#i mean it is just peach fuzz at this point but still

[ace-of-drakes]

who knew all it’d take to get that sweet gender euphoria was more hair

[dontspillthefrijoles43]

What he thinks vs what she knows (Drabble)

Word count: 2k-ish

Warnings: self image, insecurities, internalize racism, self esteem issues, sappy lovers, teenagers being teenagers

(A/N: Had this saved up in my drafts, figured I post it since I’m still editing and getting ready for more Chispo and bruja content. Y’all are surviving a drought so I figured you’d like to get scraps 😭 you can see this as chipso y bruja canon? Uncanny? Maybe another au who knows? 🤔 I know I’m literally the author of this fanfic Anyways Thinking abt making a tag list for when I post so lemme know if you want to be tagged. Til the come get ya scraps! This one an agnsty one)

-

Leo thinks he’s ugly.

He thinks it has to do with his frame. It’s too scrawny and weak. Not enough muscle, like the rest of his siblings who buff up endlessly. Or the Ares kids who have chiseled abs.  He doesn’t even have the height to gain such strength. Or the right body fat percentage.

Maybe he’s ugly because he doesn’t have wavy hair like a Greek should. He has tight curls that seem to go everywhere, never in one place. Messy and kinky in all directions. No one ever seems to notice when it’s comb and neat. 

His skin can be the reason why he’s ugly. It’s not perfectly pure white. And it’s not just the right olive tan. He’s dark that awful awful color— Moreno feo! His aunt would hiss at him. As if she wasn’t the same color. 

Or could it be his scars? They’re littered onto his body jagged and spread over his arms and hands. Not to mention the disfigured tissue from the left of his face and downwards, all red-brown burns spread over him.

If none of those things prove that he’s ugly, then maybe his face will. 

He doesn’t have a strong chiseled jaw, even with puberty it’s still soft with some baby fat. Except for his way too pointed chin. The smile he paints on, definitely crooked and awkward; not perfectly straight shining teeth.

Lips are usually chapped because he kind of sucks at self-care. Proof by all his acne scars over his cheeks. Besides his weird moles. And who can forget the weak peach fuzz placed on his upper lip. Upwards his small, wide, and awkwardly squished nose.

Above that is not sky blue or green or any other unique  color— but his dirt-ugly brown eyes, baggy from his lack of sleep some days, and way too thick eyebrows. 

The worst part of it all, is his pointy ears. They stuck out enough to notice. The first thing people would see. They were stupidly pointy. And ultimately be what Leo was most known for:

Fuckin hobbit 

Elf 

Troll

Imp

Mexican Spock he didn’t even like Star-trek!

The list just goes on. 

All these things make Leo thinks he’s ugly. Bullies and ex-infatuations have been sure to let him know it. 

So to himself — Leo’s ugly.

—

Breisa loves Leo. She loves how he makes her feel. And how he cares. Or how he shows his love. She loves the warmth he brings. The dizziness she feels when she’s with him. He never fails to make laugh. Or her feel any less important, more than just his girlfriend. His compliment. Not his missing piece.

But one thing that irks her, is how he can’t see himself in the same light as she sees him. He doesn’t love himself the way he loves her. It hurts to see that. 

Breisa wanted him to be able to have the self confidence in himself. He’s so smart, sweet, funny, strong, handsome, and caring but in his charming way. Despite how awkward or weird he could be which she had to admit was also cute he was charming in his own little way.

 Hopefully her plan was the best way to show him. 

_

“Come on!” Breisa smiles and dragged Leo from behind, “Ya llegamos!”

“Alright alright—stump!” Leo tripped and face planted into the dirt. “Ow.” His voice went small.

“Oh my bad.” She winced, helping him up. Dusting off his clothes from the dirt. “Didn’t mean to get so excited.”

He spit grass out his mouth, “No worries, cariño.”

 He wipes off the dirt with a bandanna from his back pocket. 

“It’s not like that I can get any less dirt-ugly” Leo laughed.

Breisa frowned at that. “Let's just keep going.” 

Then she pushed through an overgrown bush, leaving him confused. 

‘She always laughs at my jokes…’ Leo thought to himself; anxiously fiddling with his silver ring he made out of metal scraps and pennant washers. 

“Leo, apurate!” Breisa called. 

He shaked his head and breathed in, ‘Worryin’, over nothing. No seas pendejo.’

Trudging forward he pushes through the leaves, trying not to get smacked by branches and vines. 

As he stumbles out— almost face plants again when Breisa caught his arm. 

