world Keigo ran from is the result.
He lets himself cry.
Finally.
His shoulders shake as he hunches over himself. The tears slip down his chilled cheeks and make little divots where they fall into the snow beneath him. His little gasps turn into sobs, the kind that hurt your chest and give you a headache that lasts for days.
He repeats a little mantra between scratchy breaths—
“I’m still good.”
“I’m still good.”
“I’m still good.”
He falls against the thick bark of a tree and slides down to the ground.
He let’s go.
It’s good for him, cleansing. Maybe it’s the rushing of the nearby river or the snow he's buried his hands in, but with each ragged breath he can feel some of that filth that’s clinging to him fall away. Not all of it, not by a long shot.
But feeling the worst is the first step to feeling your best.
So, when Keigo’s ready, he stands and moves forward. Trudges onward, albeit a bit slower.
...
Keigo returns home just as the sky begins to change from red to indigo with the night. It paints the pines and evergreens an eerie, dark color, shadows long and deep against the fluffy snow.
His gut twists in knots as he gets closer to home.
He’s tired. Exhausted. His eyes are still puffy from his tears, sore and aching. His body still feels tight, tense in his shoulders and arms as he grips the steering wheel. He needs rest. A good cup of tea and maybe a beer later.
And you.
As weak as Keigo feels, he knows he fucked up... just a bit.
It wasn’t fair to storm out. He isn’t dumb. All the same, if he stayed with you in the cabin, he probably would’ve said something he regretted. Or locked himself in the bedroom all day. It wouldn’t have been good or fair for you or him.
(Coward.)
Probably, but he was also burned alive fairly recently, so he had to give himself a bit of credit.
As he nears, his stomach drops.
You’re on the porch. You sit on the steps, parka pooling around your waist as your head rests on your knees.
Something’s not right.
Some of his old, honed senses trill to life, seeing you. Something in his gut twists, the muscles in his back tense, the old ones that controlled his wings.
You must be cold.
Keigo leaves the car and slaps on a smile, “Waiting for me, starshine?”
You twitch, curling over your body harder.
Something is very wrong—
He calls your name, your actual name, and you hardly stir. You all but twitch from where you sit, head tilting up just the slightest bit. It’s not enough to ease any of the worry pulling his old muscles, if anything, it makes it worse.
He falls to his knees in front of you, ignoring the crack his bones make.
“How long have you been out here?” Too long, he knows the answer, but he still has to ask.
“... A while,” You murmur, barely audible. “You’re back.”
“I am,“ Keigo pushes you up by your shoulders, scanning your face as more fear curls in his gut.
Your eyes are glassy and unfocused.
“We need to get you inside, now,” He isn’t sure if he sounds scared or angry (probably both), and he can’t make himself care.
You’re freezing.
Too cold, way too cold.
Keigo had to take plenty of survival courses during his training with the Commission and he had learned plenty about hypothermia. His avian anatomy made him more susceptible to the cold and knowing the symptoms for himself kept him from turning into a bird-adjacent popsicle more than once. He’d rescued his handful of civilians—
(Don’t think about being a hero right now or you’re gonna start crying again.)
You’re not some civilian, you’re you and you’re in front of him with darkened lips and dull eyes and full panic breaks his ribs.
...
You remember how pretty red the sky was.
You like sunsets.
You should see if Keigo wants to watch the sunset sometime.
Keigo’s gone.
You could drive—
Keigo drove away. You’re alone.
You aren’t sure how long you sat in the chill, but it was comforting despite how your fingers and toes began to ache. Outside, there were plenty of sounds and sights to keep you company. The wind whistled through trees, and the sky echoed a few, far-off sounds from distant civilization.
It was nice. Peaceful, at the very least.
...
“Inside, you need to be inside,” Keigo sputters, pulling you up under your arms. Your feet drag for a moment before going flat, and you sway in his arms.
Getting you inside makes his body ache in new ways, your weight mostly on his side. Old pains crawled to the surface as he dragged you to the couch, setting you down on the cushion and assessing you better.
His hands run over your body, over curves and divots he knew and loved and the chill of you filled him with dread.
“Your pants are wet from the snow,” Keigo swallows, rising. “I’m going to grab you dry clothes.”
As soon as he tries to move away, you catch his wrist in a weak grip.
And finally, half-lucidly, you regard him with terror in your eyes.
“You l-left,” You spit, lips curling over your teeth. “You left, Keigo.”
You use his real name and he really wants to die a little.
Sure, Suits used it on the phone with him and it made him see blood fucking red, but it’s you, and you saying the name he never really had, for the first time, so fucking angrily makes part of his secretly fragile heart break.
He freezes, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at you.
“I’m sorry,” He says softly. “Let me get you warm, then we can talk, okay?”
You don’t look convinced, tightening your grip on his wrist and pulling him closer.
Keigo gives in, so, so easily, dropping to his knees and pulling your icy hands into his. He rubs warmth into them, bringing them to his lips and breathing hot over your knuckles.
“Please, starshine. Let me get you warm.”
“I’m already warm,” Your voice slurs, entirely unconvincing.
“I say this very lovingly,” He says, somehow cracking a smile, “but you’re genuinely hypothermic. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you need to get warmed up.”
You chew your lip, cupping his cheeks with your freezing palms, “... You’re not leaving?”
Your voice drawls and Keigo makes a note to turn up the thermostat.
“No, god, no, I’m not,” He tries to assure you, shaking his head, but your grip only gets harsher. He placates you with a squeeze to your knee. “Please let me help.”
He can’t tell you how much he needs to. How hyper aware he is of your chill and of his own thumping heart. That protective urge in his chest wants to just pull you to his chest and wrap you up in him, in his heat, but that’s for later.
Your eyes' gaze goes softer, little specks of light bouncing between your irises. The room fills with blessed, familiar heat and Keigo can feel his shoulders slacken and some of the worry in his chest dissipate.
...
He returns with some of his own soft joggers, fleece-lined and well-loved. He grabbed a few layers, and an armful of blankets and pillows. Anything he could carry gets brought as his little, avian mind craves something he suppressed for years so well.
Nest, nest, nest.
Heat them first, then nest.
He helps you slip into your new, dry clothes as your teeth begin to chatter. Thank fucking god. Keigo is smart enough to check your toes as he slips onto fuzzy, thermal socks, and they all look to be healthy and functioning.
You’re quiet during the whole ordeal, save for soft breathing and snapping teeth. You occasionally grab his hand and hold it to whatever part of your skin was bared, mumbling something about how warm he is.
Keigo eventually gets you settled and surrounded by blankets and pillows which you sink into, eyes hardly open. Only then does he feel like he can pull away enough to start the nearby fire.
It feels somewhat unnecessary, given you’re still heating the room. It’s probably somewhat for the atmosphere, considering the sky is nearly fully black. A bit of crackling flame and light would do you both good.
(He rarely lights fire, but considering the flame is a kind red and not a fucking disgusting blue, he can bear it. Especially now.)
When the fire is stoked, he turns back to you and deflates.
“I’m sorry,” You say, all soft and half-lidded from the blankets. “That was... dumb.”
“It was.”
Keigo can’t fight you on the obvious.
There’s a goddamn list of questions he wants to ask you. ‘Why’s and ‘what’s, but he has a pretty good idea of why you were sitting outside and what you were thinking.
He’s not sure you’d want to talk about it anyway.
The couch creaks when he sits down a few feet from your little nest, running a tired hand over his face.
“... You know, this couch folds out,” You shift a little, slow and lethargic. Still cold. “We should sleep out here tonight.”
He turns to regards you, and it takes everything in him not to fucking break.
“Why?” His voice shakes and he knows you can tell.
You hum, leaning toward him, “Change of scenery. I think we could both use it.”
“Later.” Keigo agrees. The urge to wrap you up in his (wings) arms feels unbearable, the little avian tickings in his skull loud and needy. “Warm first. Futon later.”
You huff weakly, but lift the blankets to let Keigo slip behind you. His body curls around yours, finding the coldest parts of you and tending to them first. His hands clasp over yours and your feet get tucked between his calves.
“Thanks,” You murmur, neutral and vacant.
Keigo doesn’t push you.
Instead, you stay tucked in his arms, still shivering, but significantly less cold. Your lips and cheeks look a far healthier color and they’re warm to the touch. He traces his fingertips over the curves of your face and neck, preening in the only way he can muster up.
You eventually break the silence, when the fire is all but embers.
“I heard some of that call…” Your voice trails off. “It sounded bad.”
“It was,” Keigo agrees with a little nod. He really doesn’t want to think about Suits and, you know, the rest of the world, but it feels necessary. “Very bad.”
“Who was it?”
“Old boss.”
“… And?”
Keigo sighs, squeezing you probably a little too tightly, “Why don’t we focus on warming you up from your hypothermic excursion and not my shitty life as a shitty hero—”
“You weren’t a shitty hero, Keigo,” He can hear the mourning in your voice and it makes him want to die, just a little. You cup his cheeks, eyes sad and soft around the edges. “You were a really good one.”
“Was I? News to me.” He laughs, the bitter sound tasting like bile. He hates it, the feel of it mixed with the heat and softness of you. It feels wrong. “I don’t want to talk about all that, starshine. Please just drop it.”
