#The lighting in the Dusty half is immaculate

[coconut530]

Good Intentions + Shiloh

[cece693]

Okay okay so silly idea okay so male reader x Hannibal and they are basically the same right and they been married for 20 years but recently the reader started to be less elegant and more reckless he made a man cave in their nice furnished house started to eat hot cheetos even leaving crumbs in their bed. And the worst part is he got a ps5 at his big age (the reader and Hannibal around same age )

Write about how Hannibal would react seeing the most elegant smartest man he knows turn into a man child please 🙏

Okay, so this might seem like an AU because (let's be real) Hannibal would rather kill you than allow you to become something akin to those 'pigs' he detests. So, the only logical reason for your change in attitude has to be a midlife crisis. So, I hope you enjoy this small, yet fluffy fic.

Midlife Crisis

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: established relationship, just you having a midlife crisis, hannibal being considerate and accommodating, fluff

You have always matched Hannibal—measure for measure, refinement for refinement. For twenty years, the two of you have been twin blades honed on one another: matching Tom Ford suits in the cloakroom, antique opera glasses resting side by side, twin signatures in the guestbook at La Fenice.

Then, six weeks ago, the first crack: a neon beer sign arrived, incongruously aglow in the cellar that once housed your burgundy collection. Man Cave, it proclaimed in lurid cobalt. Hannibal descended the stairs with a bottle of Château d’Yquem and stopped, transfixed, as if he were observing graffiti on a Botticelli.

It has only grown worse.

He wakes before dawn—habitual—stretching an arm across 1,200‑thread‑count Egyptian cotton only to encounter volcanic orange grit. He lifts his hand to the dim light and watches powdered spice cling to the whorls of his fingerprints like evidence at a crime scene. You snore gently beside him, slack‑jawed, an open bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos wilting on the duvet like a wounded animal.

Hannibal’s nostrils flare. He rises without sound, carries the bag to the ensuite sink, and pours the remaining curls down the disposal. Their hiss as they vanish feels symbolic, a small exorcism.

He discovers the PS5 two evenings later, set up in what was once the music room. Your Bösendorfer grand now shoulders aside an ultrawide monitor; game cases litter the piano bench where Rachmaninoff once thundered beneath your hands.

You lounge in an oversized gaming chair—headset crooked, controller flashing—guiding a garishly armored soldier through digital carnage. Hannibal stands in the doorway, immaculate in charcoal silk, listening to the rapid‑fire clicks.

“Darling,” he says, voice smooth as port. “You are wearing...sweatpants.”

You pause the game, swivel toward him with a grin too boyish for the lines at your eyes. “Comfy, aren’t they? Grab a controller; Co‑Op mode just dropped.”

For an instant, Hannibal imagines flinging the console out the window, discarding it like so many bones. Instead he exhales through his nose, steps forward, and lays a hand atop the piano. It is dusty. He feels the dust as betrayal.

“Do you recall,” Hannibal asks softly, “how you played the Adagio of the ‘Hammerklavier’ the night I confessed my feelings?”

Your smile falters. “Of course I do, Hanni.”

“It seems your soldier has taken Beethoven’s place.” You stare, caught between amusement and guilt, and Hannibal sees it clearly: beneath the reckless veneer is a man grappling with an itch of mortality—the sudden terror that excellence might calcify into stagnation.

The following Sunday, Hannibal prepares dinner alone. You are busy “raiding,” whatever that is, and decline his invitation with distracted half‑sentences shouted through a microphone. He braises venison in red wine for hours, layering juniper, bitter chocolate, and a whisper of long pepper. The kitchen fills with fragrant steam, but the seat across from him stays empty, controller clicks echoing from the hall.

Hannibal eats in silence, knife and fork precise, imagining you inhaling takeout straight from the carton. When he clears the dishes, he feels a flicker of something rare and dangerous: resentment. It is midnight when Hannibal finally strides into the man cave. Screens glow like infernal portals; half‑drunk sodas sweat on polished mahogany. You are mid‑match, eyes wild with focus.

Hannibal reaches out and, with clinical calm, unplugs the console.

“Hannibal!” You yank off the headset. “We were about to beat the boss!”

“Then the boss must wait.” He sets the power cord neatly on the desk. “We need to speak.”

You cross your arms, posture defensive. “If this is about the crumbs—”

“It is about everything.” Hannibal's voice does not rise; it descends, dropping like a scalpel into tissue. “You have traded discipline for indulgence, clarity for noise. It is as though I woke beside someone wearing your skin.”

A flash of hurt crosses your face, sharpened by anger. “So I’m not allowed hobbies that aren’t Michelin‑starred?”

“It isn’t the hobbies. It is the abandon with which you pursue them. You used to savor life; now you devour it like junk food—quick, thoughtless, forgettable. And you leave crumbs.”

You open your mouth—then shut it. Silence stretches. Finally, you sink back in the chair, rubbing your brow. “I feel old,” you admit. “Stripped of novelty. Everyone expects perfection from us—every dinner flawless, every gesture curated. I wanted something…simple. Something where excellence didn’t matter.”

Hannibal kneels—not supplicant, but equal—resting elegant hands on your thighs. “Perfection never mattered to me, Y/N. Only authenticity. If you crave new experiences, we shall find them—together. But do not cast aside the artistry that defines you. It is the marrow of our bond.”

You swallow, eyes shining. “Even the Cheetos?”

He allows the faintest smile. “There are superior ways to explore capsaicin.”

A week later, the man cave remains, but the neon sign is gone. The PS5 is relocated to a custom cabinet of dark walnut, its cables sheathed in crimson silk. On Friday nights you invite Hannibal to play; he accepts, fingers surprisingly deft on the controller. Between matches he teaches you to compose a snack of tempura‑fried shishito peppers dusted with smoked paprika—crunchy, fiery, but stain‑free.

The Bösendorfer is tuned. After gaming, you close the cabinet and settle at the keys while Hannibal drapes across the chaise, eyes closed, sipping Sauternes. Beethoven returns to the house—now accompanied by distant victory fanfares echoing from memory rather than speaker.

In bed, you still slip sometimes, sneaking a contraband chip beneath the sheets. Hannibal catches your wrist, brings the guilty fingertip to his lips, and licks away the spice with deliberate slowness.

“Reckless,” he murmurs against your skin, “yet salvageable.”

And you laugh—because in twenty years you have learned that nothing delights him more than transforming chaos into cuisine, disorder into art. Even, it seems, a midlife crisis can be plated elegantly.

[2i1han]

pt. 1

not a romance story | park sungho

pairing : intern!sungho x intern!reader addressed as narin ⭑ wc : 3.7k

tags : office rom-com, friends to lovers?, lovers to enemies

playlist : step by step / boynextdoor , amusement park / baekhyun , kiss me / sixpence none the richer , the perfect pair / beabadoobee , ghostride / crumb , panama / sports , ring my bell / suzy , from now on / vincent blue , toothbrush / dnce

with both your competitive streaks, it was only a matter of time before you and your office friend-slash-fling started butting heads over a promotion that could determine your future. the catch? only one of you can get it.

pt. 2

pt. 3

sometimes, life doesn't exactly follow the script you imagined. at nineteen, you were a fiery art prodigy, racking up awards like trophies in your university's dusty halls. you painted like every brushstroke was a mic drop. sure, there was that other student—the one with the flawless portfolio and the paris scholarship you'd dreamed about since your first day at k-arts, drawn in by a giant portrait of a ridiculously handsome man staring down from the lobby wall. but that didn't stop you from pushing harder, chasing your dream.

or at least, that's what you told yourself.

because here you are now. four years and one degree later—squeezed into a cubicle barely bigger than your laptop. a corporate intern at a media and entertainment company. yay. your nineteen-year-old self would probably faint. she imagined you somewhere glamorous, hobnobbing with artists in paris or tokyo, not stuck proofreading presentation slides while nursing a sad, half-empty coffee.

you stare blankly at the powerpoint glowing on your screen, your eyes glassy from too much blue light. a mental sigh escapes as you lean back, stretching just enough not to knock over your precariously stacked paperwork. you reach for your coffee cup, but it's embarrassingly light. empty. you give it a hopeful shake. nope.

right as you're about to have a meltdown, a hand spawned in front of your face with a fresh cup of coffee.

"here," sungho says with a smile.

you blink up at him against the bright fluorescent lights, offering a grateful smile as you take the coffee. sungho rolls his chair over from his cubicle across from you, settling in.

"we can tackle that nightmare later. for now, just breathe," he says, sipping his own drink calmly.

you shrug, taking a sip of your mocha latte—the exact one you always want but never buy because, you know, intern budget.

"mocha latte, huh?" you smirk. "i must've trained you well."

sungho scoffs, playful. "you act like i'm your personal barista or something."

you raise a brow. "you were a barista, though."

"keyword, were," he deadpans, setting his coffee down. "so, how's the design coming?"

"it's going well. thanks for trusting me with the concept and visuals," you say, softening.

"you're the art prodigy. you've got the eye," sungho says, reaching over to give your head a quick pat. "i'll handle schedules, the writing, and the presentation. we make a killer team."

you smile. small, but real. "you always take charge when i'm ready to bolt."

"exactly," he grins, sliding back to his desk. "that's why we work. balance."

you watched him go, feeling a little less like a lost intern and a little more like someone who might actually make it. you cracked your knuckles, stretched your neck, and pushed the nerves aside before diving back into work.

you met sungho during the internship screening, out in the waiting area. he sat beside you—cool and collected, hair immaculately combed back, posture straight like someone who didn’t sweat under pressure. meanwhile, you were mentally repeating the answers you’d practiced over and over, trying not to vomit from anxiety. the fluorescent lights felt too bright, and the air too thin.

you told yourself it was just nerves, but when your vision began to blur and your heartbeat spiked so rapidly you felt dizzy, your clammy hand reached into your sling bag only to realize your candy pouch was missing.

you were seconds from hitting the floor when a voice cut through the fog.

"excuse me?"

you blinked and looked up at the guy next to you—dark hair, sharp suit, and a calm expression that contrasted your internal meltdown.

"are you okay?" he asked, then pulled out a wrapped hard candy and held it out to you. "here, sugar. you look like you need it more than i do."

you stared, still lightheaded and confused.

"unless you think i’m trying to poison you," he joked, smiling softly.

you accepted it with trembling hands. "thank you—"

"park sungho," he said, sitting up straighter. "if you pass out before the interview, i won’t have anyone to compete with."

"theres's like, fifteen people here." a weak laugh escaped you as you leaned back against the wall, the sugar settling your breathing. "yang narin. thank you."

"it’s nothing." he waved his hands off.

"how’d you know i needed sugar?"

"my mom’s hypoglycemic. i know the signs."

you nodded, and the two of you talked the wait away. when the interview finally came, you felt a little steadier. the panel even liked your well-prepared, disciplined responses. you were one of four applicants chosen out of the fifteen or so that day.

and when you saw sungho again on the first day of your internship at the company, it felt a little like fate. he spotted you in the lobby and offered that same smile from the interview day.

"you again," you said, raising a brow.

he grinned. "you again."

────────────────────

your first day was an onboarding rollercoaster—digital handbooks, media archive tours, safety briefings, and way too many passwords. the orientation led you through studio rooms, editing bays, even the soundproof voiceover booths used for post-production work. your first assignment landed you in brand and concept development, working on campaigns for upcoming variety shows, dramas, and music specials. you shadowed producers who spoke in industry slang, took meetings at the speed of light, and somehow remembered every reference from every major network in the last ten years.

you and sungho got paired together almost immediately. your supervisor said something about complementary energies. you were sharp and detail-oriented. he was flexible and quick on his feet. you sketched storyboard templates and drafted campaign decks, he pitched fresh taglines and catchy loglines like a walking tumblr thread. somehow, it worked.

near the end of your first month, you stayed behind to fix a final presentation deck. the office, usually buzzing with meetings and soundtrack demos, had gone eerily silent. except, of course, sungho showing up beside you again, iced mocha latte in hand.

"didn't want you hogging all the overtime credit," he said with a wink.

you didn’t reply right away, too focused on choosing the right transitions and polishing the mock show logo. he leaned in, pointing out typos, suggesting funnier taglines, even humming background music as you worked.

after a while, you leaned back with a sigh, cracking your knuckles out of habit. "we’re a good team, huh?" you said, finally taking a sip of the coffee he brought.

he glanced at you, smiling. "we really are."

and expectedly, the next month, the two of you started gaining attention. not just for your work, but for how well your styles fused. as your supervisor said, "dynamic synergy." your coworkers just called it "a thing."

people liked to say you balanced each other. you grounded sungho’s occasional mess, while he coaxed you out of perfectionism paralysis. but that wasn’t the whole truth.

you were both competent. you were both ambitious. and beneath all that dynamic synergy and thing, theres's still undeniably a quiet competition between the two of you.

when a producer praised one of your pitch slides, sungho would immediately quip, "i told her that format would pop more." when sungho’s copy got selected for a campaign, you found yourself rewriting your next one twice just to beat his.

neither of you said it out loud. but your dynamic started to feel like a game of chess. equal and respectful, but always one move away from tipping over. at times, it was thrilling, but other times, it made your throat tight.

despite the occasional clash in ideas or accidental overlap in pitches, you never let it get personal. the silent awareness of each other's competence never turned into resentment. if anything, it added a slight thrill to working together, like co-starring in a very niche buddy sitcom.

you'd sit in adjacent desks during briefing days, share glances when meetings ran too long, and send memes during breaks that could get you both fired if seen by upper management, and like the time you were asked to storyboard a teaser for a new web drama about office romance. the two of you had very different takes.

"this should be a soft-focus, warm-filter aesthetic," you said, scrolling through mood boards on your tablet. "think: slice of life, quiet yearning, park bench in autumn."

"that's cute," sungho said. "but hear me out: they confess in the office storage room during a blackout, flashlight under the chin, sparks, fear, passion."

you stared at him. "you're thinking of horror movies."

he grinned. "exactly. it's called duality."

despite the clash, you somehow merged both ideas and ended up pitching the perfect concept that the marketing team loved.

you were a good pair. even if neither of you would admit out loud how lucky you were to have the other around. but that would be challenged by something you never thought would come, a magnitude eight earthquake that dared to shake the well-established foundation you and sungho had built.

────────────────────

you and sungho sat side by side at your shared cubicle desk, hunched over the major final project proposal you'd be presenting in your sixth month—when the internship would come to an end. the room buzzed with its usual late-morning vibe. fluorescent lights hummed overhead, emails chimed on laptops, and half-finished coffees were clutched by junior employees and your fellow interns.

the space was alive with casual chatter. artist feedback, deadline extensions, weekend plans, just background noise to your focused silence. you typed while sungho sketched beside you, his sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed.

then the atmosphere shifted. as the supervisor, mr. yoo walked in. sharp suit, strong expression, and flanked by two senior staff. the room instantly quieted, tension snapping into place. he headed straight to the center conference table and set down a folder.

"juniors, keep going with your work. interns, listen up. i'll keep this short," he said, gaze locking directly onto your section.

the supervisor continued, "as you all know, we've had four interns with us for the past five months. you've each contributed to key projects, and we appreciate your work." a short pause as you and sungho looked at each other. "that said, due to department restructuring and team headcount, we'll only be offering one full-time junior associate position."

he didn't need to say anything else. you and sungho had already turned toward each other again with furrowed brows and wide eyes, understanding without speaking. you weren't just friends anymore. you were competitors.

