#goddamn it

[updatingranboo]

ranboo tweeted..

[nepenthendline]

till death do us part - Hawks (Keigo Takami) x reader

a/n: unconfirmed reader death, gore and blood mentions, hawks wants to marry you, angst angst angst, gn reader, let me know if you want a part 2 where reader survives!!

Hawks and you had been battling a nomu for what felt like hours now - it was a high end, and even you two, a duo of perfect sync and compatibility, were struggling to knock it down. There were other pro-heros in the area focused on rescue and evacuation, but only the two of you were in direct combat.

Things seemed to be taking a turn for the better, however. Even though most of Keigo's feathers were demolished, leaving him to fight with his swords, and you were covered in injuries and small broken bones, its regeneration was wearing thin.

'Almost there, let's go for the head!' Keigo yelled to you over the wailing of the nomu, in which you nodded in return. As if connected, you both moved forward at the same time; your partner was fighting in front of the nomu, working as a distraction, whilst you lept up from behind and plunged your knife into its head. The creature groaned and stumbled, blood pouring out of its brain as you sliced through the flesh. 'You got it,' you heard Keigo yell above the noise, giving you the power to plunge your knife further. The nomu fell to its knees, making you grip onto its shoulders to steady yourself as it collapsed. Now, at a lower level, you could see the relief in Keigo's eyes and the slowing rise and fall of his chest. He began walking closer to assist you as you plunged your knife again to deal a final blow, however, the next few moments flashed before him.

The nomu raised one stub of an arm over its head, growing some sort of sharp extension from it, and aimed towards you. Before you could react, the sharp appendage shot through your abdomen, throwing you a few feet back and released, dropping your limp frame on the ground.

Keigo's eyes were wide, and jaw dropped as he watched his love get pierced by the creature. As soon as he heard the tear of your body, he screamed your name - a gut-wretching, painful scream. He vaulted forward, moving out of pure adrenaline and fear, slicing the remaining head off of the nomu, and watched it crumble to the ground. He stood still for a moment as the world came to a silencing hault expect for the sound of his blood rushing through his body. He dropped his swords and bolted to you.

You lay lifeless on the ground, blood pooling from your stomach onto your hero costume and the earth below you, mixing with the dirt. He reached you in seconds and dropped to his knees by your side. One hand came to cradle your head, the over hovered over the gaping wound, shaking.

'Shit...SHIT,' his whole body trembled as he looked over you, eyes darting around and taking in the horror. They fell onto your face, covered in blood, dirt, and tear stains that had fallen from your half-lidded eyes. His head shot up, frantically looking for someone, or something, to help you. He spotted a person, a hero, not too far away who stood frozen, watching the two of you, with their hand cupping their mouth in terror. 'Get someone! They need help!' His voice was rough and unsteady from the lump in his throat - something so raw and agonising. The hero nodded vigorously, before running off.

Keigo looked back down to you - the blood continued to spill from you, and his hand was holding more weight from your neck than before. His other hand, the one that rested above your wound, flexed open and closed before he spoke. 'Dove? This is going to hurt, but stay with me, ok?' He pleaded, watching you force a slight nod as you looked up at him. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the heel of his hand into your wound, putting pressure on the area to slow the bleeding. The hand under your head stroked at your scalp as you whimpered and winced from the pain. 'I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' he murmured like a mantra as he shifted himself so that your head rested in his lap. The, now free, hand came to move your damp hair away from your face and continued to brush through. You locked eyes for a few moments in silence.

'It's gonna be ok, dove, you're gonna be ok,' he forced out, his voice breaking as tears ran down his cheeks. He sniffled before bending down to place a kiss on your cold yet sweat-slick forehead. His chapped lips trembled against your skin, and you felt a teardrop or two roll onto your own cheeks. 'Gotta stay with me, ok? Getting you help, so just gotta stay awake for me, go it?' You weakly nodded again, to which he whispered sweet praises in your ear and gently rocked your head in his lap.

'I-I love you,' you muttered, barely audible. He let out a dry chucke, although it held nothing but grief.

'I love you too, so so much, so keep fighting for me, doing so well,' the corner of your mouth raised slightly at his words, as much as your body would allow, and his grip on you tightened. His torso hunched down closer to you, occasionally brushing his wet nose against yours, or peppering your face with kisses. Your tears were mixed together at this point, you had no idea what was coming from who.