Your face hardens.
“No.”
“… No?”
“No, I’m not done,” You sigh, big and hard. “I think we’re more fucked up than we talk about, Keigo.”
He winces, but you keep going, and he doesn’t move to stop you.
“Probably.”
Your jaw sets like stone on stone. It makes him internally wince as your hands go to cup his cheeks.
“I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up, everything is fucked up. We can ignore it up here, quietly, but it’s true, isn’t it?”
Yes.
“Yeah.” He feels his gut roll, but he doesn’t stop you. His grip goes tighter on your hips. “You’re not wrong.”
“Can we just… Acknowledge it? Please.” You ask, beg, softly as you rub his cheeks with your thumbs. “Please, Keigo.”
He doesn’t know what to do at first. He really wants to lock up. Shut down. Lock all the nasty feelings in chest, behind his heart, so they can burrow into his spine and keep him moving forward.
He wraps his hands around your wrists.
Your eyes look glassy, tears sticking in your bottom eyelashes, but not daring to fall. Not yet.
“Keigo, I’m fucked up, I know that, and that’s okay,” You deflate a little. “I’m getting better. We’re getting better. I know we are.”
“We a-are.”
Keigo’s voice cracks, hoarse in his throat and tight as the uniform belt he used to wear. His lungs feel hot, too stuffed even as he tries to swallow the heat that’s welling up on the very back of his tongue.
“You are good, Keigo, I promise,” You lean in to give his forehead the lightest kiss and Keigo feels part of himself die in the best way. “Please, let’s just talk.”
And so, he does.
…
He tells you about Jin first.
You’d heard about him, the villain Hawks killed during the War. Published for the world to see, over and over, forever. The video was one you’d only seen once, during your early days at the hospital, but you could recall the footage on your grainy hospital television.
Your pretty eyes, pretty Keigo, cut him down. One of his old feathers, hardened into a stiff blade, struck Jin across the chest, arcing up to his neck and slicing a few important arteries and veins. It was an imperfect job, one that probably made his death more painful and prolonged than it needed to be.
You don’t let go of Keigo’s cheeks as he tells you the story. You can’t, you’re too busy thumbing away the little tears that roll down his cheeks.
He speaks between sobs that break from his chest. Underused and much-needed.
“He was good, starshine,” Keigo curls in a little on himself, but you keep him mostly upright. “I had to, y-you know? I didn’t have a choice, if I didn’t—"
How many more people would be dead?
His body convulsed, the little tears turning fat as he collapsed into your chest and buried himself in you. Like he was hiding, and god, did you let him.
You hushed him, soothed him with little kisses, and listened.
“And then Dabi—”
You hate him, obviously. You only know his name and visage, and you hate him so much it hurts. Part of you wants to rub at his scars like he lets you, but you decide against it in Keigo’s fragility.
He tells you of the blue flames, how the boot felt against his back, how his throat burned for weeks from the heat and smoke. His grip on you goes so tight, you’re afraid he’s going to tear your shirt to shreds.
“He took them, starshine,” Keigo’s voice muffled into your shoulder, the sound of it rattling you. “He t-took them!”
And he slumps against you, well and truly, and can’t muster up another word. All you could do is hold him, rocking him from your little, shared spot on the couch and whisper to him little comforts. You’re crying a little too, breath tight and hazy as you let Keigo shatter in your arms.
He’s not ready to talk about his wings and that’s okay. More than okay.
So, you soothe him. He soothes you right back, rubbing at your sides, hips, thighs— whatever he can reach and touch and claim. You’re good, you’re the closest he’s going to get to permeance and he’ll be damned to let you go when you feel so good and he feels so fucking awful.
You fall back onto the chest, pulling Keigo with you so he can lay atop you. His ear presses to your chest, heart thumping in his ear while you lock your arms around him. Caged in and held, with the lightest pressure on the thick skin of his scars.
“I’ll never truly get it, I can’t,” You admit, quietly as you smooth back some of his tear-matted hair. “But I want to be here. I want to listen when you’re want to talk. Need to talk. You can dash off on your own, Keigo, that’s okay. Just know that I’ve got you to, okay?”
Keigo sniffled, peering up at you with wide eyes, “Are you sure you can handle it?”
“I am now, aren’t I? Just a few hours out from nearly being a popsicle,” You hum and joke, glowing from the inside out when Keigo graces you with a little smile.
It takes a few more moments for him to cover, haul himself up to the crook of your neck and breathing hard and deep for a while. Like he’s trying to absorb you through scent alone.
“… Are you okay?” Keigo asks, squeezing you so tight it hurts. (And you want more of it.) “You’re not as cold anymore.”
“I’m feeling okay,” You paw at your face a bit, rubbing your cheeks like they’re still numb and not flushed with blood and sticky with drying tears. “I just freaked out a little.”
“… Because I left?”
You nod, chewing your lips.
“I don’t want to be alone, Keigo,” You whisper it, though he already knows your admission. “I’m terrified of you leaving.”
“When I left,” Keigo rises to meet your gaze, gooey and cobbled. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”
“… Maybe,” You shake your head, refusing to look at him. “You didn’t say anything about coming back, just about… leftovers.”
You both frown.
“I panicked.” You shake your heard.
“… That’s what happens when you panic?”
“I guess?” Your mouth feels too dry. “I don’t know. I got scared. I panicked. What else was I supposed to do?”
There’s an obvious answer or two, but it’s unspoken.
“I’m not leaving,” Keigo rubs at your cheeks. “You’re gonna have to try pretty hard to get me gone, starshine. I love you too much to go easily.”
It’s a declaration, a strong one, and god does it feel fucking good to hear.
“… Promise?” You ask him as his palms cup your cheeks and jaw.
“Promise.”
“I heard on the call—”
Keigo interrupts you with a kiss, hard and long that steals your breath and makes your head spin.
“Promise.” Keigo breaths, pretty eyes meeting your heat-filled ones. “Everywhere, all the time, forever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s a start, even if that insecurity is so deeply rooted. The adoration in his eyes, and the sweetness of his touch tempers it all. It’s there still, just like how there’s so much unspoken that needs to be sorted, chewed on, and digested.
But now?
The embers in the hearth need another log or two. The futon needs to be folded out and I’d be best if you shared a cup or two of tea. Preferably something with lavender that’ll scent the cabin with the smells of spring and herbs.
Now, you’re both more than enough.
…
thank you for reading!!💞keep an eye out for part 3! 👀
ko-fi
#salem writes#hawk x reader#hawks#takami keigo#takami keigo x reader#mha x reader#my hero academia#anyways ouch <3#kiss it better keigo#enjoy this big boy heheh#kith kith :'^)
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Textile Nerd Book Recs
Because @zaritarazi and I were chatting about it and I thought maybe the rest of you nerds would be interested in this too!
Context: when I’m not doing my IRL Grownup Job or fandom I’m a huge textile nerd, I do tons of fiber arts but mainly knitting/spinning/adjacent wool processing as well as garment sewing and quilting. (I’d also like to be a weaver but the pandemic keeps getting in the way of that, alas.) I don’t do textile work professionally and I will not sell my art/mend your jeans/knit your uncle’s cousin a sweater but I have been doing this as a craft practice for many years and know a lot of things. I’m also a Huge Fucking Nerd and love reading about textiles on the side.
These recs are not skill-based or how-to books; these are Interesting Nonfiction Reads if you want to geek out about textiles. but not if you want to skillbuild per se. They can be an excellent compliment to skillbuilding work, as understanding context and history can often enrich your skilled knowledge and practice.
Books I’ve Read
Vanishing Fleece: Adventures in American Wool by Clara Parkes: Sort of about sheep but kind of really about the complexities of wool processing from sheep to yarn and the ways that outsourcing of textile processing have affected the ability to make and use American-made wool. Parkes does a really lovely job of getting to know local small-batch producers, explaining the steps of wool processing from start to end in a super accessible way, and explaining both the value of and challenges to creating local wool for the garment-production and handknitting consumer.
Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion by Elizabeth Cline: So this book is from 2012, and it feels dated now but this is like. The book that launched a thousand other books about fast fashion so it’s worth reading. It’s a very good deep dive into the questions: how can this shirt cost $2? and should this shirt cost $2? and goes through the granular and broader factors that lead to the $2 t-shirt and why it’s damaging both from an ethical and ecological perspective. If you’re Extremely Online you’ve probably absorbed a lot of the takes from this book via the internet but it’s a thorough and cogent overview and a great jumping-off point to start thinking more about fashion sustainability and how complex a thing it is to tackle.
How To Be a Victorian by Ruth Goodman: Only tangentially about textiles but also very much about textiles, Ruth Goodman specializes in history of domestic life which often means that things like underpants and how laundry got done are much more important than you think. She’s a truly stellar historical fiction writer and if you’re into historical costuming at all this is a great place to dive into.