"we'll be evaluating your final project this month. do well. we'll announce who's selected after the presentation," he finished, bowing slightly. "back to work."

he left as quickly as he came, like he'd only dropped a bomb and didn't care to watch it explode. silence then sat thick in your corner.

ningning, your co-intern, peeked over the cubicle wall. "y'all heard that?"

"well, yeah," you muttered, blinking back the heat building behind your eyes.

"good luck to us this final month," said jisung, another intern, leaning over with a coffee cup in hand and his usual upbeat grin. "no matter what happens, at least we got to work together. that's something."

you and sungho both nodded and smiled, but it was stiff and forced. your brains clearly still buffering. the concept draft was still on-screen in front of you, a blinking caret beside the unfinished word you left hanging. neither of you moved.

it didn't take a mind reader to know what this meant.

you'd both spent college barely scraping by on part-time jobs and living off instant ramen as all your minimum salary went to your sister's hospital bills. you'd watched your art posts barely break double-digit likes. you needed this job. so did sungho, whose college band had long since disbanded and who'd been working barista shifts just to keep afloat.

then sungho chuckled dryly, breaking the tension with a tap on his thigh. "yeah… you're right. that's the important part," he said, nodding toward jisung's words, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. he looked back at the screen. "let's continue, yeah?"

you cleared your throat. "sure, yeah."

the rest of the day drags on, but doesn’t really move. you and sungho still sit side by side, but the vibe has gone weird. your conversations shrink down to awkward, half-muttered comments. he no longer makes dumb sound effects when you’re writing copy, and you stop nudging him when he zones out mid-edit like a washed-up film student. there’s no official fight, no dramatic exits, just an invisible wall that snuck between you two.

at one point, he slowly spins his chair toward you, like he’s rehearsed it in his head.

"hey… about the project. do you—uh, still wanna pitch it together?"

you blink, wondering why would sungho even ask such thing. "yeah. of course. i mean... we started it together."

"right," he says, nodding and scratching his chin like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. "just wanted to check."

you both pretend that was just a normal question. totally casual. not emotionally loaded at all. definitely not a slowly imploding partnership in the making.

────────────────────

the sun sets, the overhead lights buzz to life. you and sungho are still glued to your shared desk, powerpoint open, draft proposal halfway done. jisung and ningning are talking in the next cubicle, their voices just background noise to your crumbling professional relationship. everyone looks tired enough to melt into their swivel chairs. the pitch is still a month away, but the burnout is immediate.

sungho stretches with a groan, cracking his neck. "i adjusted the timeline chart like you said. you were right—it looks cleaner without the extra fluff."

you smirk without looking at him. eyes fixed on the monitor. "thanks. i saw it earlier. good call on ditching those pointless milestones too. i mean, we don’t need a slide for ‘team morale check-in.’"

he chuckles, leaning back in his seat. "and, i was also thinking... for the final pitch, maybe i handle the talking part, and you demo the visual stuff?"

your fingers pause over your keyboard. you blink. then your eyebrows do that slow, skeptical climb. "you mean... just you presenting?" you turn to him now, full eye contact.

"no—i meant we both present," he rushes out, waving his hands like he’s disarming a bomb. "i just thought maybe i lead the talking part? since i’ve been handling the stakeholder reports and all..."

"oh. so you think you should take the lead because you’ve been more involved?" your voice takes on that slightly dangerous tone. like you’re smiling but your eyes says otherwise.

"i didn’t mean it like that," he frowns, realizing too late he’s stepped on a landmine.

"right. you just think i should sit quietly in the corner again." you scoff, arms now crossed like a judge on a reality show.

his lips twitch into a smile that’s more disbelief than joy. "okay. that’s not fair. i’ve been staying late working on this too."

"so have i," you snap, heavy emphasis on the i. "but i guess it only counts if you talk about it loudly and don’t get a nervous hypoglycemia attack in front of the client."

"what's wrong?" sungho grumbled. "do we not do it like that all the time?"

you stayed silent. he's right, but for some reason the thought threatened you. and why would he ask for it again if that's how it usually goes? by now, you’re both facing opposite directions, arms folded like bookends. neither of you notices the two heads peeking up from the next cubicle like curious meerkats.

"…yikes," ningning whispers, face frozen in a stiff, teeth-baring wince like she just watched someone spill coffee on their laptop.

jisung leans in. "that’s what happens when you take internship too seriously."

sungho shuts his eyes and turns back toward you, trying to de-escalate. "narin, we’re on the same team. i’m just trying to make sure we win this."

you laugh under your breath, bitter. "win it for us, or for yourself?"

boom. that one hits harder than it should. even the meerkats and sungho gasped with wide eyes.

"whoa there, where did that come from?" his brows knitted.

"what? i’m just saying what everyone’s thinking."

"everyone? or yours?" he narrows his eyes. "is this about that stupid promotion?"

"stupid?" you turn your head, jaw clenching. "as if you don’t want it too. you were the one who brought it up!"

he rolls his eyes, poking his cheek with his tongue before yanking at his necktie loose. he grabs his sketchpad and stands up like he’s walking out of a reality show confessional.

"fine. present it yourself. i’ll pitch a new project on my own."

you don’t say anything. just stare blankly at your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard like even your laptop is awkward about it.

sungho waits a second, glancing at you to see if you’ll stop him. say something. apologize, maybe. but you stay still, and he walks away back to his own desk.

"i thought they were a good team…" ningning whispers loudly to jisung, not realizing her voice is just loud enough to carry.

"ning yizhuo," you and sungho snap at the same time. she winces and ducks down, dragging jisung with her.

you sigh and palm your forehead, chugging the rest of your water like it’s alcohol. this was your first real fight with sungho, and it didn’t go anything like you expected. you weren’t even sure what you were mad about anymore, but it ended with both of you mad, and now your shared vibe is almost dead.

well. he is just a co-worker. you tell yourself like you didn't just lost the yang to your yin.

eventually, the office thins out. one by one, your teammates wave their goodbyes. ningning shoots you a nervous smile. jisung mouths good luck. and then it’s just you and sungho again. the usual overtime duo. except tonight, there's no shared spotify playlis, and no snack runs.

at one point, sungho stands abruptly. loud enough to get your attention. he side-eyes you on his way to the farthest vacant desk and plops down with a dramatic sigh that screams petty.

you scoff to yourself, shaking your head, lips twitching. so childish.

that night, for the first time, you walk home alone. no shared exit from the building, no stop at the tteokbokki shop to pick up food together, no office gossips. just you, a very moody bus ride, and an empty hand.

you toss your bag on the sofa, marched straight to your bedroom, and fall face-first into your gray mattress. the springs bounce lightly beneath you. you sigh, rolling onto your back, raising your phone to check messages.

but there's nothing. the last chat from sungho was that morning:

[sungho] on my way now. grab coffee?

[you] already did lol hurry up.

you roll your eyes and toss the phone aside. you know he’s probably working on the project solo by now, mr. i-can-handle-it-all. but fine. you’ve done college alone. paid your sister’s hospital bills alone. handled late-night breakdowns, 20-slide decks, and a microwave explosion in the pantry all alone. you’ll get through this stupid pitch without him too.

───────────────────

you went to bed early the night before, determined to beat sungho to the office. today wasn’t just another weekday, you were on a mission. you picked out presentable clothes, tied your hair into a clean bun for the first time ever and let your wispy bangs frame your face just right.

on the way in, you stopped by the coffee station. just a little boost to start the day. and as you pushed open the glass door, your forced smile dissolved into a half-genuine one. your eyes scanned the room, and there's no sign of sungho.

relieved, you walked confidently to your desk, hung your bag neatly on the hook, then leaned casually on ningning’s cubicle.

"hey," you nudged her chair with your elbow.

ningning pulled out an airpod and looked up, blinking in surprise. "wow. you’re always on time, but today, you’re early-early." she gave you an amused little smirk. "what’s the occasion?"

"sungho’s not here yet, right?" you asked, trying to sound cool and breezy, like this wasn’t your entire personality this morning.

ningning froze, eyes darting toward jisung like she just spotted a wild animal behind you. jisung, sensing a drama in the making, calmly turned his back and shoved in his earbuds like a man with survival instincts.

"ah, well..." ningning stood up with an awkward smile and pointed discreetly toward the supervisor’s room.

you turned, and there he was. through the translucent glass is the blurry but unmistakable outline of sungho's broad shoulders. holding a folder, and a tablet.

ningning, now feeling your glare burn through the air like laser beams, quickly sat back down and began typing absolute nonsense into her keyboard just to look busy.

the door then opened. sungho stepped out, holding his stuff on his right arm and a blank expression in his face. he then sighed, but then found you, and eyes locked with yours.

neither of you spoke or moved. you just glared, silently battling for dominance across the room.

did he rat me out?

did he complain to mr. yoo just to sabotage me?

did he—oh my god—did he send the draft without me?!

you stomped across the room like a woman on a warpath and yanked his arm without a word, dragging him to the balcony like you were about to throw him off it. he didn’t resist. if anything, he looked mildly amused.

"what are you telling mr. yoo?" you hissed, fingers pointed at him with narrowed eyes.

sungho scoffed, turning his head to the side with a mocking smirk. "i thought we didn’t have anything to do with each other anymore," he said with full passive-aggressive sparkle. "why ask?"

you scoffed right back, one eyebrow twitching in rage. "don’t play coy. did you say something? about me?"

sungho took a step back, voice calm and annoyingly smug. "he wants to talk to you."

then he turned and walked back inside without waiting for your response, leaving you standing on the balcony confused.

you stood there for a few more seconds, blinking, coffee still in hand before your phone buzzed in your pocket.

[supervisor yoo: come to my office. now.]

[lulu103]

Beneath The Surface

Levi Ackerman x Reader – Modern AU

Genre: Romance, Tension, Forbidden, Passionate

---

The classroom always smelled of black coffee and old paper, like time had stopped there — between worn-out books and desks carved with the years. You sat in your usual spot: second row, right in front of his desk. Never in the first — too obvious — but close enough to notice every detail.

Professor Levi Ackerman wasn’t like the others.

Always immaculate: black shirt, sleeves rolled up with surgical precision, tie perfectly loosened. He had that silent presence that demanded respect without uttering a word. His eyes — gray, cold, sharp like blades — were the last thing most students wanted directed at them... except you.

Because when he looked at you, you didn’t flinch.

You burned.

That day, like many others, the tension felt physical. He walked past your desk and laid down another sheet. One more among many handouts. But you knew what to look for. In the bottom right corner, barely visible between the margins, was the message.

"Stop looking too much, or others will start to notice."

Your heart slammed against your chest.It wasn’t the first note. But it was the boldest.Ever since that time in the library — when his fingers brushed yours, when he held your gaze longer than necessary, when you caught him watching while pretending to grade — you knew something simmered beneath the surface.

A minefield of unsaid words.

You never replied aloud. You responded in the language he understood best: held gazes, subtle gestures, a folded note inside a book he returned after class.

“Then let them watch.”

That was your reply the next day. It was the first time you saw something change in his expression. Not a smile — Levi didn’t smile — but his eyes blinked just once, like something cracked within.

The next few days were quieter. He didn’t touch you, didn’t speak unless necessary. But the silence grew louder.

One day, his fingers brushed your wrist as he handed you a pen. His thumb lingered a half-second too long. Another time, you stayed after class to “ask a question” — one you didn’t need to ask. You stayed alone with him in the empty classroom, the afternoon light slipping through dusty windows.

—What part didn’t you understand? —he asked, not looking up from the paper.

—The part where we pretend this isn’t happening.

The silence that followed was different. He raised his gaze, and for the first time, there was no distance.

—You know this can’t happen —he said. His voice was low, rough. Uncertain, just this once.

—Then tell me to stop —you challenged.

He stepped closer. Just one step. You could smell the coffee on his breath, the clean scent of his clothes. His jaw was tense. He always seemed in control. Until now.

—You’re old enough to know what you’re doing —he muttered—. And I’m old enough to know the consequences.

You took another step. The height difference didn’t matter. Your voice was a whisper.

—Then stop thinking for a second and act like nothing else matters.

He was the one who closed the gap.

His lips crashed into yours without warning, fueled by fury and restraint. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was anxious, chaotic, like a silent explosion. His hand gripped your face, your fingers twisted in his shirt. You felt him tremble, just a little, like his self-control crumbled in your hands.

That was the beginning of what should never be.

---

The encounters became frequent. Never easy.

Hidden messages inside philosophy books. Fake appointments for “private tutoring.” He was meticulous. Never left a trace. Never lost control — except with you.

Some days he wouldn’t look at you. Pretended you didn’t exist. But you could read him. In the way his voice trembled ever so slightly when saying your name. In the way his eyes searched for you, if only for a second.

And there were the nights.

A hotel room. Always different. Never near campus.

He always arrived first. Always silent. You’d open the door and find him standing there, unspeaking. That first touch was always the same: like he’d been holding his breath for days. Like the world only existed for that moment.

Levi undid you with his hands. With his mouth. With his entire body. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, he shattered you.

—This is a mistake —he’d whisper against your neck.

—Then don’t stop —you’d breathe as your nails scratched his back.

And he never did.

---

But nothing stays hidden forever.

One day, a note appeared in your locker. Not in class.

"Some eyes see more than they should. Be careful.

"No name. But the ink was familiar.

Your blood ran cold.

The next class was silent. Levi didn’t look at anyone. Gave instructions, left without saying a word.

Days passed. No notes. No messages. You waited after class. He never showed.

You decided to go to him. You knew where. A quiet library, almost always empty. You saw him there, back turned, facing the shelves. You hesitated.

But he felt you. He always did.

—You can’t be here —he murmured without turning.

—I also can’t sleep not knowing if you hate me or if you’re just scared —you replied, steady.

He turned. His eyes were clouded. More tired than ever.

—Someone suspects. I don’t know who. If this gets out... they’ll ruin you. Not me. And I won’t allow that.

—Is this goodbye?

No answer. He took one step. Then another.

—There’s no goodbye if there’s no end.

He embraced you. Not like before. This time it was slow, fingers shaking. Like time had finally caught up to him.

—Promise me one thing —you whispered—. If it all falls apart... don’t say it was a mistake.

Levi inhaled deeply. And for the first time, you heard him answer without fear.

—It never was.

---

A semester passed. Then another.

You saw him only once more on campus, from afar. A coffee cup in hand, alone. He didn’t approach.

But you knew how to read him.

And on your desk, that final day, was a forgotten book.

Inside, a single note.

"When all this ends, find me. I’ll still be waiting, even if I shouldn’t."

Your heart caught fire again.

And you smiled.Because some stories, even the forbidden ones, never truly fade.

Levi Ackerman x Reader – AU moderno Part 2

[r-f-m-writes-books]

A Lark In a Hollow Chapter Two 

Lark stared at her hands, the cuticle on her thumb was bright red, scabbing over slowly, the curved edge of it gummy and recessed after years of relentless picking. Just her right one. Her left was the one she used to wound its twin. 

           

Christopher Hollow’s truck was big, black, and almost as intimidating as the man himself when Lark walked toward it across the small, crowded, city parking lot.