“Careful.” She smiled down at him. 

“Ya sabe.” Leo rolled his eyes playfully. “Why are we here?”

All she does is point with her lips— forwards. 

As Leo glanced over, his eyes caught where the rocks met a grassy field. Overlooking the underside of a hill.

A fuzzy rose-patterned blanket laid out, a picnic basket holding it in place. Next to the basket was a sketchbook, pencils, and a little radio. And the view of Camp-Half-blood spread out below them. From the Strawberry fields to lava rock climbing wall.

“Woah.” He breathed. “Did you—?”

“Yup.” Breisa grinned. 

“Picnic date—?” 

“Uh-huh.” She answered. 

“For me—?”

“Yes.” Breisa huffed jokingly. “Siéntate, lindo. No te preocupes por nada.” She plopped down and patted the spot next to her. 

“Bossy.” Leo sticks his tongue but laid back into the blanket. 

She mimicked his face. “Whatever. Since I’m so bossy, I guess all these tortas and Capri-suns should be for myself.”

He popped an eye open. “Tortas with ham, chips, and cheddar cheese? Topped off with tapatío?”

“My speciality.” She started digging from the picnic basket. “But guess you don’t want some. Cause I’m so bossy.”

“Espérate.” He sat up, “Sólo porque eres así— I don’t have to die of hunger.”

“Nah, pero soy mandona.” She munched on the sandwich. 

“Hey!” Leo jumped.“I want some!”

“No way!” Breisa pushed his face away. “I don’t want to annoy you. I’m mean and bossy so my food must be bad.”

“Awe come on, it's still editable!” He laughed. 

“Now you really ain’t getting nothing!” 

—

Leo sighed satisfied, laying back on the blanket.

“Guess my food was editable?” Breisa raised an eyebrow. 

“It was alright, I guess.” He shrugged. 

Breisa shook her head with disbelief. “Tell that to the four tortas, bowl of fresas, and endless capri-suns.”

“No te oyes. Sugar crash. So sleepy.” Leo closed his eyes. 

Breisa rolled her eyes. Flicked his forehead. Then pulled her sketchbook onto her lap. Without even thinking she began to sketch a picture of him. 

Pages and pages of Leo began to fill her sketchbook, it’s become a habit of her to have at least one drawing of him in each. Always having three hearts or a little flame next to each sketch. 

Before, she would have never admitted having these drawings of him. Only because it would inflate his gaintanic ego. Leo being Leo, he would have something annoying to say.

Now even  she knows that it was his way of saying— ‘I like you a lot. I just say stupid stuff because it’s easier to get your attention.’

 It doesn’t make him less annoying, even as her significant other.

“What are you drawing?” Leo suddenly appeared beside her.

After her surprise wore down. She traced her pencil idly and muttered, “You.”

Leo stared at her for a good long minute before bursting into laughter. 

“Why are you laughin’?” She flushed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

He calmed down and smiled. “It’s nothing— just..” He snorted again, looking at himself, “Why do I look like that?” 

“Like what?” Breisa asked.

“Like all majestic and shit.” He waved his hands. “I ain’t that good looking. Or you know a profound art subject.” Leo rubbed his neck awkwardly with half of a smile on his face. “I’m just me, heh you know?”

Breisa put her sketchbook down, inhaled deeply, anf faced him. “Eres tan pendejo.”

“Say what now?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“You. Are. Stupid.” She said slowly. “You aren’t just whatever Leo. I draw how I see it. You’re cute, handsome, and freakin pretty. That’s why you’re my favorite muse.” 

Leo’s face burned…And so did his hair. 

Breisa reached up, pinched a curl between her fingers. It fsss as the flame went out. 

Leo cleared his throat, and swatted at the rest of his hair. “No way I’m that good looking. I’m sure there are other better people to be your muse. You must be blinded by love.” 

“I’m not blinded by nothin’.” Breisa fussed. “You just can’t and refuse to see what I see.”

He looked at her like she was crazy. “See what? Fuck up half-melted ugly troll goblin thing—who shares no light to a girl like you?!”

She grabbed the sides of his face and made contact with his coffee brown eyes. Gods she melted when the sun made them glow. He automatically shut up any protest he had. 

Breisa brushed her thumb over his jaw, right at the scar.“I see a scrawny mofo with big beautiful brown eyes. A sideways smile that makes my heart flip. All wrapped up in that pretty face of his. Soft curls I can play with all day. Cute ears that get all red when I compliment him.