Books I’m Currently Reading
A Perfect Red by Amy Butler Greenfield: Ok I’m about halfway into this so far and if you have any interest at all in textile dyeing and fashion history is this the book for you. An absolutely riveting history of cochineal, which is an insect-derived red pigment traditionally from Central and South America. It goes through traditional plant-based dyeing as an industry, and does a beautiful job of contextualizing why red dye was so important, and how this dyestuff shaped the colonial history of Spain and the rest of Europe, it’s wild.
Mrs Pankhurst’s Purple Feather: A Scandalous History of Birds, Hats, & Votes by Tessa Boase: This is again sort of fashion-adjacent but I’m about a third of the way in and it’s great. Ostensibly a history of politically active women in turn-of-the-century London, and it parallels Emmeline Pankhurst’s journey with Etta Lemon, a prominent socially conservative activist who was equally instrumental historically - her work was in setting up the idea of bird conservation. This is related to fashion because this was during the peak of the whole-dead-stuffed-birds-in-hats craze, and the little history of millinery tidbits as they relate to feathers are truly fascinating.
#someday all of the weird niche interests i have will be very useful#and i will be unstoppable#until then#have some textile facts#fibre arts are the best arts#books i like books
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Handmade Hearts
A sweet, fluffy commission for @tea42, featuring their genderfluid Jurian Hawke (he/they) and Anders! Also, bonus Merrill and Anders friendship!
Handmade Hearts (read on AO3)
Characters/Relationships: Genderfluid!Hawke/Anders, Merrill & Anders
Rating: T
Words: 2,632
Tags: Knitting, fluff, romantic fluff
Anders learns to knit and finds it extremely rewarding.
The fire burns cheerfully in the main room of Merrill’s home, keeping warm against the rainy day outside. Dried herbs and flowers scattered upon the cinders perfume the air with a delicate sweetness, the perfect accompaniment to the long-cold tea set and a small plate of cookies that sit on the table between Anders and the hearth. The snaps and crackles of the hearth break up the quietness of the room; Merrill hums from her bedroom, the open door letting it float to his ears where he sits on the sofa.
Anders readjusts the deep red working yarn over his hand. He can’t help the way his hands want to cramp, or that his tongue sticks out from between his teeth. A length of lumpy knitting drapes from between the four needles, something that might become a sock but is still yet far from it. Frowning, he calls out, “Are you sure I’m doing this right?”
“Hm?” Merrill pops her head out through the doorway. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” she says airily, dismissing his worry with a wave of her hand. “You are an excellent student, Anders.”
“‘Excellent student’ my arse,” Anders mutters. He’s half-tempted to rip it all apart and start over. Again. The motley yarn is relatively soft but inconsistently spun, a fact he’s been wrestling with for hours. “You didn’t see me in the Circle.”
“You’re so smart, you couldn’t have done too badly.” She returns with a project of her own, a half-woven… something stretched out on some sort of loom and an armload of small yarn balls. Merrill sits on the floor beside him and sets her contraption up against the table. It’s built of scraps, small bits of wood tacked and nailed together into a frame and the various other bits of it. Thin strings run the length of it and hold up a section of the variegated blue weave.
He watches her from over his misshapen sock. You couldn’t have done too badly. If only that were the half of it, he thinks, but he keeps that locked tight behind his teeth. No need to drag her down with him, or any of them, for that matter. Anders has tried to let go of the fierce jealousy, the rage that simmers in his gut when he thinks about it too hard, but it just sits there and curdles. He had overheard once, from the whispers of templars too loose with their tongues, that the Dalish mages were wild, almost feral; that they were simply too dangerous to try to bring into the Circle. Apparently, a friend of a friend of a colleague of someone they’d trained with had been killed by a Dalish clan when they tried to capture one of their young mages, and to hear it told in the frigid corridors of the Kinloch Circle, the clan had sent that knight back to the Circle in a crate.
Merrill smiles to herself absently as she threads the shuttle through the warps, building up the next row of soft blue. It’s so serene, too much so compared to the way he’d watched her suffocate a man to death with thick, thorny vines just the week before. He’s very glad for the tenuous olive branch of peace between them, more for Jurian’s sake than anything, but he’s still glad.
“Oh, you’re holding it too tightly,” she murmurs.
Anders jolts back into himself to find her frowning softly at his knitting. Dismayed, he sees exactly where he’d gone wrong; the thin yarn draws the already bumpy fabric into a bunched-up wrinkle, and he’s let the stitches slip and go wonky. Anders tosses the mess onto the sofa behind him and buries his face in his hands, fighting down the urge to scream. “I am a Maker-damned surgeon,” he bites out. “Why can’t I get this?”
The sofa shifts and creaks when she perches upon it. “I think we can fix it,” she says, like it’s easy, and Anders peeks out from behind his hands. Merrill picks up the discarded sock, or what this third attempt tries to pass as being a sock, and eyes it, prodding here and poking there. Her deft fingers wrangle it back to being mostly flat, not a small victory. She realigns the knitting needles for him before handing it all back.
“Here,” she says, and Merrill takes his hands in hers. The shallow scars that mar her palms press into the backs of his hands. It’s an immense effort not to shudder at the way they brush his skin as she repositions his fingers over the needles and shifts the working yarn. “There, that should help.”
He looks dubiously at his project but works the next stitch, then the next, and then the next, until he’s got another row down. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “that actually does help. Thank you.” When Anders looks up, Merrill wears a soft expression, a tiny little smile so different than the one she usually wears for him. “You’re really good at this,” Anders mutters. He looks away, unable to take in the surprised gratitude in her expression, knowing that he’s rarely as kind as he could be, should be toward her and too cowardly to admit it.
Anders puts the haggard sock down long enough to trace small glyphs upon his palms with his fingertips and grabs the cold ceramic teapot from the table. He focuses intently on his hands and a moment later warmth builds; in the span of a few breaths the tea is hot again. Merrill watches him from the corner of her eye as she works on her own weaving, and when he pours her a fresh cup, she smiles brightly at him.
It’s a new, fragile peace, but it’s theirs, for as long as he can manage it. They sit and chat and work into the late afternoon and Merrill eventually teaches him how to finish it, to wrangle the messy bits into a semblance of proper, useful purpose. It isn’t until night truly approaches and the rain pours down in sharp, heavy sheets that he packs away his project. He leaves with a bag heavy with his gifted supplies and a heart all the lighter for it.
-------
“That’s almost right,” Anders mutters to himself, relaxing further into the plush cushions of the sofa. His hair is still damp from the frantic walk back to the estate, but he’s long forgotten the dwindling flames of the hearth. He slips the last few stitches off his needles and reworks them, only to sigh and pull them apart again. Anders frowns at the pinched area in question. “How did she do that, again…?”
A voice breaks through the quiet solitude of the den. “What are you working on, love?”
Anders scrambles and drops the half-finished sock altogether in his fumbling. Jurian leans over the back of the sofa to hug him from behind, their chin resting on his shoulder. “Knickerweasels, Jurian, you surprised me!” Anders tilts his head to rub their cheeks together, the stretch a bit awkward for a kiss but still wanting the contact. “Didn’t expect you back yet.”
“Got home early. Mind if I join you?” Jurian murmurs. They lay a kiss on his temple and round the couch when he nods, reclining against the arm to watch him.
“Well, it seems the cat’s already out of the bag.” He retrieves the wayward sock from the floor and shows it off. “Your birthday’s coming up, and I thought…” He trails off at the way Jurian stares, blank-faced, at the sock. “I thought it’d be nice to make you something,” Anders finishes weakly, unsure. “A—a surprise.”
Jurian lets out a shaky sigh. “Come here?”
Anders goes immediately, and Jurian’s arms are strong and secure where they wrap around his ribs and hold him to their chest. “What’s that face for?” he asks against their collarbone. “Do you not like it?”
They nuzzle his hair, and they’re so quiet that Anders can hear their heartbeat. “It’s been a while since anyone made me something, let alone for a birthday,” Jurian eventually says. They hum. “I think… I think maybe it was Bethy; she knit a scarf for me, the winter before the blight.”
“That was years ago…”
“Yeah,” they mutter. “Mother… Mother would make us things through the year—scarves, socks, mittens, things like that. But after Father died… She got so busy, selling her skills to the others in town. Mother’s a rather brilliant embroiderer, you know, and she took to other fiber crafts like a fish to water. But she got so busy that she was tired, all the time. It was all she could do to keep up with the work, it was hard enough to take care of us.” They pause. “I don’t mean she wasn’t a good mother, but… She just wasn’t the same after Father died.”
“So Bethany took on that job.”
“Pretty much. Carver enlisted in the militia as soon as he was old enough; it was good money and good training, and no one could blame him. I had to run the house when Mother couldn’t and so I took a job closer to home, to keep an eye on things.”
To keep an eye on Bethany, Jurian doesn’t say, but Anders hears it all the same.
Anders presses a row of kisses along the column of their throat. “You deserve all the softest things, Jurian,” he murmurs into their skin. “You deserve everything.” Anders pulls back, not quite lifting from where he lay draped across their chest, just enough to shyly look them in the face. “Do you want to see them? I’ve finished the first one. You could—could try it on, if you wanted. Actually, if you could make sure it fits, that would be great.”
Jurian kisses the tip of Anders’ nose. “I’d love that.”