            Mrs. Poppy’s voice rose light and chipper on the air behind her, speaking to Hollow with enthusiasm while Lark came to a stop beside the truck, standing still and silent. Waiting. Her father’s voice rasped in her memory, hazy as a cloud of cigarette smoke, half as bitter.

           Good girls are seen, not heard.

          “- very smart, her grades are the best I’ve seen in a long while, no need to worry about tutors, just to have her enrolled in school before the end of winter break. Do try to get her outside and socializing once in a while. Lark’s a shy thing.”

           Averting her eyes to the dusty cracks in pavement, Lark blinked at the white rubber toes of her worn shoes while Mr. Hollow moved past her, the heat of his body like an open log fire as he loaded her duffle bag into the bed of the truck, reaching up to fasten it to the safety screen with a length of elastic cable.

          “That right?”

          Christopher’s voice was rough and low, syllables rumbling out of him like the grumble of a bear who just woke from hibernation. 

          Lark tucked her chin toward her chest, shoulders hunching against the uncomfortable sensation of being looked at. 

         Mrs. Poppy saved her from having to speak.

        “Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, this one. A bit of an introvert.”

        The whole truck rocked when Christopher took his weight off its side, suspension squeaking slightly as dark boots stepped into Lark’s sight.

       The steel caps of his boots mimicked the shape of her scuffed up sneakers.

       Christopher stood near her and gave a grunt.

      “‘s alright. Not much for people myself.”

     Lark toed at an immature dandelion sprouting determinedly through cracks in the concrete.

     Mrs. Poppy laughed, loud and bright.

     “Oh, you two, peas in a pod! Come along Lark, let’s not keep Mr. Hollow waiting around.”

~R.F.M~

      Christopher Hollow doesn't listen to the radio while he drives, and he drives safely, sensible and precise. 

      The inside of his truck is immaculately clean with dark leather seats and a grey plastic dashboard. The air smelled vaguely like dog and wood and muddy boots - but those were all scents that Lark was happy to endure for however long it would take them to get to where they were going.

       He doesn't make her talk or take any offense to her silence, caution masquerading as shyness. 

       The girl sat still, not letting herself fidget, not letting herself become an irritation. Only Lark’s eyes moved, dark honey brown irises flicking rabbit quick over the landscape as it shrank from city, to towns, to farms, then shot up again in towering green-gray forest that enclosed all around them, swallowing the big truck in it shadows until Lark felt it must look like a shiny black beetle scurrying through dirt. 

      She had learned about old growth pines in school, got ninety five out of a hundred for her essay on the importance of preservation and advocacy. Gazing up at them from her passenger seat, towering and celestial like gods on earth, Lark felt she had sold them short in her paper.

      The sun rose and rose and rose until it halted at its peak, then, slowly, began to regress back toward the tops of trees, casting long golden shadows over the road and the hood of the truck as it sank.

[hero21us]

Sunset Bloom

A Day in the Life — Trey and PDU-055

10:42 AM — Eastbound Train, Somewhere Outside London

Trey had his gold Air Max propped up on the seat opposite, tapping to a bassline only he could hear. His Olympic medal—now dangling from his joggers like bling—clinked against the cheap metal buckle. The medal still shone, but now it wasn’t just about gold. He’d tasted something deeper.

Across from him sat Polo-Drone-055, immaculate in black rubber polo and matching tight-cut trousers, not a crease out of place. His skin caught the sunlight just enough to betray the sheen beneath. First time in England. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Trey cracked his gum and grinned.

“Back in the ends, bruv. Capital ain't ready for us.”

He adjusted his cap—Nike swoosh sharp, brim tilted just right. 055 didn’t even blink. The two of them moved like one now, the same gold shimmer pulsing quietly beneath their skin. Something ancient. Something waiting.

12:19 PM — Southbank, London

They cut through the Thames walk like they owned it—two lads outta myth dressed like the street never left 'em. Trey barked greetings at tourists, threw a wink at a girl on a rental bike, and laughed way too loud at a guy juggling knives.

Grabbed a burger. Took a bite. “Oi, taste this, yeah,” he mumbled through a mouthful, handing it to 055.

055 just watched pigeons scatter like data points. Didn’t eat. Just scanned.

Trey wiped his fingers on his joggers. “You’re proper weird, fam,” he said with affection. “But I rate it.”

Still, something tugged at them—eastward. Not a sound, not a sign. Just the quiet pull of destiny with a London accent.

3:04 PM — Field of Sunflowers, Hackney Marshes

“Bruv… what is this?” Trey muttered, stepping into the golden dream sprawled across the concrete wilds. Sunflowers. Loads of ’em. Where there should’ve been bikes, syringes, and discarded Nando’s boxes.

“Bit peak for Hackney, innit?” he added, flicking a stem.

But 055 was already moving ahead, like he belonged there. He brushed petals gently. Trey followed, laughing at first, but uneasy underneath it all.

Then it came—the sound. Deep. Bass-heavy. Like a rave under the soil.

Trey froze. His trainers sank an inch into ground that wasn’t muddy five seconds ago.

“Oi… what the—?”

All the sunflowers had turned. Toward them.

Spirals spun where seeds should be—black and gold, endless and alive.

4:49 PM — The Blooming

055 stripped off his polo shirt and let it fall like it meant nothing. His chest shimmered with veins of liquid gold, skin tightening, smoothing, changing. His eyes spun like sunflower cores—no longer human, no longer drone.

Trey tried to move. Couldn’t.

Golden pollen vines curled up his legs, warm and sweet. They didn’t bind. They invited.

A moan escaped him—half protest, half pleasure.

His tracksuit twisted into sleek gold-threaded rubber. His chains thickened, melted into his chest. His cap stiffened, its brim fusing into the beginnings of a mask that wrapped across his jaw.

He gasped as it all surged through him.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered. “This... this is peak.”

And the light filled him.

6:23 PM — Dusk

The two of them stood in silence, bodies no longer chav or drone. Together, they were something more. Janus. Dual-faced, dual-formed. Pure Gold. Forward and backward.

They looked toward London, its skyline glowing faintly like the tip of a cigarette in the dark.

“Time,” Janus whispered in layered tones, one Trey, one Drone. “Time to open the gates.”

6:24 PM — Stillness Before the Shift

Janus stood motionless as twilight poured across the sunflower sea.

Then he spoke, his chav swagger softened into something godlike—but still very much Trey:

“Gold, yeah... it ain't just medals or chains. Not just for lookin’ hard on the ‘Gram.”

He ran his fingers across a sunflower. It glowed brighter under his touch.

“You leave it sittin’, it fades. Gets dusty. Loses its flex. Same as lads out here—shine buried under grime and grief.”

He turned, twin faces scanning the field.

“But all it takes? One geezer who remembers. One who sees what’s underneath. Gives it a wipe, says, ‘Safe, bruv. You still got it.’ That’s all.”

The spirals began to spin faster.

“Gold wants to shine. It will shine. You can bin it, forget it—but nah. Gold finds a way.”

Behind him, a gate split the air—a golden arc pulsing with new light.

And then, as night fell, it closed.

6:30 PM — Awakening Across the City

In a Peckham gym, a lad stared at a golden glint in the mirror—on his bicep, a tattoo that hadn’t been there this morning.

On a Woolwich tower, two boys spotted a shine on their trainers and suddenly forgot what they’d been arguing about.

In a pub loo, a man traced a spiral behind his ear. It pulsed, warm, steady.

Gold remembered.

6:44 PM — The Gate Closes

As the last shimmer of divinity faded into the soil, two figures walked out of the sunflower field and back toward the glow of the city—Trey, cap tilted, grin wide, and 055, all poise and precision.

Janus slept beneath their skin.

But something had begun.

7:13 PM — The Lion’s Halo, Camden

Trey booted open the pub door like it owed him money. The scent hit him—oak, spice, sweat, swagger. Felt like home.

But this weren’t no ordinary boozer.

The Lion’s Halo pulsed with golden light. Benches carved with spirals, glasses glowing faintly. The music was bass-heavy, hypnotic—somewhere between drill and divinity.

Polo Drones and Golden Bros packed the space.

Drones sat upright, uniforms gleaming, eyes focused on nothing and everything.

Bros leaned back shouting over beats, skin glowing like hey’d soaked up sun through skin, not sky.

They were one army, one tribe.

“Trey’s back!” someone hollered. “Lookin’ lit, bruv! You bin on tour or some spiritual sabbatical?”

Trey sauntered in. “Somethin’ like that. Let’s just say I got refined, yeah?”

055 followed—stone-faced, calm, and commanding. A few Drones nodded subtly. The Bros gave him space, not out of fear—but respect.

No one knew what they were.

Not yet.

Drinks slid across the bar—golden pints with pearlescent foam.

Trey raised his glass.

“To the dusters,” he said, “and the ones who polish proper.”

“To the polishers!” the crowd echoed, smashing pints and laughing.

9:41 PM — The First Glint

Down the damp alley outside, a lad in a fake Nike hoodie stopped. The music from the pub buzzed in his chest. Warmth bled from the windows like golden fog.

He felt it—that itch behind the eyes. Not fear. Recognition.

A voice echoed through the pub window. Trey’s voice.

“Gold remembers.”

The boy stepped closer.

Inside, something shimmered.

11:02 PM — Trey’s Flat, Tower Block Overlooking the City

The door clicked shut behind them. Trey dropped his jacket on the sofa and pulled off his trainers with a lazy kick.

The flat was clean but lived-in—trackies on the radiator, gold medallions on the windowsill, a mirror slightly tilted from being stared into too often.

055 stood still in the center of the room, scanning.

Trey threw himself onto the couch. “Oi, you gonna stand there all night or sit down, fam?”

055 didn’t move—but his eyes softened. Trey reached out, pulling him gently closer. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Outside, London pulsed beneath them.

A city of dusted gold, waiting to shine.

_________________________________________________

Join us by contacting our Recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-125

[dansnaturepictures]

25/08/23-Lakeside and home

Photos taken in this set: 1. An eyecatching Blue-tailed Damselfly which I enjoyed seeing at Lakeside, it's been great to see these increase in number recently, a lovely damselfly species. 2. A nice Light Brown Apple moth in the kitchen last night. 3. Woodpigeon in the sun this evening. 4. Some yarrow and dandelions on the green out the front, the tall clumps of yarrow a nice prominent sight on the green out the front from home of late. 5. Carrot by the flower bed area on the way to Lakeside. 6, 8 and 9. Vibrant views on the lovely Lakeside lunch time walk. 7. One of two charming Common Darters I enjoyed seeing landing in the southern fenced off area, I saw a fair few of both sexes on the walk as a whole. This one settled and I enjoyed a glorious few minutes watching and photographing it. It was lovely to just focus on looking at it and take in many details, the way it landed with its pellucid wings covering its eyes reminded me of a wedding veil and the eyes themselves were a source of my fascination, complex patterns and shaped like half a planet I felt privileged to see them move around to take in surroundings. This was a big moment feeling the joy of having a connection with nature, for a short time getting to share this insect's world. And on my first time out since Tuesday as I just felt well enough to do a walk in the midst of my bug this was a moment I needed with a classic summer species I'm loving seeing the past few weeks. 10. Some yellow leaves at Lakeside.

Another big point with insects in the southern fenced off area was seeing my first Small Heath here since spring, with Red Admiral, many marvelous views of Meadow Brown, Speckled Wood and Migrant Hawker over the lake seen well. Great Crested Grebe, Carrion Crow and Magpie with Moorhen and Chiffchaff heard were other avian highlights of an enjoyable walk. Collared Dove, Starlings and Goldfinch including young were good to enjoy at home today. It was also nice to see a Small Dusty Wave moth again before bed last night. Bird's-foot trefoil, fresh vetch, dock, red bartsia, St. John's-wort, white and broad-leaved clover, great willowherb, purple loosestrife, immaculate looking bramble flower and some gorgeous lady's bedstraw which is fresh in the southern fenced off area were other key flowers seen on my lunch time walk. Ripe ruby guelder rose berries, hawthorn and rose hips and blackberries were nice to see.

[writergrls-blog]

The blonde female groaned loudly, having fallen heavily from the upper portion of the ledge that surrounded the building. She rolled about the imported marble stones for a second then lay back heavily, her body stretched out comically.

She stared at the night sky for a goodly while, moaning softly.

At length, she struggled to a half sitting position. Her long blonde hair was in complete disarray, messy tendrils falling from the carefully arranged top knot.

Dirt smudged her lovely porcelain skin. Lots of it.

"Oh, don't be so stuffy, Hans!" the female snapped peevishly, glaring at the burly being who stood directly before her. "Why must you be so fucking melodramatic?"

Alex blinked, his senses getting a workout this night. He watched as the woman arose.

She tugged at some unseen material under the long black dress she wore. Had the man not known better, he would have sworn she had pulled on her panties to situate them better. "What the hell?" The large being's tone held a genuine annoyance now, Alex noted, where before nothing had seemed to unsettle it, "are you doing here?"

"I can be wherever I want. You aren't my boss!" The woman had stepped right up to the gigantic being, for he seemed to dwarf her size. It was almost a good head and a half taller, after all.

He glared down at the petite person with ill-concealed hostility.

"And how did you get down off that damned roof top! Look at my clothes!" She held the dusty fabric up for inspection. "They’re ruined, and it’s all your fault!"

The immaculately kept fingernail pushed into the stout chest area of the being. "You're replacing these shoes! They are my very all-time favorite ones…so…" she sought the correct word, "so…there! And for God's sake! Use the door, can't you? Why must you always make such a Grand entrance?"

Alex was dumbfounded, clear and simple. He stood, trying to make heads or tails of what had just transpired, but came up empty. He glanced over to Christopher Colton.

The other Vampire seemed somehow relieved, of all things.

"I am so telling Dad!" The apparition turned up her nose and stalked away from the It.

Shesmiled amicably, her arms spreading wide as she approached. "Christopher! How delightful to see you again! I have missed you terribly! Have you missed me?"

Christopher welcomed her into his embrace, smiling genuinely upon the pretty, if smudged features. "You have dirt on your nose."

"I have dirt in places you would not wish to know about." She philosophized, moving from his embrace slightly. "You're looking older." She scrutinized the Vampire critically.

"I'm looking just fine, thank you," Christopher corrected. "You liar."

She cut light grey eyes to… "Old Hans giving you hell?" She made a face at the one in question who stood now, seething and silent, his eyes dark sparks of icy disdain.

"It’s what he does best, besides murdering things. I bet he could kill a plastic plant. What d’ya think, Hans? Could you? Are you that good? Or is it all boast and brag with you, like most males?"

She smiled brightly at the being. "He can be so uncivilized at times, but then…" her eyes swept the being's form appreciatively, "I so enjoy uncivilized, do I not, Hans."

"It’s good to see you, Althea." Christopher grinned at the exchange, even if the one it was directed at obviously found nothing whatsoever amusing about it, were his features any criteria by which to judge.

"I know it is, Christopher. Has your one and only stirred from that nasty little coma you put her into as yet?" She blinked innocent eyes up to his slightly scolding ones. “That was so tacky on your part, wasn’t it? Still, she will probably forgive you eventually. I know I would.”

"Nice to see you, too." Christopher had narrowed his gaze a tad at the not so veiled insult.

"Have I missed the party?" Althea queried those gathered. Her gaze landed on Annie Callahan. "Apparently not." She mused. "You're still in one piece. Hans can be so physical at times."

"Althea!" Hans grated his growing fury.