'M'tired,' fell from your lips as your eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. Keigo nodded in understanding, bringing his hand from your head to hastily wipe his tears on his torn jacket sleeve.

'I know, baby, gotta stay awake for me, though,' he repeated. His breath hitched when he didn't get a response from you this time, except from your eyelids closing for a few seconds, then opening ever-so-slightly. He needed to do something, think of something to keep you awake. His eyes flitted around as he thought before resting back on you.

'Hey, baby?' He shook your head gently to get your attention, letting out his held breath when your eyes moved to his. 'How about I tell you about something really exciting, yeah? Know you can never sleep when you get excited,' he chuckled as he cried, forcing a smile onto his lips. His tone was something like his usual teasing manner, although he cracks and dips in his voice broke his facade. He felt one of your hands shift, coming to lightly grip onto his trouser leg in response. You also let out a huff of a breath, something adjacent to laughter. He sniffled again and smiled down at you as his thumb stroked your cheek. 'Gonna propose to you soon,' he confessed, a pained grin painting his face. Even despite the agony and blood, he still looked at you with the same adoring eyes as ever.

'Yeah?' You whispered, a tear escaping your eye and rolling onto his hand. He nodded, chuckling again.

'Yeah. Got you the prettiest ring and everything,' he saw something of a sparkle in your drooping eyes, so he continued. 'Gonna plan the most romantic, most cheesy proposal you can imagine,' your smile grew wider as you listened, gripping tighter on his trousers, although you had to take a few deep breathes, as deep as you could, before you could speak again.

'Figured, it's not Keigo if it's not dramatic,' he gasped, feigning shock at your words before nuzzling his nose against your cheek. With his face so close, he could feel that your breathes were getting shallower, and your neck was barely supporting you. His head moved back, glancing over you again.

'Dove?' He probed, but the only response was your grip on him fading.

'Baby?' He tried again, his voice growing more desperate. He could see your eyelids fighting to move - you were still holding on, even if barely.

Whenever danger struck, or things happened that pushed you back, Keigo was always there to hold you together and inject you with positivity and light, even if that meant pushing away his own pain and suffering. He didn't ever want to be one that broke in front of you, but now, at your most broken, he was falling apart. He needed you, he couldn't lose you, not like this.

'Fuck it,' he let out a groan and looked up to the grey sky as if to push past his torment, which startled you with what energy you had left. 'You know what? Fuck the engagement, fuck the planning, let's just get married,' his voice was louder than before, stronger. His gaze returned to you once more, relieved to see the dim curl of your lips. 'As soon as all this is over, let's get married. Would'd'ya like that?' He beamed down at you, an expression almost manic.

'Yeah,' you breathed as your eyes closed.

[corruption-connoisseur]

I HATE MR BONZO I HATE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH I KNOW THAT HE'S IN THIS EP I FUCKING KNEW IT I NEVER WANT TO SEE MASCOT IN THE EP DESCRIPTION EVER AGAIN I FUCKING HATE IT HERE THIS PODCAST IS A PRISON GOD LET ME OUT I HAVENT EVEN GOTTEN FAR ENOUGH THAT HE'S APPEARED BUT I KNOW THAT HE WILL HE'S THE WORST NO I DON'T WANT TO PLAY LEAVE ME ALONE

[ladykyriaa]

Flirting in the middle of an explosion is insane btw

[lara-cairncross]

cant believe the repost has like 10k notes are you serious bro this sucks ://////

[cr0wb0y]

Wow!! A red and blue coded, one serious one goofy, clearly gay for each other, friends!! That’s surely doesn’t remind me of anything…

Right?…

FUCK ITS KLANCE

IM BACK IN THE FUCKING BULDING GODDAMN IT

[p4nishers]

[justcommander]

I used to draw with this style some years ago, maybe i should pick it up again. It's fun.

Also if I had a shilling for every time I played a Pav who lost his right eye specifically I'd have two shillings. Which isn't a lot but it's... interesting that it happened twice. AND his left arm in an explosion one of those times.

he's still pretty good with that gun tho.

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price as Nicholas Van Ryn -

Dragonwyck (1946)

[staytrueblue]

The NOW is pure Cap Price. He looks SO good in that jacket. God, and the facial expressions!

Connor being a conniving crook while Barry is being a badass actor. But seriously though, Barry is so good in scenes you can tell that the other actor play off of him. The best scenes are ones with him in it and I’m not trying to be biased it’s genuinely the truth. He is so good.