Anders gets up from his comfy perch and reaches over the couch to snag his project bag. He yelps; Jurian’s hand rubs against his rear, soothing the playful smack they’d just left as he bent over. “You’re a menace, my love,” Anders laughs, and he leans back into the plush cushions. He fishes the finished sock from the bag; the main red coloring is deep, almost more black than anything else, but it’s offset by streaks of gold-ish yellow that Merrill had helped him with. “It’s a little… rough,” he allows. “The yarn is mostly scraps and discards. And I’m not very good yet—”
“It’s perfect,” Jurian whispers, taking it in hand. Their fingers rub against the wool; it’s still a little scratchy, at least to Anders’ sensitive skin. The sock crushes in their hand and comes out just fine, and Anders smiles.
“Try it on?” he coaxes.
Jurian snorts but dutifully takes off their slipper and rolls up the leg of their trousers. Anders isn’t sure who’s more nervous as they slide it on, himself or Jurian, but it’s worth the nerves to see the way Jurian’s face lights up at the way it sits halfway up their calf. “It’s beautiful,” they say. “Perfect. Just like you, Anders.”
A warmth builds in Anders’ chest at that, and he blushes, looking away to dodge the weight of their quiet declaration. “I—well. Not perfect, certainly, but—”
“No.” Jurian shifts to face him. Their brow pinches and a soft frown pulls at their mouth. “My love, I cannot help the way you feel about yourself,” they start, and they crawl forward, slowly pressing Anders onto his back. “But please don’t try to qualify my feelings for you.” One hand holds a position just above Anders’ head and the other clutches the arm of the couch behind him. They lean down. “I say you are perfect because to me you are perfect.”
Anders sighs into the kiss. Jurian’s weight above him makes the fluttery thing in his gut settle. His hands wind into Jurian’s hair, anchoring them together, and the pressure of teeth nipping at his bottom lip draws a moan from him. It’s not rushed, it’s not frantic, but it is thorough—teeth and lips and tongue, hot, scorching breath and soft gasps that hitch between them. He wraps his legs around Jurian’s own, hooking his knees over the back of their thighs, but Jurian doesn’t stop the slow, methodical work of taking him apart.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s lightning in his veins, velvet on his skin. He makes a noise, a punched-out little whine, at the blissful sensory overload. They part enough for Anders to nudge his forehead against Jurian’s own, and the face they make is so sweet it makes him ache. Anders has to fight to gather his thoughts again, cheeks flushing at the way Jurian lay between his thighs. “You drive me crazy,” he groans. Jurian grins and bends to dust light kisses just at the edges of his mouth.
“Good,” they say, “means I’m doing something right.” The breath of their gentle chuckle is warm against Anders’ reddened cheeks. “Thank you.”
It takes Anders a full ten seconds to place what for. He follows Jurian’s wandering mouth and kisses them sweetly, his hands coming up to cup their face. His thumb drags along the rise of their cheekbone. “You deserve it,” Anders murmurs. “I mean it. You deserve it, and more, more than some socks—and I promise to make you everything I can, to take care of you the best I can. But you’re welcome, for the socks.”
“You do, too, love.” They smile and lean down to press kisses along his hairline, over his brow, along the ridge of his nose. Their lips brush over every inch of his face before returning to his mouth and Anders can’t feel anything over the sheer vastness of everything blooming in his chest, security and desire and yearning and things he can’t even begin to name feeding the growing warmth in his belly when Jurian next speaks. “And I’m going to show you, care for you, in every way I know how.”
His breath escapes him with a shuddering sigh at the low promise. “Ah, you keep talking like that and I won’t be able to get anything done on the other sock…”
Jurian hums against his cheek. “I think maybe we can be done with knitting for the night?” they suggest, nosing along his jaw. Jurian presses a kiss just below the hinge of Anders’ jaw. “Haven’t seen you in three days. I missed you.”
“A dreadfully long time, that,” Anders wheezes. His hands clench in Jurian’s hair and it’s a hard decision, staying like this or following the possibility in their words. The anticipation wins out, helped by the desire that simmers in Jurian’s gaze. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. “I think I’m a bit knitted out, actually. Think I can be persuaded into something else.”
Jurian laughs at that. They help Anders off the couch and wrap him in their arms again. “You’re going to be mismatched until I finish the other one, you know,” he says helpfully, and Jurian grins.
“I’m not worried.” They brush their noses together in a butterfly kiss. “You can take your time. I can wait.”
“I can’t,” Anders murmurs, catching Jurian’s gaze meaningfully. He looks off in the direction of the stairs and back in open invitation, and it takes exactly two seconds for Jurian to walk him backward toward the door. Together they manage to stumble from the den, draped along each other, arms wrapped around ribcages, unwilling to part even for a moment as they make their way upstairs. Anders leads them into the bedroom and closes the door behind him with a satisfied sigh.
“Now,” he says, cupping Jurian’s jaw, “let me show you how much I missed you.”
#Handers#Hawke#Anders#Genderfluid!Hawke#Dragon Age 2#DA2#fanfic#fanfiction#commissions#writing commissions#ocean writes#soulrebel writes#reblogs comments and likes welcome and highly appreciated! thank you!
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Touched [M]
Pairing: Yoongi x Reader
Gender of the Reader: female
Word Count: 2.2k
Rating: 18+
Genre: Fluff; Smut
Warnings: tooth rotting fluff; Full Body Massage; Petnames; Praising; Body-Worshipping; Nipple Play; Fingering; Mentions of pubic Hair; kinda tantric orgasm (?); Yoongi is awfully sweet and adorable! 🤧💕
A/N: I wrote this here for my sweet Darling Sibi @borathae who had an incredible awful week and I just thought about how to make a little bit up for this shitty week. I love you and I hope you like it, Baby~ 🙈💖
Summary: This week was just so awful and shitty, every muscle in your body hurts and you're absolutely exhausted from this horror week. But Yoongi has an Idea to relax you and make you feel so loved in a way, that couldn't make thousands of compliments.
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That includes reposting my content on other social media platforms too, even when you link me as the original author.
Thank you.
"Just relax. And if you don't want something, please just tell me.", Yoongi whispers in your ear as he lays you down on your stomach on the big king size bed. You just nod exhausted and worn out, really don’t want anything more than relaxation and rest.
This week had just been terrible and exhausting. You don't know why, but Mother Nature thought this week is a good week to let the temperatures reach 40°C. Exactly in the week where you no longer have lectures and therefore you have to work a 40 hours week in your side job. Not that it's bad, no. You work at a photographer and you study photography, so it couldn't be that bad... wrong. It is already shit if you have to renovate in blazing sun without shade a barn (for photo shootings etc). You are studying photography, not trained as a craftsman! Now you regret having applied with your craft skills.
Yoongi already said the last few days, you should finally quit and find a better part-time job, with a boss who also appreciates your photographic skills. But you need this Job, your Boss pays you well. Only you would like to do more often the things you have applied for and no other stupid work.
Especially when this man, who call you your boss, is sitting in his air-conditioned office and you had to work outside your ass off in this unbearable heat?!
But now this cruel week is finally over and you should not get upset even more with it. You’re finally at home, with Yoongi.
You close your eyes, inhale deeply the smell of the Ylang Ylang oil, which the Oil Burner on the windowsill lets spread throughout the room. A slight smile plays around your lips, Yoongi has remembered which kind of scents you like so much in the summer months. In your bedroom it’s pleasantly cool, the approaching night brings the first fresh breeze through the wide-open terrace door to you, caresses your naked skin tenderly. The sinking sun bathes the entire room in a soft red-orange tone.
It is incredibly comfortable to lie on the bed just in panties, between all the big soft pillows and blankets.
Your Boyfriend is up with something for you, something that is relaxing, sensual, tender. You admit, these last few weeks, you couldn't really be there for each other. Too much work, too many other things had just taken too much time. And the fact that he also spoils you now, only made your guilty conscience towards him grow even more.
The mattress sinks down a little, you felt him shift his weight and sit in front of your head.
He seems to rub oil or something else between his hands before bending over and stroking with his warm and big hands over your shoulders to the swell of your butt cheeks. You sigh softly at this loving touch, enjoy this single touch already so much.
His hands glide again and again in full strokes with gentle pressure over your back and then begin to massage you gently. Your breaths get deeper, undreamt-of tension gradually eases and you enjoy every single caress from him.
Circling, he lets his fingertips wander over your back, scratching lovingly with his fingernails delicately over it, which gives you tingling goose bumps.
Every patch of skin is getting pampered by him and leaves pure relaxation and deep inner peace. You no longer think, you just feel and and
gratefully accept his tender touches and this deep calm as a sensual and confidential gift from him.
Finally, he straightens himself up again and goes to the height of your hip and kneels above you, but lets his hands lie on your lower all the time, thereby not interrupting this physical and mental contact with each other.
His hands exert completely different pressure on your body through this altered Position, which is a completely different experience.
Yoongi really always knows what is good for you, even if you have never said those things before. He likes to massage you, let all his love and appreciation flow into you through these touches.
Things he would never have gotten over his lips otherwise, so that you feel downright adored.