Christopher noted the long ‘A’ sound at the end of the name. He thought it sounded rather lyrical when said so, well, harshly.

The woman turned an inoffensive look. "Yes, Hans?" She answered obediently, her own tone noffensively sweet and demure.

"Return to your Sire! This instant!"

"It’s boring there." Althea crinkled her nose. "And you left without even saying goodbye. I was deeply hurt, beloved, deeply!"

"Obey me!"

Althea closed her eyes, sighing happily. "Oh, I love that tone! Say something else…something provocative!"

"You bitch!" Hans grated; his emotions just barely contained. "Must I throw you off the balcony myself?"

The woman shook her head woefully, explaining to the others who had stood by, blatantly listening in on what was transpiring. "He loves to throw me off things. Last time? It was a gloomy cliff off the edge of some Spanish town.”

Althea glanced at the object of her report, her expression a fond one. "The old grump. I emphasize the word old.”

[onwesterlywinds]

PROMPT #18: Fish out of Water

Contains mild sexual themes.

Marco had been inside the palace before, while Ashley carried out his obligatory year of service at the front lines of the Ghimlyt Dark. He'd been investigating a half-baked claim that someone who had stolen from the Stock Sigil lord was hiding out in Lily territory (an impossibility), and he'd slipped past enough of the cooks and cleaners to get a glimpse at what all the fuss was. It had been too early in the morning for the sun to light up the hall, but he had nevertheless mulled about in the quiet dark for a bit, marveling at the masterful stonework and what topsiders could make with so much vertical space, until the next rotation of guards had come through and he'd slipped back into the Undercity to avoid strange questions.

His first visit to the Kartal manse was somehow far more overwhelming. The opulence on display set his head to reeling - perhaps because one of Marco's only frames of comparison for such finery was what he'd seen in the depths of the catacombs, or in Tigertail headquarters, or anywhere else where the ownership of beautiful things was a statement of power.

But Tuncay had always been dismissive of his family's legacy - that of old clan chieftains who had married into the royal line about a century back and had reaped the benefits of that proximity ever since. He did not live lavishly, did not spend overmuch, did not show up to each of their meetings in a different cloak. Perhaps that was why Marco had found it so strange to be greeted by the stuffed and mounted head of an antelope inside the foyer, or why the shimmer of gilding at every turn of the head prompted such confusion.

Tuncay's chambers were far more understated, and yet Marco's eyes were drawn to every detail: the fountain pens upon the writing desk, the subtle scent of incense, the immaculately made bed. He and Wulfric had scrubbed at the floors of their cellar hideout for an entire week to ensure they could take their boots off without leaving dusty gray footprints everywhere.

Any further thoughts of Wulfric left his mind as Tuncay leaned in to kiss him - soft and slow, just as Marco needed it, just as he had asked for from the day they'd grown intimate - and he reached to free himself of his tunic.

Tuncay brought him down to the bed, his body hard and warm and beautiful against Marco's own; for all the fineness of the linen sheets, they still smelled like him.

"Are you alright, love?"

Tuncay's words came to him as if from a great distance away, though they were whispered into the curve of his throat.

"Yeah," Marco whispered. "Sorry, I-I'm good."

"You're looking at everything except me," Tuncay pointed out.

A flush rose to his cheeks at that, and not because of Tuncay's hand stilled upon his chest.

"Shall we proceed more slowly, or-?"

"No, you're fine," Marco reassured him. "I'm sorry, I'm just… not used to all this." But it wasn't like he could bed him in the Undercity, where one was as likely to get bites from insects as they were from a lover and where every comfortable nook carried with it the risk of someone interrupting.

At that, Tuncay pulled back, heightening Marco's anxiety; he sat up in the bed, even if he did not remove his hand or stop its caressing. "What can I do to make you comfortable?"

It was a question Tuncay had asked often throughout their partnership - one that Marco had heard all too rarely throughout his life.

"Just keep doing what you're doing," he insisted. "I promise."

And when Tuncay resumed, his touches painstaking for their tenderness, Marco could not focus on anything else.

[clareguilty]

A Tainted Rescue Part 2

hello! i cannot escape my own terrible ideas! Have more Heisenberg porn! Karl Heisenberg/Maiden Rating: Explicit | WARNING: dark content, explicit smut, big sexy evil guy doing bad things Word Count: ~2500

Lord Heisenberg lifted the maiden into his carriage and pulled her onto his lap as the mechanical horse took off away from the castle. She shook and cried in his arms, whimpering with every rattle of the wheels on the unpaved path to the Lord's domain.

"You're safe now," he promised her. "I'm going to take good care of you."

She clung to him, face buried in his chest as he ran his hand up and down her back in a slow, steady rhythm. Her breathing began to even out and her sobs turned to sporadic hiccups the farther they traveled from that horrid castle.

Lord Heisenberg was extremely proud of himself. He had managed to pull one over on Alcina all while getting a delightful new toy to play with. She was so precious, so perfect. He would have to make sure to spoil her rotten.

Just outside of the factory grounds, covered in overgrown plants, a small stone staircase led up to Lord Heisenberg’s house. He helped the maiden up the worn steps, holding branches out of the way as they ducked through the overgrowth. 

“I never actually use this place,” he explained. “I spend most of my time in the factory. But that’s no place for you. Now I finally have someone to come home to.” He kissed her knuckles as he led her across the threshold.

The lights were electric, and they turned on at a wave of the Lord’s hand. He chuckled at the maiden's awestruck expression.

The house was a mess, dusty and cluttered. It must have been months since the Lord actually stayed there. Narrow and tucked into the hillside, the two story was smaller than Lady Beneviento’s villa but still larger than almost any of the houses of the village. 

“Heh,” he laughed wryly. “Looks like this place needs a lot of work.”

He led the maiden up the stairs and to the main chamber. The room was sparsely furnished with just a low double bed, a wardrobe, and a writing desk piled high with books and papers and the same scrap metal that seemed to appear throughout the Lord’s domain. It was nothing like the opulent and immaculate rooms of the castle.

The maiden let Lord Heisenberg push her to a seat on the bed. He knelt in front of her, squeezing her jaw in one hand and forcing her to look him in the eyes. 

“I may not be as fucked as my witch of a sister, but let me make one thing clear. I am not above killing you. You will stay out of my factory. Understand?”

The maiden whimpered, tears once again threatening to spill over her cheeks. “Yes, My Lord.”

He released her jaw and patted her cheek lightly. “Good girl.” He shucked off his coat and draped it over the back of the desk chair. His hat and glasses were quick to follow. He sat beside her on the bed and unlaced his boots.

The maiden removed her own shoes -- the only things she wore that were intact. Her stockings were shredded, as were her skirts. She didn’t even have any drawers on anymore. The front of her dress was ripped down to her stomach, and she tugged the fabric over her shoulders and out from under her until it fell in a puddle on the floor. She was naked and bruised and marked. She felt filthy, used, ruined. But that was what the Lord said was needed to save her. If he hadn’t done what he had, she would be dead at the hands of the Mistress.

The Lord must have seen her numbness, her distress, because he pulled her into his chest and smoothed a hand over her hair. “Hey now,” he whispered. “She can’t touch you here. I’d like to see her try.” He sounded as if he would welcome the fight. “Let me make you feel good.”

He laid the maiden on her back and nudged her thighs apart so he could kneel between her legs. The sight of the damage he had done at the castle brought a smile to his face, and he pressed his fingers into the bruises that were blooming across her thighs.

With no preamble, he pressed two fingers inside of her, crooking them and stretching her open. The maiden whined and gripped the linens with white knuckles. The Lord was only spurred on by her reaction and added a third finger. He loved the way she tightened around him, and longed to feel it on his cock again.

Despite her inexperience, it was no time at all before she was dripping just from the motions of his fingers. He made sure to bring her right to the brink of pleasure, holding her just on that precipice as he pulled his cock from his pants and lined himself up.

He pressed into her slowly, lifting her hips to meet his and bracing himself over her on the bed. She was trapped beneath him, nearly bent in half as his cock split her open once more. It felt even deeper than before, and she couldn’t hold back her high, breathy whines as he began to move. He moaned as he drove his cock into her harder and harder on each stroke.

“You feel amazing. So soft. So tight. You’re all mine. Just for me.”

“All yours,” the maiden repeated. “Just for you.”

“Oh, you’re so perfect,” he groaned. “She didn’t deserve you. She could never have made you feel like this. Come for me. Come on my cock.”

He reached between them to rub her clit, determined to watch her eyes flutter shut and the moans that tumbled from her lips as she came undone around him.

And it was spectacular. She was so precious. To think she had never known pleasure like this before. He was going to be everything for her. Her saviour. Her king.

She clung to him as she came, shuddering and gasping as he forced her through the blinding orgasm. He continued to fuck her, determined to find his own end as well, but he noticed she was barely responsive. Poor thing, probably passed out from the pleasure.

The Lord didn’t let that stop him as he buried himself inside of her to the hilt. He loved watching his cock sink into her, splitting her open and twitching inside of her. He came to the sight of it, filling her as deeply as possible and rocking his hips as she tightened around him once more. Even unconscious, he was able to make her feel good.

Finally satisfied with his claim, he pulled out and arranged the maiden to lay beside him. “You need your rest. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do with you.”

-

Life with Lord Heisenberg was nothing like serving at Castle Dimitrescu. The Lord was crass and informal, just as quick tempered as his ‘sister’ but never directed at the maiden.

No. The maiden was given special privileges. She was his prized possession, swiped right out from under Alcina’s claws, and he loved to spoil her and dote on her.

He had never had a pet like her before. All of his own creations and gifts from Mother Miranda were mindless and bloodthirsty and horrific. But the maiden, she was beautiful and sweet. She was so devoted to him, her savior. He had freed her, given her everything, and now she lived to serve him.

Her new life was one of endless pleasure and indulgence. The Lord fucked her and filled her and marked her as his own. He loved to ruin her, to claim her. She was so precious, trapped in that castle and hidden away from the world. He wanted to show her every filthy experience she had missed.

She fit so perfectly around his cock, so warm and tight and responsive. He enjoyed her moans and gasps of pleasure just as much as he enjoyed finishing inside her.

He didn’t know he was capable of such softness. He was rough when he fucked her, sure to bite her and mark her. Bruising handprints blooming over her skin after he took her to bed. But he was also gentle with her at times. Praise and thanks and kisses to her hairline. There was a different kind of satisfaction to seeing her smile.

-

The maiden bowed her head as she offered Lord Heisenberg a glass of whiskey late one evening. He had been away at the factory for much of the previous days occupied by his work. The drink was a warm welcome. “Thank you, buttercup,” he pulled her into his lap. “I have something for you.”

He took a gulp from the glass before setting it aside and fishing around in his pockets.

“Aha! Here!” He procured two thick shining bands in his palms. They looked small in his grasp but were still a few inches in diameter.

The Lord grabbed the maiden’s hands. The metal rings levitated before closing around her wrists, fastening as though they were soldered together.

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed, twisting her wrists this way and that to admire the jewelry. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“Now everyone will know who you belong to,” he trailed kisses from her temple to her jaw.

The maiden giggled. “I don’t think there was any doubt of that before.” She was constantly covered in his marks, in his come. He loved to claim her as his in every possible way.

He would fill her until his seed was dripping down her thighs, smeared over her chest and her lips. Make her come until the only thing she knew was his name. He had found all her limits and he knew just how to push past them.

And now he had his steel on her.

She nuzzled against his chest, overwhelmed by the gift. No one at that wretched castle had ever shown her such kindness. Her lips peppered the skin where his shirt was unbuttoned, hands wandering over his chest and arms. She was still so uncertain about her desires. Alcina had certainly done a good job of brainwashing her.

But he had his own conditioning to do. So he whispered encouragement as she slipped between his knees and unfastened his belt. She was flushed and uncoordinated as she pulled his cock free from his pants. “Thank you,” she whispered again before wrapping her lips around him.

She was a good cocksucker, an eager learner and quick to respond to him. She had very quickly grown addicted to him, and he lived for it. Every time he would return from the depths of the factory, she was there craving his attention and his touch.

Now she was even more desperate. He had neglected her in favor of his work, and he regretted it when he saw how uncertain she had become. He would have to train her to handle his long absences. He certainly couldn’t trust anyone to watch over her while he was gone. She was too precious, they would corrupt her. Still, he enjoyed how she couldn’t seem to get enough of him, how dependent she was.

Lord Heisenberg relaxed and sipped his whiskey as she stroked and sucked his cock. He felt so powerful with the maiden on her knees before him. It made him crave more.

After several minutes, when his cock was shining from her lips and she was glassy eyed with lust between his knees, he cradled her head in one of his hands and pulled her onto his cock as deep as she could go. She submitted willingly, moaning at the way his fingers dug into her scalp.

He fucked her face, rough and deep, admiring the way tears spilled over her cheeks and spit dripped down her chin. Her obedience only turned him on more, and he came with a groan, pulling out before he could spill everything down her throat.

She was a filthy mess, come and spit smeared over her swollen lips. She cleaned his cock and blinked up at him expectantly.

“That’s a good girl.” He smiled as she melted at his words. One of her own hands had slipped beneath her skirts and she rocked down against it with a breathy moan. “Needy little thing, aren’t you? Can you wait for me? I promise I’ll give you a treat soon.”

The maiden immediately did as she was told, pulling her slick fingertips from beneath her dress.

“What do you say we wash up and call it a night?” He pulled her to her feet, leading her upstairs to the washroom.

The maiden had been delighted to find that the enormous bath upstairs -- though still smaller that Mistress Dimitrescu’s -- had taps that would run the water directly into the tub. A device of the Lord’s own creation heated the water along the way so that it steamed as it splashed into the porcelain basin. The maiden undressed the Lord with enthusiastic reverence, running her hands over his skin as she pulled his shirt from his broad shoulders. He slipped into the steaming water and sighed.

The maiden slipped out of her own clothes and climbed in as well. She lathered soap in her hands and set to work washing them both, massaging the tension from his muscles with her skilled fingers. What more could he possibly ask for?

He could tell how needy she was as she rinsed them clean. Her breaths were quick and short, skin flushed all the way down her chest and up to her ears. If they hadn’t already been in the water he was sure she would be dripping with arousal.

The Lord was tempted to try out his his new trick, but he wanted to wait for the perfect time. So instead he teased the poor girl with his fingers. She slumped against him, begging and pleading as he gave her everything just shy of what she needed.

He pulled her from the tub, drying both of them just enough before dragging her to bed. Laying back and pulling her on top of him, he grabbed her hips and ground her pussy against his length. 

“Please,” she gasped. She looked so cute, begging for his cock. He lined himself up and pulled her all the way down until her hips met his. The shock of being filled so suddenly, stretched around him, made her scream.

He lifted her easily, using her like a doll for his pleasure. She slumped forward over his chest as he moved her hips however he liked. Her broken gasps and moans of pleasure were like music to his ears. He wanted to break her, to see her totally undone by his hand.

She came around his cock twice before he finally pulled her all the way onto him and pumped her full. Even though his body was exhausted from his orgasm, he wasn’t yet sated. Some strange desire still pulled at him. He had already gifted her with the bracelets he had yet to use, but maybe there were other toys to be made in his workshop.

She would be perfect for him.