Imagine for a moment the mask statement is directed towards ghost….like that’s a whole other au

There is sooo much I could talk about this scene and it’s all about how Barry is portraying his characters emotions. The casual confidence, the frustration and anger when the dude hits a sore spot. I want to kiss his face.

[rollypollyorihara]

why does he look so good in jail wtf

i love looking at him

[cuntholicism]

every single time i come across a phan twitter post i can feel every inch of happiness leaving my body. they're trying to take my whimsy away . those monsters

[reydeyflummyx759z]

TODAY...

Ohh, Lord, was it a sneezy day for me.

I sneezed 45 times... And then some.

All while trying to clean my mom's room. It was just one room... But the dust was like a tornado. It coated absolutely everything. I kept sneezing my head off, and then I sneezed fifteen more times.

My eyes were watering, my nose ran the whole time, and guess what? I'm still trying not to sneeze. My mom witnessed the whole thing, and I didn't care if she was watching.

I had to sneeze.

[gublurbolts]

hey chat

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??????

[historia-vitae-magistras]

My brain is back on its ukrcan bullshit. Katya has been fighting for her life her entire life. The greatest and often worst warrior cultures Europe ever produced populated her rivers from the west, the greatest horsemen her plains from the east. Great is not good, not here. Her blood is her soil. She rests on the bones of millions. She is where empire's die, she waters her growth with their blood. Russians, Vikings, Pechenegs, Germans, Ottomans, Magyars and Mongols. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and she rises like the stalk of a sunflower from it all.

And here is a boy before her, with a soul made of the same black earth as her own. Different, but still built upon the bones of those before and below. He has the capacity for the great acts of evil. His siblings and even his parents recoil in horror at what blood he can draw when he must. Katya does not. She recognizes it, the need for the skill, and the need to water one's own life with blood. She does not recoil.

But at the end of the first great war she plucks the blade from his hand. She commands his sister and his uncle, if they love him, to drum him and his gas seared lungs out of the army and send him home. Do not let him join the Polar Bear Expedition. She knows the whites have lost before another civil war has erupted from the violence of this first great war. Perhaps she writes to his brother, who did not come of age in the Great Game against her brother. Perhaps she harnesses his idealism in her favor, appeals to the zealot in him and tells him to save his brother's soul. Take him home. Keep his soul safe. Perhaps she is in the West, to command her case for independence as short lived as it is. Or perhaps she only writes after he has blooded her brother in the far north, dropping his rail guns and feeding her again on the blood of bolsheviks he turns to mist and gore. Perhaps he gets south, perhaps within reach of her. Perhaps he's strapped to the chair of a prisoner of war in a Kyiv prison like his countrymen when she says hello, I love you, good bye, survive.

In her hand on paper, his face in her hands, in his dreams, or maybe only in her prayers she wills him to let the soft in him survive. That she does not care what he does, the softness in him must live.

The boy who asked her to live with him with a loaf of bread in his hands, the ones her people use for weddings. The one who could braid her hair while she slept next to him in the light of dawn just because he thought it beautiful. She pinned those braids into the marriage style peeking out from under the scarf that will change his people's sense of themselves forever. The boy who put her first wherever he could and asked for nothing but her affection, if he had earned it.

She has blood enough of her own, steel enough of her own. She does not need his.

She needs his hands without the blood on them. He must go home, hammer his sword into the scythe. Reap not souls but the wheat from the black earth soil he learned to love as he loves her, as she learned to love him. He must hang lace curtains in his windows and pull bread from the earthen oven and love her. Be as the queen of Ithaca, as the Greeks who once rested on her Black Sea ports spoke of. He does not weave and unweave a shroud, because she cannot be killed anymore than the Gods who meddle in the affairs of man could. Perhaps instead of a Greek's shroud it is the embroidery is burned into him as obvious as the veins in his winter pale wrists. But he sings her songs, un-sings them, re-sings them in a thousand riffs in her languages, in his, in all of them. And perhaps, where the Queen of Ithaca took her signs from Poseidon, they take theirs from each other. Maybe her language has soaked into him like the blood or the hard driving rains of the steppe and the prairies into that black soil soul and when he prays it isn't to a God he doesn't believe in but to her. Maybe those words flow across oceans and ideology and he can hold her hand for a moment in their dreams while they wait, wait, and wait for better days. A reminder of a softer dawn that may yet bring forth a brilliant blue day to paint her hair and her wheat as gold and endless as the horizon.