Yoongi had always been a quiet man who had a hard time getting feelings across his lips and yet he is so incredibly soulful that he constantly tries to express all his love differently. And it is precisely through these touches that he can convey it much better than with any words.
For what he feels for you and shows you through these gestures, there are simply no words.
You groan softly and muted as his lips touch your neck and shoulders. Every single feather-light kiss leaves an exciting tingling on your skin, which made your pleasurable sigh slightly tremble.
You gulp a little, a lustful feeling shoots through your nerves and bales in my stomach, which slowly pulls into your lower abdomen.
His tender kisses and nibbles on your skin excite you. It is not a hot and craving desire, it’s a permanent subliminal and sensual pleasure that goes through your entire body and reaches, occupies all nerves and fibers.
His body slides backwards, his hands wander over your butt. It was just a gentle stroke over it and yet it aroused you even more. He continues this loving, slow treatment on your legs, massages and kisses every conceivable place. Even the soles of your feet and toes were kneaded with calm pressure. Your body is completely relaxed and yet you feel pleasure. Lust that let you otherwise expectantly tense. It is new and exciting to experience it like this.
His fingers are back up on your thighs and each of your two butt cheeks is now nestled in his palms.
From your coming sigh your excitement can now be heard, which makes him hum contentedly. There was still the thin stuff of Panties between you, but that doesn't stop your excitement for more. Rather, you feel your nascent moisture between
your legs just even more. At some point, his hands glide once more over your entire back, over your arms and hands, which you have placed at a laterally bent angle next to your head.
"Please turn around, Darling.", he breathes into your ear. A little sluggishly and slowly you turn on your back and notice how some blush rises on your cheeks. Your Breasts are bare. Even though Yoongi is your Boyfriend, it was often unusual for you to show yourself so naked, so vulnerable.
He spoils you now just as tenderly as it has done before with your back. Massages and rubs your scalp, temples and stroke all over your body in long strokes.
Every now and then a fresh breeze pulls over your body, brings the Lust in your blood more into action and makes your nipples hard. You you’re feeling warm, even quite hot. Yoongi feels your Lust now downright, nevertheless he spoils you slowly further, which became a sensual tormenting. He bypasses your erogenous zones, cancels them until the end of the extensive Massage.
Kissing every accessible spot of my skin and you feel as valued as you haven’t felt for a long time. You are tough and don’t get overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted easily, you want to show that you, as a woman, can be strong and independent. But you are also just a normal person, you struggles sometimes too, you also need from time to time a shoulder to lean on.
Yoongi gives you exactly this shoulder to lean on. He is solid as a rock and catches you when you fall. You are not alone in this cruel world. Yoongi is with you.
A light sweat film lies on your skin and you bite down on your lower lip softly, trying to hide your moaning away. Your breath is still deep, but it trembles a little with excitement and arousal.
Every Pore begins to tingle longingly, all over your body, from the hairline to your toes. From your feet, his hands glide in a fluid motion across your shins and the insides of your thighs. Caressing strokes, no more than a breath of wind over your Vulva.
You sigh tremblingly, automatically open your thighs a little more and your fingers run through your hair, which is spread like a fan around your head.
His touches give you immense trust in him. You present to him your soul. Your wishes, dreams, ideas, but also your fears and insecurities. He accepts you, he accepts you the way you are.
Touch you almost reverently, as if you were something so precious that is not worthy his touch. This realization of being valued and on an equal level with him, with him as a man, almost brings tears to your eyes. He shows you the respect that every woman would have deserved.
His fingertips dances across your Vulva up to your stomach and draw blurred lines that find themselves somewhere invisible.
They keep sliding back up and finally, they find your breasts. Finally. You wanted to be touched by Yoongi there so badly.
His fingertips drawing a spiral that circles ever tighter and ultimately reaches your nipples.
Carefully he caresses them and gently breathes his hot breath on them. Your body trembles.
Your folds were swollen and wet with Lust. This sensual game arouses you completely. How badly would you be touched there by him, caressed... Suddenly, his warm lips closes around your right nipple and caress it with light sucking, touching it with the tip of his tongue.
Your body is completely relaxed and yet it seems to you that everything in you is contracting with longing for him.
He plays the same game on your other nipple and you put your head in the back of your neck with your eyes closed. You whole body is so hot... A soft lustful moan escapes your open lips.
"You are so beautiful... you’ll ever be.", Yoongi whispered softly. His voice is also shaky and... there is a certain awe in his deep harsh voice. Another gasp comes out of your throat, his deep voice makes your hot, aroused body tingling. Makes my body pulsate. His lips touch your chin and kiss a trail down between your breasts across your stomach to your hot center.
Just before your Panties he stops and hooks his thumbs under the waistband on each side. Slowly he takes off the last piece of clothing before he lies next to you in a sideway position and lets his one Hand slip between your thighs.
You gasp for air and open your thighs a little more. His fingertips glide through the soft curls of your pubic hair, tugging gently on it to make you mewl. Moving lower to your folds before dipping with two of his fingers between them.
Gently he caresses them, playing gently with your entrance, while you quietly gasp out my Lust. Yoongi kisses your shoulder and your neck, in the Moment he finds your Clit that finally wanted to be found.
Your hip bucks up, you just bring out a strangled moan. You trust him so much, want to be able to open yourself completely up to him and let yourself fall, in the conscience of being caught by him again. He feels this intimate emotion in you, this desire to be completely his.
He whispers barely audible words into your ear, tells you what he loves about you and puts after each compliment a kiss under it. His fingers rubs over your pearl, carefully and sensually. Taking his time for you.
Again and again, two of his fingers sinks deep into you, then he stimulates all over again only your clit. A long, lustful game begins.
Your pelvis rises towards him, you reward his actions with soft, breathless moans and the search of your lips for his own. Your thighs fall apart to the side, open your folds open even more up for him and the idea that it sees you so open, bare and so vulnerable turns you incredibly on.
It’s the last time when his fingertips circles around your pearl, until you tremble and cramp with the fulfillment of your Lust. Feelings and emotions rain down on you, which could never have been properly described with words. Only your facial expressions can show approximately what fulfilled pleasure you are feeling right now.
Tenderly Yoongi kisses you and wispers a breathy "I love you" into your ear, before you look into his dark brown eyes and find nothing but love, honor and respect, which applies only to you alone.
#btswritersnet#suganetwork#bts smut#bangtanhq#yoongi smut#thehouseofbangtan#yoongi tantric massages#bts x reader#houseofddaeng#yoongi the soft fluffball#bangtanarmynet#yoongi x reader smut#by tipsydipsydo
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idk I'm just trying to figure out the Vibes of this settings fashion. I'm trying to avoid anything that is like, obviously from any real culture, but if you can't tell from the kimono and dhoti knockoffs, that's hard. Mostly because the rules I've decided on have to do with the sorts of looms that would be being used, what fibers are available+in what qualities, and general climate. Once you narrow down that shit you're left with only a handful of options that have all already been done. Humans been wearing clothes for a real long time. Anyways, fuck you, demon fiber craft lore time
I don't have specific earth place picked out but the gen climate for this part of the setting is very mild. Heatstroke is a concern at the height of summer, frostbite at the height of winter. jorts and a thin hoody would be appropriate clothing for the weather 60% of the year. Just gradient out in those directions from there. Very dry summers, fuck ton of snow in the winter.
Sheep are around but mostly as meat animals with fiber being a secondary product, there's just not enough good grazing land for them since most of the area is forested. There are man made clearings, but full on farms and fields aren't as common as food forests. Plus the dryness of the summer makes a lot of field centric agriculture not an option, it's too dry and there's not enough folk cooperating in the area to manage massive irrigation projects being built up.
What is an option is flax. Grown along rivers most clothing is linen with wool being used for thicker garments and silk for finer garments.
all the work that goes into fabric creation in a pre spinning wheel society means fabric is Pricey. Demonic magic helps, but not a lot. Most garments are not cut or sewn. They're made with whole pieces of cloth wrapped or folded to conserve as much material as possible and then pinned, tied, or otherwise secured.
There's also two very different sorta parts of society to consider for Esti and his outfits.
One is that of his birth. Prim and Proper Nobles who control vast resources largely through negotiation bribery and backstabbing. the Coraxes, their outfits tend to be Expensive, and very much made with a life spent indoors and away from any kind of physical anything in mind. The head family of demons are colorblind, and because of that their fashion, and thus the fashion of those who want to fit in with them, has a very limited pallette, shades of grey and natural fiber colors are the primary elements with red and gold fabric being used as an accent to keep people from thinking too long about their 'fault'. They are totally reliant on their servants to be telling the truth about what color anything is. Esti is from that noble family so his outfits were largely picked out for him when he was to be seen outside their home. big heavy layered skirts that he needs help with when he gets dressed are not his typical vibe but he does appreciate the number of places to hide knives.
Next up are the Cristatuses, Their prevalence and current top dog spot have come from ruthless conquest of nearby territories and a very militaristic vibe. For the common person this mostly just means theyre the big city folk. This is where the money is. Bright colorful fabrics and lots of thin short layers to go with a much more physically active lifestyle of sports and work done outdoors even if it's not work completely suited to being done outside. Breezy. Their wider trade network and attractiveness to merchants also means more options for basically everything to do with clothing accessories and other bits of self ornamentation.