[keilemlucent]

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

[toloveawarlord]

Event: Kinktober

Day 29: Magic Cuffs

Pairing: Edgar Bright x Vale

Warnings: 18+ Smut; Vaginal; lots of teasing

Tagging: @chaosangel767​

A/N: It’s nearly December but I’m slowly working on things. I love Vale so much.

She could be a devilish tease.

The raven-haired girl was surrounded by half-drunk bachelors at the extravagant party, batting her lashes and smiling so innocently while they fought for her attention. But those dazzling mint eyes only sparkled when they settled on him.

Edgar thought it truly wasn't fair. She wore a sinfully tight crimson dress. It clung to her body, accentuating her curves. The slit exposing her bare leg, almost too high, was her way of drawing him in. He'd taken the post because he'd been informed of her attendance. It was thrilling when his work was so stunningly beautiful.

But, as he'd suspected, Vale was up to something. The prestigious host of the party, and owner of the massive mansion was soon being escorted out of the ballroom by his little minx. The man was known for being sober at all public events, and yet, he surely appeared inebriated.

Edgar silently followed. He could intervene now, or...

He could discover what she was doing.

And that would prove to be much more fun.

It became all too clear when they entered a hidden room. Vale stood on her tiptoes to whisper into the man's ear, and he awkwardly turned while she slinked inside. He lumbered toward Edgar, completely in a daze. There was no light in his eyes.

"Always plotting something, aren't you?”

Perusing the shelves as if she were at the market, Vale flashed him a roguish smile. "You've been unable to stop watching me since I arrived. How is a girl to commit a little thievery if she can't have one moment without an officer of the Red Army gawking at her?" Really, all she sought was one jewel.

"Admitting to the crime? I haven't even searched you yet."

Jade Irises were more focused on her ass as she purposefully bent over to check lower shelves. The room was immaculately organized, all the items displayed for easy view, so she did solely to tease him.

"Well, if we're being honest, the owner let me inside. You saw him escort me, did you not?"

She played games so well.

"I suppose if we tested him for drugs, he'd be clean."

"Oh, don't worry. The spell will wear off in a few hours."

With a flick of her slender wrist, the witch used a miniscule amount of her powers to tug Edgar through the doorway. It wouldn't do for security to find them here. It would ruin all the fun they were having. "Are you going to arrest me, Edgar?" Her question a mocking one. Vale knew he wouldn't.

"That is a very troublesome question. I've yet to see you steal a single item. Though, it's very likely you're used those magical hands of yours to hide it.” Edgar crossed the room to her, jade eyes searching for anything out of place. To the untrained eye, nothing seemed amiss. And yet... "Ah, Vale."

It was only noticeable to one who knew that Vale had magical abilities. No one else could spot anything out of place. But... Gloved fingers went through the mirage of a crimson gem. "Too much shimmering. The light wouldn't reach it behind this large box."

A detail that bored her. No one would be looking that closely. Only him, trying to outsmart her. "A gemstone this precious is being wasted in this dusty room. Do you have any idea what kind of fun I could have with it?"

He'd gotten her attention thoroughly distracted. It was the only way to subdue her. Honestly, he'd need to thank Sage for giving these cuffs to him. "I imagine quite a lot.”

Her gaze swept over the pristine shelves. The owner of the large collection was probably very proud of all this. "Most of these priceless treasures are worthless. Honestly, what possesses men to collect gold and diamonds only to hide them away?"

Contrary to the end. They were worthless but precious? Edgar slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her close. "We tend to like to keep beautiful things close. To admire them as often as possible." Mint irises were glittering, drawn in by his advances. Vale was hard to catch, but she had a soft spot for the Jack of Hearts.

And he used it to his advantage from time to time. Edgar pressed a soft kiss to her lips. He never tired of the way she tasted. But as he distracted her, the officer swiftly made his move. The sound of the cuffs locking around her wrist behind her back was quite satisfying. As was the way she bit his lower lip in response.

"Edgar."

"Yes, Vale?" He adored the irritated smile on her face. Gloved fingers caressed her cheek.

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy restraining me.” She wasn't pleased to have been outsmarted, but it was honestly so hot. He always kept his word and released her. It was strange to have such trust in someone.

She could play along.

"Oh, that is correct. you are very ravishing at my mercy. Come with me." He stooped down to pick her up over his shoulder. A lingering fear that security might check the vault after the owner’s strange behavior bothered him. It would be much easier to continue this elsewhere. "Before we're caught."

"We? Are you protecting me or arresting me?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Kinky. Vale hated losing her powers. It was strange to feel human again. kicking her heeled feet, the girl refused to make this easy on him. The familiar sound of a lock clicking met her ears. "Breaking and entering? "She teased.

"Commandeering for official army business. I've a thief to search.” Edgar locked the door behind him, crossing the room to the large wooden desk. Setting her on her feet, Edgar spun her around, pushing her torso down over it. "Stay still."

“I’m quite sure you’ve no actual grounds to conduct any search, and it’s not as though you’ll find anything. Ah!” She squeaked when his palm smacked against her ass. Vale had lived a very long life, but she never felt as alive as she did with him.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Vale could fall apart under his touch. Hands massaging down her back to her hips. She closed her eyes for a moment, simply reveling in the feeling. It was only fair that he teases her, as she’d been playing with him. “Mm, I think we can make some kind of agreement. Forget about this whole ordeal?”

They both were well aware that this was a sham. Since the moment their eyes connected in the ballroom, it was a seductive dance leading to this.

“I suppose I can let this go, if you promise to be a good little witch and stop putting spells on elites for personal gain.” Velvet gloved fingers trailed up her soft thigh until they reached the top of the slit.

“That won’t be possible. I grow oh so bored easily-” The sound of her dress being ripped was near enough to make her cum. Somehow, it only proved how strong he was, and that was such a turn on. “I liked this dress.”

Edgar smirked, shaking his head. No panties. His control had slipped away. Even for him, there was a limit to how much was too much. “I’m sure you’ve some spell that can repair it. Or I can surely purchase you a new one.”

She was already wet, and he was so hard it was almost painful. Rubbing the tip of his cock against her pussy, using her juices as lubricant. 

Vale twisted her hands in the cuffs, wishing for her powers. It would be easy to take control, something that she wasn’t used to not having. Her eyes rolled back as he pushed inside. “Oh fuck-” She hadn’t realized how much she missed having a lover.

It had been some time.

“You feel so good, but you should really keep your voice down.” Edgar leaned down to press kisses to her neck, thrusting with a pace unbecoming of a gentleman. He was certainly living up the demon part of his title.

Not that the woman under him minded at all. It was exactly what she desperately desired. Vale hadn’t experienced a spell being cast on her in a long time, but it surely seemed like Edgar was enchanting her. He radiated a light that Vale had never seen. She wanted nothing more than be blinded by it.

Moans filled the office and the creaking of the desk.

Edgar lost count of how many times she came. He couldn’t get enough of how good it felt when her gummy walls clenched and spasmed around his cock. But he couldn’t allow himself to forget where they were. “Vale-” He waited till her head turned to meet his gaze. “Let’s continue this elsewhere.”

Her laugh turned into another breathy moan. She was a greedy witch. Her wrists were lighter, magic allowed to ebb from every bit of her body. Released at last from the cuffs. “The night is hardly started, I suppose.”

The warmth of her magic enveloped them, and in what only was a fraction of second, the pair tumbled into his bed at headquarters. Sloppy kisses as they fought for control. Her legs wrapped around his waist, fingers tugging at the annoying clothes in the way of her skin against his. Sinking into each other once again for another long round of love.

[misterewrites]

Intro to Jaime 101 and a Half

Hey everyone! E here hoping you are all good. It's time for a new chapter of Mirror's Edge! Haha been a while huh? I was actually writing a mini arc for welcome to an Underground cuz it felt right you know? Better to get all that put together and squared away. And now that that's done, here we are.

Umm the next thing I write will either be another's Mirror's Edge chapter, the last intro chapter before I get into actual story arcs or maybe some fandom stuff I haven't decided. 

Anyway, I hope you are all safe, sound, keeping your loved ones safe too, wear a mask, wash your hands, vaccinate yourself if you can, push to release the vaccines world wide and be careful. Have an amazing week and see you soon with a new chapter and or story! feel free to leave likes, reblog, comments and recommend this to your friends! I appreciate it, enjoy!!

Here’s the chapter over at a03 if you wanted have an easier time reading cuz tumblr hates me!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/80953405

Here’s the story from the beginning if you’re curious what’s it all about

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/75486005

And here’s a link to all my stories 

https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/pseuds/MrE42

Summary:  Jaime, adoptive sister of Finnrick and fiancée of Casey, is late to work. The Grimoire, magical library and hub of all knowledges is her workplace and she has thrown herself into it completely for whatever reason. Still with Casey lingering on her mind, she can't help but feel torn between her love of books and the love of her life.

-----

As Jaime hurried away from Willow’s Rook and Casey, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed in herself. She told herself under no circumstances she would see her fiancée but one glance towards his office and Jaime was knocking on his door without a second thought. A ten minute conversation later and now she was late to work.

She sighed, glancing downward towards the engagement ring snugly wrapped around her finger.

Jaime’s heart raced beyond her control as her fingers tingled with the warmth Casey’s cheek. She could still feel the pulsing of their hearts beating in time with one another, love and longing palpable in that moment.

“Jaime, why do you do this to yourself?” she murmured sadly “You said don’t see him. You said don’t visit him. You said you could handle this whole break and now we’re late.”

Jaime picked up her pace, power walking in hopes somehow that could shave off the seconds she desperately needed to avoid being reprimanded: The Grimoire may have been a library but it had a strict late policy both on books and personal.

-----

The Grimoire was as elegant as it was ancient: The library was one of the oldest buildings in Newton Haven, constructed when the city was little more than a mile of stacked bricks among swampland. Faded red stone archways and columns did nothing to belittle the power and importance of the Grimoire. Even the mundane folk could feel the magical force that radiated from within, a fantastic world beyond the threshold.

Of course there was a fantastic world hidden inside: The library was one of the major hubs for the magical community and it wasn’t uncommon to see various races searching the many bookshelves for whatever subject tickled their fancy.

The interior was elegant and timeless: The walls and floors were soothing shades of brown with furniture pulled from all eras of human history. Three stories of endless knowledge about countless subjects. Translucent spirits hurried back and forth, humming happily in death as they did in life while they performed their duties to the Grimoire. In the center, amid the hustle and bustle, stood a spiraling staircase that disappeared beyond the ceiling to the Librarian’s office.

There, just past the entrance and to the side, was a security desk with a figure lazily sitting upon it: He was humanoid, muscular and impossibly large, easily seven feet tall. His skin was gray as storm clouds and his eyes shone with an electric blue shade. His hair and beard were frosted white like he dove face first into snow. His uniform consisted of a dark blue buttoned up collared shirt that was one flex from tearing in two and old rugged jeans. His black combat boots were immaculately cleaned as he placed them on the surface of the desk.

He clicked his tongue as he slowly turned the page on the latest romance novel he had been enthralled by.

“Sinclair, you’re late.” He spoke softly but even a whisper couldn’t stop his voice from reverberating throughout the hall.

Passerby’s shot confused glances at one another but no one stopped at Dusty’s declaration

The storm giant sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly “Sinclair, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Silence and more quizzical glances.

Dusty shook his head, disappointed as he snapped his finger.

The air smelled of fresh rain while a source-less thunder boomed overhead. Nearby, a person, previously invisible, flickered into existence. Their previously camouflaged self changed into a rainbow of colorful hues before bursting into a flurry of sea green sparks and revealing a sheepish Jaime, her hands raised in defeat.

“Sinclair.” Dusty’s voice was dry yet amused.

Jaime clasped her hands together as she made her way over to the storm giant’s desk “Dusty! I...”

“Am late.” he finished for her, a gentle chuckle escaping his throat “Remington again?”

“Whaaaaaa?” Jaime’s face scrunched into a false sense of surprise “No, no. Come on. Me and Casey are….well you see…..it’s frankly none of your business.”

Dusty nodded wisely “True. It is none of my business. Go on before I sic the ghosts on you.”

Jaime gave a quick curtsy before running as quickly as she could. Dusty rolled his eyes before returning to his romance novel he was previously captivated with.

-----

Everyone who worked in the Grimoire had their own personal office tucked away somewhere to ensure privacy for personal studies. Jaime’s office was in the back of the library, hidden behind the alchemy section. It was one of the wider offices, more akin to a school class room. True to her wizard background, it was messy: Piles of folders, books left open and hastily scribbled papers were sprawled about. A fairly sized cauldron sat ontop of her desk, currently not in use. Sticky notes littered randomly across the walls. And like any true wizard, a magical circle was engraved directly into the center of the room for varying purposes.

Despite the appearance of her lair, she was actually one of the more organized of wizards. Even her prodigal brother Finn’s lair wasn’t as well maintained and cataloged as her. Though, to be fair, she did have help most wizards didn’t.

Jaime placed her bag by the door, eyes searching about for her helper.

“Bartholomew! Bartholomew Ringtail, you here?”

A moment past before the sound of rustling papers and scuttling paws could be heard. Jaime reached into her pack and pulled out a bag of popcorn just in time for Bartholomew reach out for the treat.

Bartholomew Ringtail, like his name suggested, was raccoon. Light gray fur, little black mask over his snout and tiny adorable paws. However, unlike most of his kind, wore a small cap upon his head and that made him cuter than the average raccoon.

Well that and the fact he was magical.

While her brother was a master practitioner of powerful protective wizardry, Jaime’s skills lay elsewhere as a conjurer. Her strength came in summoning powerful familiars to further her goals.

Normally a wizard would have to spend time preparing the ritual, collecting the materials related to whatever being they were trying to bring onto this plane. Demons, angels, fey, constructs of strange and alien machinery from beyond human understanding. Anything could be summoned if you had the proper knowledge and power.

Normally such rituals would take hours if not days to perform: Time to gather magical energies, to search the planes of reality for your being of choice and of course drag it kicking and screaming to you. Also summons were temporary as beings not native to the plane could only be sustained by whatever magic brought them. Much like a timer, the magic would slowly fade and once empty any being summoned are forcibly returned from whence they came.

Jaime was much faster and more persuasive in her summoning spell casting. She could do it in a matter of minutes as opposed to days though it still required a massive amount of magical energy, Unlike other wizards, conjurer summons did not decay over time. Whatever they brought into this world stayed in this world unlike magic could no longer maintain their form, usually from being attacked over and over.

Bartholomew was one such creature. In fact Bartholomew was Jaime’s first summon back when she was a fledgling wizard being trained by her brother. She wasn’t hundred percent where exactly he came from but she was grateful for her longtime companion and friend.

Bartholomew popped open the popcorn bag and hurriedly began to stuff handful of the tasty snack into his waiting maw.

Jaime smiled brightly before glancing about room, quietly complementing which project to continue.

A wizard’s magic was as much studying as it was practice.

Finnrick once described the difference between wizards and other casters as using a phonebook. The others were given a phonebook by some higher power. The numbers were already written down and set. However, they could only use those numbers and each different caster had different numbers for different purposes.

Wizards, on the other hand, no such phonebook. They have work hard, study and call each number to understand what the number did. Aside from being tutored by other wizards or spellbooks or other sources of knowledge, the wizard must discovered and write down the numbers on their own, creating their own phone book. Of course that meant wizards weren’t as limited as the other casters and were free to discover a possible infinite amount of spells.

Jaime took a step forward when a voice called out to her.

“Hey sis!”

Jaime whirled around to find the smiling face of her brother Finnrick, fedora in one hand and a friendly wave in the other.

“FINNY!” Jaime cheered, racing forward and wrapping her brother in a tight hug.

Finnrick laughed before returning the gesture “Hey Jai, how you doing?”

“Good” Jaime broke away “Great even! I was just about to practice my spells. I’m still having trouble.”

“Sis.” Finnrick’s voice became firm “It’s visual as much as it is feeling.”

“I know, I know” Jaime shifted uneasily under his gaze “It’s just I usually just bring in heavy hitters, not be one.”

“Any wizard can stick to their strengths. Great wizards are well versed in all forms magic. Spar?”

Jaime gave a crooked smile “Loser buys lunch.”

“And dinner” he cockily added.

Jaime motioned to the circle but Finnrick was already on it. Clasping his hands, Finnrick murmured something too softly for her to hear then pushed his arms outward. A blue dome formed over the two, encasing them in a makeshift arena.

Jaime took her place opposite of her brother “Ready?”

“Sisters first.”

Jaime closed her eyes. She imagined a flame in the palm of her hand. She imagined the heat from the flame. She imagined how it shifted back and forth with a gentle breeze. She saw it clearly in her mind’s eye and then she willed it into reality

“Inferus!” Jaime shouted, her hands glowing with a sea green glow. The flame burst into existence, just as she created. She pulled her arm back and lobbed it with as much force as towards her brother.

Finnrick didn’t budge an inch while flame sailed his way. He rose his hand calmly and with a mighty swing, backhanded and sent the flame skittering across the floor.

Finnrick didn’t waste any time in his counter attack. His finger tips gleamed with blue magical energy and with a flick forward, unleashing a barrage of icicles.

Jaime outstretched her hand forward, sea green glyph forming in the air. A thin matching barrier appeared in front of her in time to catch the first of the icy attack but as the rest collided, cracks began to widen and spread with each successive blow.

“Don’t fight like me Jaime!” Finnrick scolded, sending another wave of icy daggers.

The barrier hadn’t lasted under the second barrage: The moment an icicle collided with her shield, it broke, scattering and fading out of existence.

Jaime, however, was prepared. She ducked and weaved under the attack, pivoting her heels like a graceful dancer while moving her way out of the line of fire.

Jaime twirled about, gathering the magic in her hands before sending outward. Long streams of flames began to swirl about like tendrils reaching for prey as she spun about.

Finnrick gestured at her with a finger gun and clicked his tongue, bringing down his thumb like a hammer of a gun. Jaime’s eyes widened with surprise as she felt some foreign entity began to shift and make her spell uneven. She tried to maintain it but Finnrick’s surge of magic was too much for her. The magic she held exploded, the flames vanishing as the force of the spell breaking sent her sprawling to the floor.

Finnrick was already on the move, arching his arm backwards before throwing forward a bolt of lightning.

Jaime sprung to her feet, leaning as far back as she could to narrowly avoid attack. The lightning bolt struck the dome but before she could react, it bounced and struck her directly from behind.

Luckily it was a training session and only gave a her a light shove forward. Jaime flapped about wildly before she manged to get her balance steady.

“Game, set and match!” Finnrick beamed with a grin.

Jaime rolled her eyes “Big surprise my genius brother won. The dome’s so small I barely had room to move!”

“Exactly!”

Jaime shot her brother suspicious glare.

Finnrick rose his hands “Hey, never let your opponent dictate the field of battle if you can manage it.”

“Yeah, I should’ve seen that coming” Jaime sighed.

Finnrick made his way over and wrapped his sister in a loving one armed hug “Remember sis, real life has no rules.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jaime nudged Finnrick’s ribs playfully “Whatever you say cheater.”

Finnrick ruffled his sister’s hair playfully “Life lessons are important to share to your siblings. Need help with anything?”

“Oh you better be spending time with me. After that thrashing you gave me, you owe me big.”

Finnrick stood up straight, hand raised in a lax salute.

Jaime responded by poking his stomach.

“Oww, I give I give!” Finnrick chuckled “Why must you resort to violence?”

“Family upbringing I guess.”

The two siblings fell into a peaceful quiet as they began shifting and searching through Jaime’s notes.

“Jaime?”

“Hmm?”

“Question.”

“Answer.”

“Any word on the big move?”

Jaime stopped, her hands hovering over a book.

“No” Jaime murmured weakly “No word yet. They’re still debating I guess.”

“Mhm” Finnrick replied without much else.

Jaime turned to her brother “Finn, I…”

Finnrick rose a hand to stop her “It’s your life. Your choice. If this is what you want, then I will be happy for you.”

“But?” Jaime added in.

Finnrick pursed his lips, running his finger down the spine of a nearby book “I want you to be content as well. I know you…..I mean….you’re still wearing the ring.”

Jaime glance down to her engagement ring. She could still feel Casey’s warmth underneath her fingertips, his heart beating rapidly in time with hers.

“Think about it” Finnrick said with a hint of finality “Life’s too random to live with regrets.”

“So” Jaime cleared her throat, desperate to change the subject “Any news on your angel?”

Silence.

“Finn?”

She found him fidgeting with his fingers, his cheeks blazing a bright red as he averted his gaze.

“Finn! You found her?! And you didn't tell me?!”

Finnrick gave a shy nod, biting his lips nervous.

Jaime lunged at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him in a loving embrace “That’s great bro! When am I meeting her?”

Finnrick turned to her, unsure what she meant “What?”

“When am I meeting her” she repeated.

“Umm….why?”

“To interrogate her of course!”

“Jaime!”

“What? Just cause you like her doesn’t mean I do.”

“Jaime, don’t you dare!”

“Try and stop me!”

Finnrick dove for her but Jaime saw it coming a mile away. She pivoted on her toes, twirling out of the way of Finnrick’s attack. As her brother began to chase her around the office, Jaime quietly enjoyed this moment between siblings.

She was going to miss this when she left Newton Haven behind.

[sansugar]

An ultimate secret

Pairing: Wooyoung x Female Reader

Word count: 4.2k

Genre: Smut

Warnings: rough sex..?, fingering, maybe something else I’m forgetting

--Finally sharing one of my first writings. This is potentially a 3 part series, let me know if you want to read more. Hope you enjoy!--

The train pulled to a halt and your suitcase knocked against your knees, startling you out of an upright doze where your head had been falling forward and jerking back for 45 minutes. A voice over announced the next station and you realised you were already in Seoul. After signing up for a 3 month, intensive course right in the middle of the city, you were excited to be given a second chance at your getting dream job, especially since the end of high school hadn’t worked out because you had been terribly sick. Luckily for you, your brother Seonghwa lived in a dorm just twenty minutes from your new school. With your small savings pot from years of working late nights at the convenience store and not having to pay rent, you would be able to focus all of your time on your studies. Or so you thought.

Exiting the confined tunnels of the station you emerged onto the street, squinting over the blurred, buzzing crowd. Though you recognised the faint smell of tobacco and deep fried chicken, and the clopping of heels across the pavement, you had to take a moment to get your bearings. As you hesitated in the middle of the path, a man leaning casually against a tree caught your eye. He reminded you of a cardboard cut out, slender with hard features, dark hair hanging across one eye. His navy blazer hung open, revealing a band t-shirt underneath, jeans and a belt buckle that caught the sun. You barely recognised your own brother.

“Seonghwa?!”

His face softened with a genuine smile as he strode towards you, arms out. He smelt expensive, like a brand name you’d seen on a billboard, but his enveloping hug was the same as it always had been, like he could wrap his arms around you twice.

“Was your train delayed? I thought maybe I’d missed you.”

“No I don’t think so” you replied, distracted by the of rainbow of advertisements flapping in the street above every shop.

You let him pull your backpack off your shoulders and take the handle of your suitcase before leading you out of the crowds.

“Are you hungry?”

You hadn’t realised until that moment that you had been starving.

“Yes please let’s get something good” you whined, pulling on his arm.

He chuckled, taking you down a maze of side streets to a tiny, hidden restaurant.

The food was delicious and you couldn’t stop yourself from ordering way more than you could eat, especially because you knew Seonghwa would pay. You talked with him more than you had in years. He told you all about his experiences as part of a rookie idol group and you told him all about life back home with your parents. You were lucky that he had just finished album promotions and had some time off to spend with you between training sessions.

When you arrived at the dorms you were quickly introduced to the other members of ATEEZ in a whirl of handshakes and tentative hugs before Seonghwa ushered you to his room to get you unpacked. It had all gone so fast that your mind began to replay Yunho’s warm touch, Mingi’s toothy grin, Wooyoungs constant chatter and San’s smouldering stare. Somewhere in the pit of your stomach you felt excited. How were you going to get any studying done with that around you 24/7?

You placed your suitcase on the bed and began to rummage around in your disorganised mess of clothes when you heard a knock at the doorframe. It was Hongjoong.

“Y/N. Do you mind if I quickly grab something? I left my charger in here” He pointed past you to the bedside table.

“Not at all, go for it”

He knelt down to pull his charger plug out of the wall when it clicked in your head that this was his room.

“Did Seonghwa kick you out of your room? Am I stealing your bed?”

Hongjoong chuckled and shook his head.

“It’s yours for the next three months. I’m happy to bunk with Yunho and Yeosang. A girl needs her privacy. Well, you will be in here with Seonghwa but…you’ll be comfortable”

He smiled at you as he swung his hands around his sides, unsure what to do with them.

“Hongjoong, haven’t you got somewhere to be?” Seonghwa said, appearing at your side.

He gave him a look that you couldn’t quite see and Hongjoong slipped out of the room without a word.

Seonghwa pulled a handful of clothes from your suitcase and began to fold them carefully. You crawled up onto the bed and sat with your back against the wall. The room was small and mostly bare but cosy. Seonghwa’s immaculately made bed was opposite yours and you were reminded of when you had shared a room with him when you were younger. You closed your eyes, feeling content in your new home. But that relaxation was short lived.

“Have you studied today?” Seonghwa asked, brow furrowed as he tried to match your socks.

“No? Classes haven’t started yet”

“But surely you have some work to do? To get a head start?”

“I guess…”

“Y/N. I hope you’re taking this seriously. You’re not always going to have a second chance”

You scowled at your brother, starting to remember why you had celebrated when he decided to become an idol and moved out in the first place.

A few weeks later, classes had started and you had settled into life at the dorm. Like you, the boys were in and out constantly but once a week you all had dinner together, and soon enough you were just a regular member of the team. You played mobile games with Wooyoung, watched dramas with Mingi and had regular arm wrestles with Jongho who was sometimes kind enough to let you win. Yunho would ask you about what you were learning while San tried to teach you to do pull ups and Yeosang would send you song recommendations every other day. Seonghwa had been overbearing and wary at first of the boys stealing too much of your attention but over time he relaxed, appreciative that there were 7 other people looking out for you.

It was a Sunday evening and you were sitting on your bed after a few hours of actual studying to watch a movie on your laptop, the room shadowed as the sun set behind the other buildings. You were snuggled in your blanket, completely engrossed when Seonghwa thumped into the room, flicked on the blinding light and yanked your headphones off your head.

“Hey!”

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you studying?” He scolded.

“I have been studying! Get off my back.”

This had been such a regular argument over the past few weeks, you felt like your responses were scripted. But today, he seemed to have had enough.

“You seem to think you can just get through life with a pretty face and no work Y/N but it doesn’t work that way. I won’t let you laze around here and waste our parents money on a course you don’t even seem to care about”

“What are you talking about? I already studied today. I’ve done all my homework”

Seonghwa grabbed your laptop out of your lap and closed it forcefully.

“This look likes you’re working really hard. Really practising well” he chided.

You glared at him.

“Look Seonghwa, I don’t know what your problem is…”

“My problem? I’m just trying to look out for you. You sit around here all day, wasting time on your phone, watching TV. This isn’t a holiday Y/N. Anyone would think you don’t even want to be successful and employed. If you’re not careful, you’re going to fail this course just like you failed high-school.”

You threw your blanket off your knees, stood up and shoved him. A painful lump rose in your throat, which you held in place, determined not to let him see you cry.

“I had pneumonia you asshole. You were there. How dare you stand there all high and mighty when you did absolutely fuck all with your high-school degree. I’m so sick of you pretending like you’re better than me when all you do is prance around in tight pants on stage.”

His face was like stone as he stood motionless in front of you.

“I know the real you Park Seonghwa and I can see straight through this facade you put up for your fans. You and your fake superiority can get fucked”

You stormed out and slammed the front door behind you with one goal in your mind. You had to get away from him. The lump in your throat became suffocating and tears peeked at the corners of your eyes. Your face felt hot but the hairs on your arms prickled and in that moment you wished you had had enough sense to grab your phone or a jacket on the way out. You walked aimlessly down the road, staring up at the dusty sky, willing your tears to suck back in so the passersby with their dogs would stop looking at you. You replayed his words in your head and saw his constant disapproving face, wondering what had happened to that soft and kind brother that had taken you for lunch those weeks ago. Your brother had always been a bit criticising, but never this cruel. You felt the sudden urge to hurt him, the need to see his face in shock, for once unable to predict you. But how? He had always been the stronger one, the smarter one, always two steps ahead.

You found yourself outside the dance practise building the boys often visited after hours. The lights were still on so you let yourself in, shivering and rubbing your arms. You wandered down the hallway, looking in each of the little square windows when you noticed a familiar brunette in a practise room by himself, music blaring. You slipped past the door and sat on the couch to watch Wooyoung dance, still oblivious to your presence. You had never seen him like this before; wearing a tank top and grey sweatpants, leg muscles straining against the fabric. You watched wide eyed as the bass of the music surged through your chest, playing your heart like a drum, captivated by his lunges that shook the floorboards, the intricate patterns he drew with his body and facial expressions that made you feel all kinds of things in your lower half. He almost jumped out of his skin when he noticed you.

“Fuck Y/N!” He said, running to pause the music on his phone. “You scared me half to death”

“I’m sorry. I just saw you dancing and I…” you trailed off, acutely aware of how flustered and tearful you must still look, trying to hide your face with your hair.

The smile on his face fell as he approached you.

“What happened? Are you ok?” He dipped his head to look into your eyes, softly touching your shoulders, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Was it Seonghwa again? I swear to god if he’s been on at you again I’ll…” he paused and reconsidered. “I mean I probably won’t do anything…but I will if you want me to”

“I really don’t want to talk about it”

Wooyoung wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. He smelt like sweat and deodorant which you inhaled deeply, leaning into his embrace.

“Do you want to get some food?” He asked, stroking your hair.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“What do you want to do?”

A momentary idea popped into your head. “Could you teach me to dance?”

Wooyoung pulled away far enough to look at your face, a hint of concern and uncertainty in his eyes.

“To dance?”

“It would take my mind off things…teach me the part you were practising”

He laughed nervously but when he saw you were serious, he nodded. You followed him to the middle of the dance floor and he stood just in front of you, legs in a wide stance.

“Okay, so first you go like this…”

Wooyoung showed you sequence and then broke it down into steps. You were shaky at first, but with his help you started to get it, dancing the choreography almost to speed once he turned the music on. You quickly forgot the fight, laughing whenever you got it wrong and Wooyoung playfully yelled at you for not listening to him.