Esti apprenticed with a war lord. His experience with the fashion had a lot more to do with what was practical while on horse back or after the third night sleeping in the dirt. Bright colors stayed but thicker, more minimal, and legged garments were the norm. Armor is a thing, he is an apprentice to a man who should be a prince, he was never supposed to see battle, and was instead kinda meant to become the sort of general who has never actually fought but who knows a lot of tactical theory.
When he finally got to start picking his own outfits he kept with the more neutral and dull colors of his heritage, but the much lighter and easier to move in outfits he was used to wearing throughout his training. Minimal and dull by Cristatus standards, unrefined and brutish by those of the Corax. Very comfortable for him.
#hi i have 7 spinning wheels. that is not a joke. I am very autistic about fiber craft#i paid for 2 of them#people keep giving me things with treddles.#anyways Yeah the corvids are stuffy nobles and the peacocks will find Valhalla through invasion. because that was Objectively the funniest#way to do that.
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Through the Eyes of Another - Benny Miller POV of the Helicopter Crash (TC2 Universe)
A/N: I have been toying with the idea of how Benny reacted and felt when Doc fell out of that helicopter in chapter 2 of Switch to Channel 2 and I finally wrote it. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking.
Pairing: Benny Miller x F! Reader (Doc)
Warnings: Language, canon typical violence, longing
Series Masterlist
My Masterlist
Benny looked down at Doc resting on his shoulder, her hand intertwined with his, a small dribble of drool dripping down her chin, and he thought no one had looked more beautiful. Fifteen years of friendship, watching her go out with every type of man, and even falling for Pope, she was worth the wait. The craft shook once as they climbed in altitude, and Pope nodded to him from her other side, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles softly before getting up to go to the cockpit. Benny changed the frequency back on his and hers headset and, as gently as possible, moved her to lay back, but those eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. Frankie’s voice cackling across the headset.
Her eyes opened slowly, and she blinked up at him, giving him a small smile, her not knowing the effect she had on him. He stood up and stretched, following behind Santiago to the cockpit. “What’s going on up here, boys?” he shouts and squints as the sun peaks over the mountains. Frankie focused on lifting them higher, and the red light began to blink and beep rapidly.
“We need to lose some weight, or we’re not going to make it over the mountains,” Frankie turned to Pope and Benny.
“You want to leave money in the middle of the jungle?” Tom huffs and crosses his arms like a petulant child.
“Do you want to get to the ocean?” Frankie snaps, and Benny puts an arm on his shoulder to calm him down.
“We’ll take care of it, come on Benny,” Pope claps his shoulder, and he follows him to the back. The craft gives another harsh shake, and Will reaches out to steady Doc, but Benny gets their first, wrapping his hands on her waist and pulling her back against his chest. The light floral perfume that clung to her skin wafted up to his nose, and he inhaled deeply, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. “We need to get rid of some of the money, or we’ll never make it over the Andes!” Pope shouts, pointing towards the back.
Doc nods and goes to follow, stopping once to put a hand on Will’s shoulder when he goes to follow, narrowing her eyes at his stern look. He sighs and lays back down, and Benny smiles, following behind her. Ben reaches for the handle, and the back opens almost blowing them back as the cold air swarms around them. Doc looks between him and Pope, and they nod, tossing bags out the back and watching as they explode like confetti as the money hits the mountainside.
“That’s enough; let me go check!” Santi shouts and makes his way back to the front. Benny closes the hatch on the back and watches her shiver, reaching a handout and pulling her to his chest. She leans to lay on him, and he leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead, feeling her shiver from the gentle touch.
Doc walks back over to Will and puts on her headset tuning in to the conversation upfront. “Come on, baby, come on, baby,” Fish chants, and she grabs onto the seat as the helo shakes violently beneath her, the beeping from the control panel. “She feels better,” Benny watches her smile a little before she is flung backward, and the helicopter surges backward.
Benny fights his way to her side, pulling her to his chest, keeping one arm around her waist and the other to the wall. “What the fuck are you doing, Catfish?!” Will shouts, and Doc holds tight to Benny’s arm around her waist. As if he would ever let anything happen to her.
“One of the gearboxes is blown; I don’t want to put her into a spin,” Frankie’s voice is calm, and Benny is reminded why Fish is one of the best pilots out there. It feels like hours but could not be more than a few minutes as they spin in the helo. “Lose the money, and maybe we don’t die,” Frankie’s voice comes out quiet before he is screaming, “LOSE THE MONEY OR WE ALL DIE!”
Santi points to the level behind Benny, “Ben! Pull the lever!” Ben reaches with his free hand, not braced around Doc, and pulls the lever, but nothing happens. Shit. Doc rips herself out of his grasp, and he makes a mad dash to grab her, but she’s too quick. Benny watches with horror as she shimmies through the hatch and hangs out of the craft.
“FUCK, DOC!” Benny drops to his knees and reaches for her hands, holding on with everything he has. He just found this relationship with her, fuck if he is going to lose her now. His hands hold on to her wrist, and she kicks at the red handle, and the bag releases, shooting the craft a few feet up in the air. “Hang on, sweetheart,” Ben bites his lip and feels the tear soak his cheek.
She looks down and then back up at him grimacing for a moment, “Benny! You have to let me go!” She must be out of her fucking mind.
“FUCK THAT,” I love you, “We can pull you up!” Please, sweetheart, please don’t do this. He pleads with his eyes, but she just gives him a smile and lets go of the edge. Ben holds on, but it’s not enough, and she screams, dropping to the ground with a thud. “NO! FUCK, DOC! NO!”
“BENNY!” Will shouts, and Ben turns, wiping his nose, “Hang on, brother! We will find her, but you need to live through this first!” Ben nods and moves as quickly as he can to the seat, and his hands shake, pulling the belt on the seat. They hit the ground hard and turn on their side, rotating in a circle, the blades slicing the ground like a blender. Ben unlatches the belt and falls to the ground as soon as they stop, helping to get Will to his feet.
“BENNY!” he hears her shout, and he lets out a broken sob, barely holding it together. Hands shaking and breathing coming out in gasps, he helps Santi and then Will out of the craft and watches Will slide down the side, Pope reaching a hand out for him. Benny climbs up and out and slides down the opposite side trying to compose himself but failing miserably.
She didn’t even fucking think about what losing her would do to him. The relief turns to anger as he stalks around the craft and sees her checking over Will. When she finishes, he wastes no time and flings her over his shoulder and to the other side. She screams, but he honestly couldn’t give a fuck and lands her unceremoniously to the ground and watches as she opens her mouth to argue but freezes. He knows he looks like hell. Wouldn’t you be if the one you loved just did something foolish and suicidal?
“What the fuck were you thinking?” She tries to speak, but he cuts you off, putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking. “What the FUCK were you are thinking?!” he shouts, and she cringes. “You could have broken your goddamn neck! Or back! Did you not even fucking think about us when you did that shit?!” The possibilities run through his head, and he feels his throat tighten at the idea of losing her; she is everything; how could she not know that?
He can see she is on the verge of tears, and she bites her lips and swallows hard, “I did what needed to be done.” He scoffs, running a hand through his hair.
“You didn’t need to go down that hatch! You didn’t need to disconnect us from the bag; I could have done that!” Stupid, beautiful, infuriating woman, he thinks to himself, I love you, fuck.
“Benny! Doc! Come on, let’s go; they’re getting into the net!” Tom’s voice shouts from the other side, and she goes to move, but he blocks her way, stepping closer until he feels her breath against his face.
Her eyes harden; he can see the exact moment her defenses raise. “So it’s okay for you to risk your life but not me?! Don’t give me that toxic masculinity bullshit! I expect this shit from Tom but not you.” The words are biting, and he takes a step away, hurt flashing across his face.
“You think I didn’t want you to do that because you’re a woman?” she nods, and he scoffs, “Fine, fucking believe that if you will, but the reason I didn’t want you to die is that you’re my woman! I care about you,” his voice cracks, “so much.” You are my best friend, my reason for breathing, the love of my fucking life. The words he wants to say dying on his tongue as Pope comes around the corner.
“Sweetheart. I need you, the villagers they’re getting into the money, and we think it may be less intimidating with a woman present.” She nods, never looking away from him till the last moment, putting her hand on Benny’s arm and ducking under, walking over to Santi, who reaches a hand out for her. “You okay?” he whispers, and she nods, wiping her face. He never meant to make her cry, but he was so worried.
Benny follows behind silently, and she goes over to stand beside Will while Redfly goes over the plan. “Alright, that’s cocaine they’re growing, so they probably already have guns on us from those towers. Doc, Pope, and I will go over and try to talk some negotiations with them. Cat, you take that ridge over there,” he points to the left, “And Benny, you take the right.”
He doesn’t like the idea of her going close to any more danger, but he trusts her to do the right thing. Even if every fiber of his being tells him to hold her close and never let her out of his sight again, she goes to take a step toward them, and he can’t let her go without telling her. Reaching an arm out and wrapping it around her wrist. I love you, “Be careful.”