“You’re not low enough. Squat lower! Yes like that. Now thrust your hips. More. Make it bigger. You’re still not doing it right!”

Wooyoung ran over to pause the music and you sighed loudly.

“The hip thrusts are embarrassing” you whined, fanning your hot skin with your hands.

“They are not. Confidence is sexy. You are sexy. Now come on, your form isn’t right”

You caught your breath as he came behind you and ran his fingertips lightly down your sides before settling them on your hips. You felt your body stiffen and skin prickle in anticipation, desperate for him to either slide his hands lower or to put a metre of distance between you.

He did neither, instead putting pressure on the juncture of your thighs to make you squat lower and lean slightly right, his chest flush against your back, sweaty shirt pressing against you. You could feel his hair tickling your neck as his hands slid down your arms to grab your hands and raise them above your head. It took everything you had to stop your thighs from shaking, body completely new to such a low squat position. You didn’t dare move as he analysed you in the mirror, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

“Just like that” he said dryly as his hands came back to rest on your waist, dark eyes fixed on yours, unconsciously licking his bottom lip

You looked away, at anything other than his intense stare. Were you reading this right? Or did all dancers guide each other with such alluring invasion of personal space? His body shifted and you felt the light press of his bulge against your ass, shattering any notions that this was a normal dance lesson. His breath fanned your shoulder and you thought you should move away, pull his hands off of you, tell him off, anything to remove yourself from the precipice of turning your relationship into something else.

But your hips took a mind of their own and you felt yourself gently grind back against him, drawing an involuntary groan from deep in his throat. You craned your neck to look at him over your shoulder, frozen in the painful squat your mind paid no more attention to. Time stood still as his gaze flicked to your parted lips and you slightly inclined your head in a permissive nod. Before you realised you had moved, he had flipped you around and pressed you hard up against the mirror, licking into your mouth and hands roaming over every inch of your clothed chest. His hips bucked against yours and you reached down to the outside of his sweatpants to palm him, drawing a another long groan from him against your lips.

“Please don’t stop” he panted, planting breathy kisses along your jaw to your collarbone, pausing to inhale your scent and pulling down your t-shirt collar to grant him further access to your skin.

“Can I…” he started to ask, but his hands were way ahead of him, travelling up your shirt, kneading your breasts through the fabric of your bra, forehead pressed into the crux of your neck.

You fingers played on the edge of his pants as you briefly questioned yourself again before diving down to take hold of his hot length, earning a simultaneous groan from both of you. You held tightly but didn’t move, causing him to shamelessly buck up into your hand, his touch abandoning your chest in search of your core, which at this point was embarrassingly wet.

You knew there would be no going back the moment his hand slid down the front of your panties. His middle finger swiped up your slit, flooding warmth into you and you instinctively clenched your walls to feel some friction.

“Holy shit” he breathed, mostly to himself as he inched two fingers deep inside you to curl against your spot, causing you to shudder helplessly beneath him. You were insatiable, weeks of pent up curiosity, fantasises and late night masturbation in the shower caused by living in a house of 7 gorgeous men. It was wrong, it was forbidden and you were intent on riding it straight to hell.

“Please fuck me Wooyoung” you whimpered to the ceiling, shaking at the intensity of which he fingered you, tongue pressing into your neck, drinking you in.

He growled into your skin and captured your lips again with both hands holding your face, the fingers which he had just had inside of you rubbing your own juices on your cheek. You suppressed a laugh at his eagerness and pulled his sweatpants down to his thighs as he pulled your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra and burying his head between your breasts, sucking and grabbing at your flesh.

“Fuck I want you so bad” he said, muffled into your nipple, pulling it between his teeth.

In the space of a breath, he hoisted your leg onto his hip, bunched your skirt up around your waist, pulled your panties to the side and entered you in one swift motion that had you both gasping out.

Time stopped again as he bottomed out, pausing with his forehead pushed against yours, inhaling deeply, fingers digging into your thigh. Your walls were screaming with the sudden stretch and you suppressed a painful sound when he tentatively pulled all the way out and pressed back in. You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself upright and balanced on your one standing leg. He tested a few more erratic thrusts and the pain began to mix with pleasure and an overwhelming desire to be pounded into the mirror but Wooyoung paused his movements.

“I don’t know if I can control myself” he mumbled with shuddering breaths, hair hanging in his eyes.

“Then don’t”

He snaked his arm around the small of your back and jerked your hips closer to his, your head leaning on back the mirror like a rag doll in his hold. He drew his cock back again and you felt every ridge of him before he thrust up into you, setting a bruising pace that made you gasp for air.

“Fuck, I’ve imagined this so many times” he kissed below your ear, bouncing your body with every thrust and your hands fell back flat onto the mirror to hold on for dear life. “You walking around the dorm in your cute sundresses like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Pleasure started to rise from your core to your stomach and you wrapped your leg tighter around his hips, chasing the promise of your release. You leaned back in to capture his lips in a kiss, deeper than you had all night. He held you in that kiss until the pleasure became too much and you had to pull away, sucking in a desperate breath.

“God you’re so fucking perfect. Tell me-ugh…tell me how good it feels”

You moan as the pressure builds, pleasure sparking in multiple directions, but the pain of your wobbly standing leg starts to pull you away. As if reading your mind, Wooyoung pulls out and turns you to face the mirror, spreading your legs with his feet and pulling your hips back onto his cock. You cry out as he reaches deep inside you, igniting a fire as your walls clamp down on him and your hand automatically drops to rub your clit.

“I’m not going to last” he says, inhaling your hair. “Are you close?”

You moan again as if that is a response and rub your clit faster, knowing your release was within reach, just over that figurative hill, if he could just…

“There, a-ah fuck Y/N, I’m there. God-fucking-yesyesyes”

Wooyoung stands on his toes, boosting the angle of his cock to rub directly on your back wall and pound erratically into your spot. Like the crack of a whip, you inhale suddenly, almost choking on air as he hurtles you towards your orgasm, cock twitching as he cums deep inside you.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop” you pleaded, reaching back to hold the back of his thighs in case he dared to pull away from you or reduce his blinding pace.

Your torso was almost completely horizontal now, back arching, thrusting yourself back onto his cock, his cum dripping down your thighs. Your release hit you like a series of waves breaking, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as your walls convulsed erratically, spreading a wet warmth throughout your core. Wooyoung continued to pound you, fingers coming down to press on your own, rubbing harder into your clit.

Riding you down from heaven, stars and colours swirling behind your eyes, Wooyoung began to slow. Your knees gave way and you threw your hands out in front of you to stop yourself hitting the wooden floor too hard. Wooyoung wrapped his arms around your stomach and dropped to his knees with you in an attempt to keep his softening cock buried inside of you. His chest heaved against your back but you were both quiet, letting the sound of the squeaky fan and creaks of the building fill the silence.

“Fuck, Y/N I should have asked if I could come in you”

“It’s fine, I’m on the pill”

“Even so” he mumbled, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades and slowly removing himself from you.

You remained awkwardly on your hands and knees, panting at the floor as your senses returned and the reality of what you had done clicked from blurry to sharp in your mind. Wooyoung handed you a towel and you wiped the cum from your thighs, gazing in disbelief up at your smudged handprints on the mirror. Wooyoung was speaking, possibly to you, but you couldn’t focus on his words, caught in a state of ecstasy that wasn’t just post orgasm bliss. As you both got dressed, he tried to catch your gaze, but you barely noticed him, focused on the incredible feeling rising in your chest.

“Hey-where are you going?”

You were halfway out the door when you turned to look at him and forced a smile.

“I have to go back”

You left Wooyoung dumbfounded behind you, revelling in the complete elation of having just done something that would make Seonghwa burst a blood vessel if he knew. You emerged into the night air again, cold wind soothing your red, sweaty face. You felt bulletproof, like there was nothing more Seonghwa could hold over you. Not when you had such an ultimate secret over him.

You heard low voices when you reached the dorm and opened the door to find Hongjoong and Seonghwa sitting at the table, several empty bottles of Soju between them. Something about the way your brother looked at you, eyes glazed over and swaying slightly, told you that the drinking had been one sided.

“There you…I was so…worry” Seonghwa mumbled, standing up to give you a hug though he ended up almost pushing you over and Hongjoong had to step in and hold him up.

“It’s ok, I’m fine” you said, patting him on the back and mouthing a thank you to Hongjoong, who shrugged a smile. You looked up at your brothers’ flushed and puffy face and in this moment you pitied him, a pang of guilt stabbing you somewhere in the gut.

“I wish I…I shouldn’t have-“ he started but you cut him off.

“Let’s get you to bed”

It was a short but slow stumble from the kitchen to your shared room.

“I’m such a screw up” Seonghwa whined, head lolling backwards before you and Hongjoong dropped him on his bed.

“Go to sleep now” you said, smiling to yourself at your brothers complete inability to hold his liquor.

“You’re my sister and I…always…” he trailed off, squeezing your hand, eyes fluttering shut. Hongjoong turned off the light, leaving you sitting on top of Seonghwas quilt in the dark room, listening to his breathing as he started to drift off. You bit your bottom lip, wondering if maybe you had gone too far with Wooyoung tonight.

But your guilt was fleeting as the next morning, a hungover and humiliated Seonghwa berated you over breakfast for leaving the house without your phone.

“What the hell is wrong with you Y/N? What if something had happened to you? It just baffles me how you can be so damn stupid sometimes”

You sat at the table, staring ahead and calmly eating your cereal as he brought up more reasons and memories where you had been what he considered irresponsible. But you didn’t take the bait this time. You felt above that now, addicted to the power of what Seonghwa didn’t know, of how Wooyoung had melted at your touch, and how mere centimetres from your brothers disapproving face, you plotted your next pursuit.

[cheeriecherry]

Birds Of A Feather [4/7]

Hawks x Fem!Reader

Warnings: some swearing, a kiss

Part 4/7

By the end of the week, you’re walking into Hawks’ penthouse with nothing but a duffel bag of clothes. Most of your stuff had been moved to storage, but you’d told him you’d bring your own sheets, blankets, and pillows for the couch. He’d stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

He’d then gone on a tangent about how he had guest rooms, obviously, and how his sheets would be softer than yours. He’s probably not wrong, with his 1200 thread count egyptian cotton, but the way he says it ruffles you a bit. You don’t mention it, though. You don’t want to give him any kind of reason to kick you out.

“Hey chickadee, you gonna stand in the entrance all night, or are you gonna come in?”

You snap out of your stupor when Hawks calls to you, and continue lugging your things through the door.

The inside of the penthouse is beautiful; tastefully decorated (probably professionally), and it’s spacious rough that you could spread your wings out fully. The doorways are wider than average, likely catering to your boss’ specific needs. The entire place is gorgeous, immaculate even, and any person in their right mind would kill to live here.

You kind of detest it.

“I had some people come in this afternoon and set up the guest suite for you,” he says, kicking off his boots and flopping onto the couch. “They also brought some of your uniforms in from the agency, so you can change here. You won’t have to go in so early.”

“Thank you,” you tell him, and you mean it. Personal opinions aside, he’s let you into his home out of kindness. You’ll not soon disrespect that.

“Ah, you’re standing and staring again. Are you that impressed with the place?”

You snap back to attention for a second time, and hike your bag further up your shoulder. “I-it’s not that!” you try to explain, “I was just expecting something...different?”

Hawks sits up on the couch. “Whadya mean?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “More lived in, I guess? Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful here, especially the balcony, but it’s also very...what’s the word…”

“Mature and charming?” he tries, but you shake your head.

He offers a few more suggestions, things like ‘perfect’ and ‘homey’ and ‘colourful’, each word hitting further and further from your mark.

Then it comes to you. “Monotone and sterile!” you nearly shout, your success momentarily quieting your desire to be polite. “It’s like it’s fresh out of a magazine, or a model home. Don’t take it the wrong way, Boss, I’m not hating on your tastes, but if I’m gonna be staying here indefinitely, I’m gonna have to add some personal touches.” You remember your manners. “If that’s okay…”

You worry that you may have offended him, with the way he’s looking at you, but a smile slowly spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling.

“Finally,” he sighs, “someone who speaks their damn mind.”

“Eh?”

“Do you know how many of the people I’ve invited here tell me ‘how beautiful’ it is?” He adjusts his wings and settles comfortably back into the couch. “All of them. Every single one. And look, I’m grateful that I’ve got this place, but it’s just a house. No sentimentality, no memories...just a space.”

“Well...it’s polite to not insult someone’s home when they invite you over…” you mumble, the severity of your outburst making your face heat up.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe they’re all schmoozing and hoping to get on my good side.”

The bitterness in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you decide to leave it be. He should be free to be himself in his own home, and not have to put up any kind of front. You hoped he’d supply you the same courtesy, when you inevitably would wake up on the wrong side of the bed some mornings.

“Anyways,” he flips the TV on and tosses the remote to the side, “it’s late. You should probably unpack your stuff before you’re too tired.”

“Yeah…” you realize how wiped out you are as the weariness starts to settle in. “I’ve got tomorrow off though, so...if I wake up on time, I’ll bring you curry.”

You can hear him cheering as you walk down the hall to the guest room, and you smile. You’ll never understand his love for chicken, even though his enthusiasm boosted your confidence.

The room is spacious and airy, and has a beautiful view of the city. The bed itself is probably big enough to hold three people, and you’re silently grateful that your wings won’t be hanging on the floor while you sleep anymore. 

You set your bag down by the door, and flop face first onto the mattress. God, it was the most plush thing you’d ever had the pleasure to lay on.

“I’ll unpack tomorrow,” you mumble, sinking further into the sheets and, eventually, sleep.

In the distance, you hear Hawks snoring.

----

You wake up the next day to sunlight hitting your face. It’s bright, and annoying, and too warm, and your bed really wants you to keep sleeping but you don’t think you can.

You sit up.

You can feel that your hair is a disheveled mess, and your tongue feels gummy and sour.

“Blegh.”

You (regrettably) roll out of bed and make your way to the bathroom to fix your morning vibes, checking the time along the way. Ten is later than you would have liked to wake up, but you suppose you really needed the sleep. And you did, surprisingly, feel more rested than you had in months.

It’s ten thirty by the time you’re done in the washroom, overall energy more put together and presentable, and you waste no time heading for the kitchen.

The kitchen which is...painfully under-stocked. A couple of condiments and wilting vegetables in the fridge...some frozen meat in the freezer...a bag of rice under the sink, for some reason, and...a completely full spice rack, every bottle unopened.

You knew your boss didn’t spend a lot of time at home, but this was just sad. 

You make a mental note to go shopping later.

Thankfully he seems to have the necessary ingredients for chicken curry, which you’re happy about. It means you won’t have to brave the store just yet.

Bit by bit, you pull out what you need in order to cook, only sitting down when you have a moment to spare as the rice cooks.

‘Hey Boss, I’m making curry for lunch. Want me to bring you some?’

You send him a text. It’s still fairly early, and you know he has his meetings in the morning, so you doubt that he’ll get back to you before-

Your phone buzzes.

‘Chickadee, you sure know the way to my heart. I’ll leave my office window open.’

You send him a thumbs up emoji.

----

Once the food is finished, you pack it up into two containers, opting to leave the rest in the pot for now. You made lots, enough to get several meals out of it, just in case Hawks pulled his ‘too busy to cook’ excuse when trying to convince you to order take-out.

It doesn’t take long to fly to the agency, the skies much clearer than the roads. The city itself seems relatively calm, no sounds of explosions or screaming. There is a distant plume of dark smoke on the horizon, though…

But there were other heroes in the area. You wouldn’t be missed if you didn’t show up for one disaster...right?

But then you land in the window of your boss’ office, and your worry spikes. The room is empty, door closed, lights off, paperwork strewn about on the desk...like he’d run off in a hurry.

You pull your phone out and send him a text.

‘Lemme know if something came up. I brought lunch, but I can put it away for later. Stay safe!

-Chickadee’

He doesn’t reply, but that’s expected if he’s dealing with some kind of crisis. Maybe you should have headed to whatever disaster you’d seen earlier...if it was bad enough to call on your boss, it must be a pretty dire situation. Maybe he could use an extra pair of wings?

You sigh and take a seat beside the window, staring out at the city skyline. The black smoke across the way has turned to a dusty grey colour, a much less threatening hue, and one that bode well for any possible fires.

He’ll be fine, you decide, with other heroes undoubtedly on the scene. By the time you’d get there, whatever was happening would be dealt with.

You pull out your phone to scroll through the news while you eat.

Nothing urgent appears on the screen, nothing to incline that you were needed somewhere, nothing to say extra help was needed. Just day-old stories, gossip columns, the occasional media review. You do startle a little when a new article pops up that’s focused around your boss. You click on it, expecting to see some kind of haggard scene...but you only laugh.

“Hawks, most eligible bachelor in Japan, off the market?” You scroll further into the article to see what kind of nonsense the reporters have come up with this time.

What you don’t expect, is to find pictures of yourself littering the page. Pictures of you and Hawks together. On patrol, talking over lunch at a cafe he took you to one time, walking into his agency side by side, and -most recently- the two of you landing on his balcony.

You’re slightly panicked, and very, very flustered. Had he seen the column? God, he was probably used to it, though, being as popular as he was. All he had to do was look at someone and the media would start crying wolf, which in your opinion, was stupid.

Still, the more you read the article, the more you find it has some good points. You two did spend a lot of time together, more than he did with any of his other friends. But that’s all you are. Friends. Friends, and completely platonic roommates.

You weren’t sure why that made your heart sink so much.

So you copied the link to the article and sent it to him, typing a quick ‘lol’ afterwards. At the very least, he might get a laugh out of it.

----

You finish eating in record time, scarfing down a portion and a half of curry. It was lonely, sitting in Hawks’ office by yourself. You wondered if he ever felt like that when he was up here on his own. He was too busy for most things, too fast for his own good. Did that include friendships? He made time for you when he could, but you understood the busy and demanding life of a hero...other people might not.

You...understood.

The dull ache that you’ve felt in your chest for the past year returns, suddenly. The sadness and grief, the emptiness and all-encompassing tiredness, the big overhanging question of ‘what’s even the point?’. The point of being a hero, the point of suffering for the people who love you and hate you and who don’t even know you.

“Shit,” you sigh, your head and shoulders hanging low, wing dragging against the floor.

Hawks had brightened your life up so much these last few months. He’d brought the smile back to your face, the joy back to flying. You missed him when he was gone, worried for him when he was off on missions, fuck, you even cooked him lunch of your day off just so you could spend time together.

You were head over heels for him, and so totally screwed.

----

Hawks doesn’t return home until late that night. Far past your usual bedtime, but you’re far too distressed to sleep. If you hadn’t had your earlier revelation, you’d have chalked it up to ‘being worried’. But now?

Now that you knew you had feelings for him, all your thoughts were clouded. You were concerned because you liked him. You hung out with him because you liked him. Everything was because you liked him!

It was fucking with you a bit.

“What are you still doing up?” his voice sounds from the front entryway, startling you bad enough that you almost fall off the couch.

Your wide eyes snap to him, immediately taking him in. He’s worse for wear, that’s for sure. His uniform is singed in places, and you’re pretty sure the scuff on his neck is a burn. Most notably are his wings. Or lack thereof. 

Featherless red nubs is a more accurate description.

“You look like shit,” you say, keeping the air about you casual.

He makes his way over to you and finds a seat on the couch adjacent, wincing as he sits a little too quickly.

“Thanks, chickadee. You always know what to say to make me feel better.”

Your face heats up. “I-I just mean! Long day?”

He groans, letting his head fall back against the cushions. You’re vaguely aware that he’s started talking, but the only thing you can pay attention to is the narrow column of his exposed throat, and how badly you wanted to lean over and press your lips against it.

You snap out of your daze when he nudges you with his foot.

“I feel like I’m talking to a wall,” you quips, devoid of any malice.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “what were you saying?”

“I was saying that we should hang out now that I’ve got a few days off. Kick our feet up, instead of culminating in a stuffy office.”

You shake your head. “As much as I’d love to, I still have work. Remember? I was already off today, I can’t miss more days.”

He whines, looking at you with sad puppy eyes. “It’ll be boring here by myself. You make the day more fun.”

“Hawks, I can’t-”

“Keigo.”

You perk up. “Huh?”

He rearranges himself on the couch so he can look at you more comfortably. “My name is Takami Keigo. Call me Keigo when it’s just us, okay?”

You consider it. “Why not Takami? That’s polite here, right? To use the surname?”

He nods. “Unless you’re close with the person. Family, good friends, the like.”

Your wings puff up, fully betraying the fact that you’re pleased he considers you a ‘good friend’. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and a teasing grin spreads across Haw-Keigo’s face.

“See? You waaaaant to. Say it with me: Kei-”

“Keigo.”

You don’t miss the way his cheeks tinge pink.

“You got it. And now, since we’re on a first name basis, I’m asking you to take a few days off to hang out with me.”

You’re exasperated.

“C’mon chickadee.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeease?”

“No!”

“Y/N…”

“No, Keigo.”

“Alright then. Now, as your boss, I’m officially giving you three days off.”

“You can’t just do that!”

“I can!”

“Hawks!”

“Keigo.”

“Sorry. Keigo!”

His expression is cheeky as you go back and forth for a while, and he’s unrelenting even as you gently beat him with a couch pillow.

It eventually morphs into a small war, the two of you chasing each other around the apartment, wielding whatever cushions you can get your hands on. You eventually end up tripping over the coffee table, shouting as you smack your foot and fall into an ungraceful heap on your back. Keigo wastes no time pouncing on you and pinning your arms beside your head.

Your wings are splayed out on either side of you, and he’s careful not to kneel on them. Even with your foot throbbing the way it is, he knows you could easily get away if you tried. But you don’t struggle. Instead you lay there quietly, out of breath, eyes locked on his. He can feel the warmth creeping up his neck, and you can see the redness returning to his cheeks.

“I...saw the article you sent to me today,” he begins, voice low. “I’m sorry they brought you into it.”

“I don’t mind,” you admit, “I just worry it might be detrimental to you. Some of your fans will be pissed.”

“Seriously?” He sits up on your chest, releasing your wrists. “You’re not online much, are you. Most of my fans ship us.”

“The hell does that mean?”

He laughs, soft of melodious. “It means that they like the idea of us. As a couple.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?” you wonder.

“No? Why would it?”

You avert your gaze from him, your insecurities and doubts creeping in under the scrutiny of his golden eyes. “I...guess you could just...do better, is all.”

“Chickadee...Y/N, look at me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. You feel very exposed laid out on the carpet, and you wish you’d never said anything.

A warm hand cups your cheek. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me see those pretty eyes.”

You’re so flustered you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your heart is beating rapidly against your ribcage, and you’re positive he can see your embarrassment when you finally do as he asks.

But he only smiles gently at you, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, and listen well. You’re the best I can do. You bring out everything good in me, and make me forget the bad. You make me happy.”

“Keigo-”

He shushes you by bringing your lips together.

[monsterlovinghours]

Rescue

new don dropped! here's a little ficlet i wrote for @realmonsterboyhours and the new don she came up with. enjoy!

cw: kidnapping, death, gore

There hadn’t been time to call for help. There hadn’t been time to run, or scream, or even draw breath. One moment, you were walking down an empty street at twilight, your arms aching from the bags looped around your wrists, containing your purchases. You had spent more than you meant to, but not nearly as much as your lovers encouraged you to spend; two lifetimes could pass and you would still never get used to the seemingly endless wealth you now had access to. You were excited to show the others what you had bought, excited to model some of your new outfits and see which of the dons would reach you first to rip it off of you. You weren’t paying attention. You should have been looking around. You should have been more aware. One moment, you were hopeful, at peace. The next, you were waking to pain and semi-darkness, unaware that you had passed out at all.

You tried to move, tried to bite back the rising panic as you found your wrists bound, cuffed together and looped through the rungs of a metal chair. You tried rocking from side to side to find that not only had your ankles been cuffed as well, but the chair itself had been bolted to the floor. Tears stung your eyes and the back of your throat, but you willed yourself to be still, to swallow down the terror and listen. Beyond your racing heart, you could gentle murmuring from the next room, the sound of at least three different voices speaking, perhaps as many as five or six. Not that you could determine much through the pounding pain in your skull and the thudding of your heart. The room smelled dusty, bare except for the single floor lamp in the corner behind you, the light dim and casting deep shadows. How long had you been out? Had anyone noticed you were gone yet? How long would it take for them to come looking for you, and would you be able to survive until they found you?

Your lips trembled, and you bit them, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. Crying wouldn’t help, crying wouldn’t fix anything. All it would do is dehydrate you and make your headache worse. Of course they would find you, you reasoned to yourself. You were loved by some of the most powerful men in the world, and definitely some of the most dangerous. They would notice your absence and would be quick to find you. There was nothing to fear.

Almost as soon as you had that thought, there was a soft yell from the other room, then muffled shouts and the sounds of a quick struggle, chairs scraping against the floor and things being knocked against the walls. Things went quiet, and you held your breath, not knowing if your saviors had arrived, or if a different, nastier threat had presented itself.

A bloodied hand emerged from the doorway, dragging behind it the injured body of a man that seemed vaguely familiar to you, his face now contorted with pain and fear, both broken legs sliding uselessly along the rough concrete floor. You let out a startled sound at the sight of him, and someone poked their head through the door. Someone with ice-blue eyes, jet black hair, and a willowy frame. Someone you recognized with a wash of relief.

Bjalla. The elusive seventh member of the Conglomerate. You hadn’t known them long, and while they had always been cordial towards you, you hadn’t gotten to know them extraordinarily well; at least, not as well as you’d like. They seemed fascinating, though somewhat distant and aloof and, well, almost snobbish. As if everyone were beneath them. But here, in this very moment, they were the person you loved most in the entire world.

Their gaze locked on you, seemed to scan you quickly for signs of injury, then dropped to the broken man on the floor. Teeth that were too sharp to be human were exposed in a grin that, if not for the razor points within, might have been friendly. “Ah, there you are. I thought I miscounted.” In a couple strides they were close enough to plant the heel of their expensive boot on the man’s back, pinning him to the ground and staying his escape. Once again, their gaze lifted to you as they knelt, gathering a fistful of the man’s hair in one hand while the fingers of the other tightened around the handle of a large knife, its edge obviously wickedly sharp even through the blood drying on the blade. “Look away, sá litli."

You shook your head minutely, your eyes wide and staring, and though you half expected Bjalla to argue or force the matter, they only shrugged, as if to say, suit yourself. In one fluid, well-practiced motion, they lowered the knife and drew it deep across the man’s throat, who gagged and sputtered, hands fluttering weakly. Bjalla rolled their eyes, smiling wryly at the man’s last desperate actions. “You should thank me, idiot. At least I made the cut clean; you’ll pass out in a few seconds, painless and quick. You’re welcome.”

With that, he released the man’s hair, his head falling back to the ground as he continued to make those sickening gurgles, the last gasps of a dying man. Bjalla knelt to work at the chains around your ankles, checking you over more thoroughly now that they were at a closer range.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, and they nodded curtly.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.” It was the first time you had spoken during this entire ordeal, and your voice was hoarse, scratchy. For some reason, the sound of it made your flood of tears break loose from their dam, and as soon as you had your arms free, you wrapped them around their neck and sobbed. They stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” you rasped, clutching at them and sobbing. They didn't embrace you, not that you had expected them too, but one cold hand did stroke once through your hair, an almost tender gesture. It was gone as soon as it came, however, and with a series of musical clinks, they cleared the chains from around your ankles and pulled you to your feet. The only exit to your kidnappers lair was through the other room, and since you'd made no effort to turn away from the spilling of blood nearly at your feet, Bjalla made no attempt to shield your eyes from the massacre that had taken place. You counted four bodies, though there may have been more. Two figures identical in build and carriage stood at the far end, their tailored suits immaculate despite the bloodbath that surrounded them. You couldn't be quite sure, but you guessed this was Bjalla's Lex and their Cici. They followed you outside, where a sleek black car was waiting. A tall figure sat behind the wheel-Wasp. It had to be. As Bjalla ushered you into the backseat, Cici and Lex vanished, their work complete.

You clung to Bjalla as the car sped off, unable to stop a stream of mostly silent tears. You half expected them to push you away or slide out of your clutches, but he didn't move, sitting still as a stone. After a while, once some of the adrenaline had faded, you wiped the tears from your cheeks and looked up at him. "Thank you for finding me, Bjalla."

Their expression didn't change. "It was Scarabee that found you. I was closest to your location, so they sent me to fetch you."

You recoiled a little at the flat tone of his voice, but didn't draw away completely. "Who were they? What did they want?"

"It doesn't matter," they said sharply, icy eyes flicking down to you. "They're dead. Whatever they wanted is no longer relevant." Bjalla sighed, rubbing the tips of perfect manicured fingers over the bridge of his nose. "You should sleep. It's a long drive back to the estate."

You didn't think you would be able to sleep, but incredibly, you were out in a matter of minutes. In your sleep, you didn't feel the weight of his arm around your shoulders, keeping your body close to his, and you didn't notice the way his hands trembled ever so slightly. They woke you when you reached the manor, all present dons and their clones pouring out of the doors to greet you. You were all but lost in a sea of embracing arms and frantic kisses, none of which belonged to Bjalla, who had all but vanished.

Later than evening, you sat cradled in Zhuk's lap, your legs draped over Scarabee's, who was rubbing something onto the bruises left around your ankles. Breaking the silence, you asked, "So, how were you able to find me?"

Scarabee looked up, his brow furrowed. "Find you? Cherie, we didn't even know you were missin' until Bjalla sent their Bee to inform us you were gone. By then he was already halfway to ya. All we did was wait for them to bring you back."

"And dispatch our own forces to wipe out everyone associated with the idiots who tried to take you from us," Zhuk growled darkly.

It was your brow's turn to furrow. "But...Bjalla said you found me. They said they were closest and that's why they came and got me."

The Russian and the Cajun exchanged a knowing look, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of Bee's mouth. "Well, darlin', I don't know what to tell ya. Seems our icy friend might be a little more fond of you than they let on."

Your thoughts whirring, you settled back against Zhuk's shoulder. If none of the others had known you were missing until Bjalla told them, that could only mean that they had found out first, and rather than inform the other dons and let them handle your rescue, they had gone after you themselves. Somehow, despite the terror of the day still weighing heavily on you, that thought caused a flicker of warmth. Perhaps Scarabee was right. Maybe Bjalla did care about you, after all.