She moves her hand down to hold his own and squeezing his fingers and following behind the others. Pope turns and looks at him over the field of cocaine plants and nods, an unspoken agreement between the two men. Protect her. At all costs.
Taglist: @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @jedi-mando @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @paintballkid711 @wasicskosgirl @fantasticcopeaglepasta @sarahjkl82-blog @boxdyeblonde @rosiefridayrogersunday @yeah-seems-legit @mimimi-stuff @lunarthoughts @jedi-mando @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @veracruz-djarin @marvelprincess1994 @thirstworldproblemss @spacelatinoss @martellthemandalor @kesskirata @waatermelon-sugaar @jitterbugs927 @helga1031 @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell @gunslinger2000 @omlwhatamidoinghere @linkpk88 @tlcwrites @mariesackler @demoncrypt1066 @goalkeepernerd @meshlamando @xjustmenobodyelse @seasonschange-butpeopledont @josepedropascal @revolution-starter @blufanfictionthings @nicotinebirds @dreamer-101 @hyperfixatingmenever @whatisawwhileoutandabout @queenbbarnes @sacklerscumrag @veuliee2 @evyiione @spider-starry @thewayofthemandalorian @santiagogarcia @ladyblogger-margie @itspdameronthings
Tagging some people who might be interested: @peterhollandkait @clydesducktape @witchyavenger @hidden-bookshelf @thirsty-flygirl
#benny miller x reader#TC2#Switch to Channel 2#Autumn Writes#Benny Miller#Female Reader#Doc#santiago pope garcia#Benny Miller x reader x Santiago pope garcia
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Right now I'm listening to music and brushing out yarn until it fluffs. Why? I found out you can use acrylic yarn for needlefelting, all you need is a new wire bristle dog brush, acrylic yarn and an hour to kill. Sure I have real wool, but there's a lot of colors I'm missing and I’m not about to dye more colors in the middle of winter or lay down cash for individual colors which can get really pricey! Using acrylic yarn is not only cheaper but just easier to find, sometimes thrift stores give it away, and if you hoard yarn like I do, it’s pretty much a free resource, and a good way to use those tiny balls of yarn that aren’t good for any project. It’s also good for people who want to get into the hobby but are allergic to wool.
Acrylic ‘wool’ takes nothing to prepare, just wrap yarn of your choice about an arm’s length into a hank, wind a few times, tie a tight knot on the top, cut the ends evenly and brush from the ends up, a bit at a time. All the fibers that stick on the brush are your ‘wool’! Make as much as you want, mix different yarn colors, bundle up and store. The only downside is that it can’t be wet felted, due to the nature of it being acrylic, but the upside to that is you can take any leftovers and felt them together into a bracelet, pincushion, coaster, mug cozy, or drop them in a jar to use as detailing for future projects. So nothing really goes to waste!
What about acrylic felt sheets from the craft store, can those be felted? Yes! Yes they can! While you can’t take them apart like yarn, they make a great base for flat felted pictures also known as felt painting. Here’s two button sized examples I made. They’re almost done, I just need to add pin backings to them.
But Chelly! What about the other equipment for needlefelting? Sadly you can’t use an alternative to the needles, but they’re relatively inexpensive anyways if you buy them in bulk. Last I checked you can get 30 of them for $10, just read the reviews first. The sponge mat under it can be expensive and wears away pretty fast. Good news though, you don’t need it. If you have tight weave burlap and a bag of rice handy, you can sew up a pillow as big or small as you like. Just double layer it, sew it, and pour in the rice til it becomes a flat pillow. Not only does it look super cottage aesthetic, it lasts longer than a sponge, and you can even add dried herbs like lavender or mint to the rice too, so every project you make will have that subtle scent. If you don’t have rice, polyfil will work too. Polyfil can also be needlefelted and makes a nice core for bigger felt projects, just don’t work it too much because it can get too dense.
To save your poor digits from getting pricked there’s some cheap alternatives out there. If you live in a place with a Dollar Tree it has silicone finger protectors in their craft aisle, but really most hot glue finger guards work too provided they’re thick enough. You can use metal thimbles, or you can make your own leather thimbles with old thick leather pieces.
Oh, and did you know you can use cookie cutters as a template for making shapes? You do now. Happy felting!
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Tools Tuesday - Fiber and Fabric Craft Support + What To Do During Breaks
Happy Tools Tuesday, everyone! Today's topic is especially for all the yarn and fabric crafters participating and sharing their progress in the discord!
Just like with any other medium, it can be easy to get into the flow when working on a physical craft project, and totally lose track of time - only to reap the consequences of cramped muscles and aches. That's why setting a timer can be a great strategy. There are many guides online about different work-break timer strategies; my personal favorite are these Pomodoro timers from How To ADHD, which have break timers built into the video (and no annoying clock sounds except when the timer is about to end) https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvq9Tp5JZ8oAV7wsRBIZjlQqVrTSjKeVs&si=6rDaZSORbJ85lzN3
Figuring out what balance of time will depend on you, your mood, and your project. But sometimes, "taking a break" is too nebulous a concept. What could a break entail?
The annoyingly simple answer is: it varies! The long answer is figuring out what works for you.
I try to remember to check in with my body during a break and address basic needs I neglected while focused. Ask yourself:
Are you hungry?
Are you thirsty?
Do you need to use the bathroom?
Are there any physical aches?
Are you curled up oddly?
Do your eyes feel strained?
Addressing 1, 2, and 3 are simple but easily forgotten. For 4, I have shared a sheet on some common stretches previously, but there are a wealth of stretches, yoga poses, and exercises recommended for knitters, crocheters, and sewists.
As with any exercise, be aware of your body and mindful to not hurt yourself!
This video has some hand stretches not covered in previous posts here. https://youtu.be/WxV_lpjEGvI?si=gKCLqNSi1SugT8d0
And here's a full playlist of yoga moves put out by the yarn brand Lion Brand, aimed at knitters and crocheters. Many of the moves are designed to be done from a chair, so you don't even have to get up if all you need to do during your break is stretch! https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2VjAZ-N13BC4KrE6DGYs3ag1mON6-Zns&si=_LGdOtXqZ35IMQAl
Many back stretches covered in that playlist also help with 5, posture. If you find you're curling uncomfortably over your work, or that your hands regularly ache after crafting, perhaps it is your tools that need to step up their game. A little support can go a long way.
I often crochet with a pillow designed for nursing babies on my lap, to keep my hands up in a comfortable, relaxed position, and to keep me from leaning too far forward. A rolled up blanket or long plushie can do the same job. Ergonomic shaped needles and hooks can help if your hands cramp when working or you find you have to tightly grip the tools. Likewise, supportive gloves or wrist braces can aid when repetitive motions make your wrist ache. Better lighting or magnifiers make seeing stitches easier
There should be no shame in using assistive devices! Do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself while you create!
For 6, eye strain, we can forget this can be an issue even when not working at a computer. The 20-20-20 idea (look at something 20ft away for 20 seconds after 20 minutes of close-up focus) goes for reading a book or doing crafts as well. Anything where you're staring at something right in front of you for a long time can make your eyes ache. I really liked this video I found while gathering resources for today that goes over ways to mitigate eyestrain from a computer, as well as some exercises that I regularly do myself when I feel my eyes get sore.https://youtu.be/rPfCtJ1PX9I?si=qGMO1lJ1WiFZlNIs
As always, these tips are just my personal recommendations that you can use as starting off points for finding what works for you. Your breaks don't need to be structured to be beneficial. Moving your body in a change of scenery to get a snack might be all you need. Or you could start a load of laundry and work while it's going, which gives you a timer and a different physical task to do during your break when it's ready to be hung/changed to the other machine.
Do whatever works for you, just please take care of yourself! We artists might suffer for our art, but creating art shouldn't make you suffer.
Got any tips or resources? Or a tool that helped you craft more comfortably that you think others should know about? Share it in the comments or reblogs!
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ok, angsty luci! i found this quote and kind of wanna see what you can do with it~ “doesn’t it bother you? that they refuse to see the good in you, that they choose to only focus on your faults and mistakes?” she asks him. he turns his head and looks for the horizon. “why should it? we’re all bad in someone’s story.” 👀👀
(Below contains an image not yet released in EN server)
Hi Grace! I loved receiving this request from you! (Cuz god knows how angst runs through my veins. And when it’s Lucien angst.... I just- *chef’s kiss*). Believe me when I say I love Lucien, okay. But something about Lucien angst.... is just so addictive.
Also, some of y’all seem to forget that I’m an ANGST writer (as well as smut) with all the requests I’ve been getting as of late... So this is my gentle reminder for you that I am indeed, an angsty soul 🤣
Anyways, thank you for requesting this (and helping me brainstorm hehe), this is dedicated to you, my friend 💜 @tartagilicious
───── ⋆⋅ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ⋅⋆ ─────
“We’re All Bad in Someone’s Story” ↠ LUCIEN [ANGST]
Characters: Lucien, Victor, mentions of MC (Female)
Genre: Angst (Pure Unadulterated Angst, A N G S T - You have been warned) *insert Lucien clutching chest*
Word Count: 1,312
A/N: Set after Ch. 13 (Lucien’s betrayal), mentions of established relationship between Lucien and Female MC, and let’s pretend Victor’s little time travel thingie didn’t happen
Summary: With her no longer trusting Lucien, Lucien goes to Victor with a request.
Lucien gazed across the expanse of city lights before him. It should’ve been a beautiful sight, but now, there was no beauty left in this world. Not for him. Not anymore.
“Was any of it true? Everything that you told me? It was all lies?”
He could still see the moment when her heart had shattered. Because of him.
The moment her tears had spilled from her beautiful eyes, he had wanted to run over immediately and wanted to pull her into his chest, just like he had done countless times. But he couldn’t.
And when the moment she had put the pen that he had gifted her to her neck, his entire world had stopped. He had been forced to keep his emotions under control, to not let anything slip out from the mask he had crafted as he had watched crimson blood flow from her neck. He had felt his heart break along with hers. A heart, Lucien didn’t even know he had.
Foolish girl. Didn’t I warn you?
A shaky sigh was exhaled from his mouth, exceptionally loud in the still air.
But he had tried so hard, hadn’t he? At the beginning, didn’t he try so hard to ignore her, to ignore the blossoming feelings she had planted within his cold, empty heart. The fact that she alone was able to make the seeds she had sowed grow into a beautiful, passionate yearning was a feat of its own.
“Will you miss me if I do leave?”
He remembered the way she had nodded enthusiastically without hesitation at his question.
“I’m the fool,” he muttered. There was a broken laugh, bitter and grating.
Lucien looked up heavenward. The sparkling stars he had seen with her were now dull and gray.
“How unfortunate,” only the stars could hear his cracked whisper, “To fall in love with such a wretched man... And I, that wretched man, fell in love with you...only...to break your heart...”
The gentle hum of a car’s engine interrupted him and Lucien turned his head to see a man in a dark suit stepping out, the headlights illuminating the man’s silhouette.
“You asked to see me, Professor Lucien?” The man walked up to Lucien as he spat out his name. The expression on his face was severe. His eyes narrowed, “Or do I call you Ares now?” Indigo eyes met violet ones challengingly.
“It appears that you’ve already been informed,” Lucien answered casually, schooling his expression into a calm mask, “Victor.”
Victor scowled, “What do you want? Why did you call me?”
“I know you’re busy, but I would just like to ask for a bit of your time,” Lucien said coolly.
“You have no right to be making demands right now,” The words were nearing a low growl. “Not after what you did to her.”
“I’ll live with the consequences,” Lucien stated softly.
Victor laughed humorlessly, “And her? How do you plan for her to go on? Now after you’ve dumped her like some useless toy.”
“I suggest you get your facts straight before accusing me of anything,” Lucien’s voice was frigid; there was absolutely no trace of warmth. “I’m doing this for her good. To ensure her safety.”
“From you.”
“I’m not here to argue with you tonight,” Lucien smiled tightly. “I just have two requests to ask of you.”
Victor crossed his arms, “What do you want?”
Lucien exhaled, “It would appear that you care for her. And I imagine, with all comfort you’ve given her, she...cares for you as well.”
“What do you want?” Victor repeated, impatience creeping into his voice.
There was a pause.
“My first request is to ask that you keep her safe...Protect her in my stead...” Lucien spoke slowly.
“That’s hardly a request,” Victor scoffed, “I’m not protecting her for you. I’m protecting her from you.”
Lucien nodded once. “I understand. I just want her...to be safe.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, “And what good does this do for you?”
“I’m prepared to lose the only color in my world,” Lucien’s voice was steady, betraying no sign of his inner turmoil. He turned to look at the man beside him, “Tell me, what are you prepared to lose?” The words carried a hint of underlying threat.
“I don’t lose,” Victor responded flatly.
“No? What about the girl you had yearned for so ardently? The girl whom you’ve searched for all these years?” Lucien couldn’t help but challenge.
Victor’s jaw clenched, “I won’t lose her,” his voice was sure and confident, leaving no room for argument. “Not like you did.”
“Very well,” Lucien conceded with a slight smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He turned away to watch the city spread before him.
“The other request, what is it?” Victor spoke up after a brief silence. “You asked me to keep her safe, what’s the other request?”
Lucien watched the scene before him, a faraway look in his eyes. There was a touch of melancholy about him. “Keep her safe,” he repeated softly, the words carrying easily through the tranquil air. “And...Please let her be happy.”
Victor did not reply.
Lucien turned to leave, offering Victor a polite nod, “I hope you can honor these requests.”
“Does it not bother you?” Victor spoke up before he could leave. Lucien stopped, but did not turn to look at him. Victor continued, “Does it not bother you now that she found out who you really are? Now that she thinks of you as her rival instead of her lover?”
Lucien gave a soft chuckle, “Why should it bother me? After all, we’re all bad in someone else’s story,” he replied placidly. “Now, if you will excuse m-”
“Did you love her?” Victor cut him off, curt and cold. “Did you ever love her?”
Lucien stilled, his face ever so unreadable. There was a deprecating laugh.
“How could such a despicable man like me ever be capable of love?” He finally responded, smiling thinly. He turned on his heel and walked away, until he was out of Victor’s line of sight.
As soon as he could no longer see the bright beams of the headlights, he doubled over, gasping. Steadying himself on the trunk of a tree, he took in great shuddering breaths.
A choked groan came out of his mouth as the pressure in his chest built.
How ironic, he thought to himself, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. A pathetic man like me is capable of tears after all. A single tear traced its way down his cheek as he closed his eyes. He collapsed against the tree, sliding down the trunk until he sat at the base of tree. His head sank into his hands.
Images of her played behind his eyes. The way her eyes had lit up with such innocence, such joy when he had taken her to see the vibrant maple trees in Canada. The way she had taken him in that night when he was testing her, patching him up without a single moment of hesitation. The way she had trusted him wholeheartedly with no questions asked. The way she had loved him unconditionally despite knowing he had secrets, the him who was undeserving of such pure love.
“Ha..” Lucien gave a strangled laugh. “I am indeed...wretched...”
He reached into his jacket pocket and opened his hand. In it, lay a peace knot. The one she had gifted him with a brilliant smile and a wish hoping he would be happy and healthy. It was frayed in some places. He could no longer remember what colors it used to be. Now it appeared to him in varying shades of gray. His fingers closed over it tenderly, holding it carefully.
“If only...you hadn’t met me...” He whispered, “I hope...my little butterfly will be happy and healthy from now on...I hope, she’ll be safe...” A broken sob broke out from his throat. “Victor...is good for you, little butterfly... So fly away and be free. Be free of this wretched man who had wanted to keep you in a glass jar forever.” He pressed his lips against the peace knot softly.
“And...I hope you won’t mind this wretched man for wanting to love you just a little bit more... little butterfly, don’t let this man’s ugly blacks and whites stain your beautiful wings...and fly away...”
───── ⋆⋅ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ⋅⋆ ─────
A/N Part II: I’m...a Lucien stan I swear. I absolutely, positively love this man with every fiber of my entire being. I just couldn’t resist. Don’t worry, I’m sobbing as well. Also, I love me some good old rivalry between Lucien and Victor. *Cue TENSION* But if you are too sad from this Lucien angst, I have a treat in store for you. It involves FLUFF annnnnnd (sneak peak) wedding stuffs. Stay tuned!
To the Nonnys in my asks, I promise I’m working on your requests! (I just wanted to get through the drabbles before I launch myself into full-blown 10k word fics again).
If the rest of you would like to request something, as always, my ask and/or messages are open!
Part II: here
More of my work: 📖
#request#sunnyxiaojuns#answered ask#mlqc#lucien#angst#drabble#mr love lucien#mr love victor#lucien drabble#lucien fic#mlqc fic#mlqc drabble#mr love queen's choice#lucien and victor#lucien xu#victor li#mlqc fanfic#otome#mlqc lucien#mlqc victor#xu mo#Love and Producer#lucien fanfic#lucien angst#lucien deserves to be loved#mlqc fanfiction#my writing#kazuharem#💌 grace
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it is so important that textile work/fiber art in general be recognized as skilled labor and art. textiles are omnipresent, in clothing, in furniture, moreso than any other artistic medium, but are domesticated and overlooked as a result. when textile work is done at a personal level instead of industrial, it's seen as just craft, cute but frivolous. textile work's association with women just worsens this, and independent textile artists fight tooth and nail to be compensated fairly, since their work is underpaid and undervalued in the world at large.
textile work has value in its mundanity. I have pieces I made years ago using simple methods, back when I was just starting out, and I still use and love them. the devaluing of textile work also means that its appeal goes unnoticed too. I see things that were obviously handmade, sweaters sold to secondhand stores by family members who didn't realize the amount of labor that went into them, and am astounded by the time I know they take to make and by the craftsmanship. not understanding textile work means not understanding the meaning of its consistency, the geometric beauty of even simple techniques, done right again and again, for hours.
#bolo speaks#hiiiii I'm blogging again bc I forgot to make lunch for the night and picked up my Phone#when is fashion sewing weaving etc gonna be recognized as skilled labor worthy of compensation when is it going to be seen as high art#I'm just kinda talking out of my ass rn many thoughts head full
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