Hard working hands, that I can trace very dent and curve with my fingers. Strong arms that hold me in warm embrace. Just the right height so I don’t have to snap my neck up to look at.

Goofball pyromaniac but somehow suave n romantic. That knows everything about me, cares for me, and loves me. 

And even though he thinks he’s the scum of the earth. A monster burned with his scars in and out. Or  is undeserving of love because of some bullshit and stupid unworthy people from the past. They’re wrong. Cause to me, querido, you are the best person to ever walk into my life. And melt my heart.” 

Then Breisa planted her lips on him with tenderness, her hand on his chest, and moving another hand from his jaw to his curls.

Leo squeaked and brain short-circuited. Half of it was racing with thoughts while the other half went numb. ‘Do something idiot!’ His brain finally scolded. Arms wrapped around her waist and he sighed against her lips.

When she pulled away, his lips still tingled pleasantly. Just like every other kiss they shared.

Then she looked at him with so much love and admiration. He nearly cried. 

But he shook himself out of lovesickness and gave her a deadpan look. 

“Ok, you really gotta stop kissing me without warning.” Leo huffed, swatting his hair which was probably on fire. Again.

Breisa snickered at him. 

“En serio.” He empathized half-heartedly. “You realize how many times I’ve almost passed out? Or bursted into flames? I could’ve started a Forest fire.”

“Eh,” She shrugged, "It's worth it to see you get all flustered.” Then she squished his face, while cupping his jaw again. “I love this face. ¡Qué lindo! ¡Qué guapo! ¡Te adoro! ¡Te quiero, mi amorcito! Such a pretty boy, Mwah!”

She kissed all over his face dramatically. Extra affectionate on his scars. 

“Stop.” Leo rolled his eyes. Yet, his big dumb grin that showed off his cute gap gave him away. 

“Nah.” Breisa smiled just as stupid, “I am not done admiring. And I’m not done with my sketch.” 

“Hmn. Guess I gotta keep being your muse.” Leo hummed leaning onto her palm.  

“Guess you do.” She pecked him on the lips. “I’m going to make sure I get all of your beauty.”

“You know my face better than me.” Leo agreed and kissed her again…and again…and again.

—

After that he walked back to his cabin holding Breisa by the hand. Lipstick marks all over his face and the folded sketch in his pocket. Thinking maybe he wasn’t so ugly.

[littlemisskookie]

Free Use: Ch 7

Free Use: Ch 7

Free Use:  Index

Ship: Crush!Taehyung | Reader | feat. Jungkook

Description: Childhood Friends/Crush/Neighbors/College!AU. Your long time crush agrees to be your dom.

Warnings: Free Use Kink, Dom/Sub Relationship, Dom Taehyung, Dom Jungkook, Phone Sex, Voyeurism/Exhibitionism, Degrading, Rimming (f. receiving), Anal, Intercourse, Oral (m&f receiving), Humiliation Kink, Dirty Talk, Overstimulation, Spanking, lemme know if I’m missing anything, just straight up PWP man

Word Count: 2,846

A/N: Sorry for the wait! Meant to put this for my 15,000 follower mile stone!

You woke up before Taehyung, admiring his pretty features as he laid beside you. His lashes looked so long, lightly kissing the apples of his cheeks. It still didn’t feel real. You repeat the word over and over again in your head. Boyfriend. Kim Taehyung was your boyfriend.

You touch his face, lightly tracing his cheek, admiring the glow of the morning light illuminating the peach fuzz on his skin. He fluttered his lashes, Disney princess he is, and looked up at you. He pulled a lazy smile, arm swinging over your waist to pull you in closer. “Good morning.” His morning voice was so sexy. He gives you a soft kiss on the lips, brushing your hair out of your face. “I think I can get used to waking up to this view.”

You giggle in response. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The two of you kiss a bit more before Taehyung pulls back. “What does my girlfriend want for breakfast?”

“It’s still so weird hearing that. I almost don’t believe it.”

“That I’m your boyfriend?” Taehyung chuckled. “I’m excited to brag about it, to be honest.”

Your heart fluttered. “You mean that?”

“Of course, baby.” He smiled, turning to hover on top of you, hands creeping up under your shirt. He only touches your waist, big hands touching all of the skin he had access to. “Want to show everyone who owns you.”

You gasp as you feel his erection press against you. “Morning wood?” you question, quirking a brow.

“Maybe. Maybe I just get hard seeing my girlfriend’s cute face.” His hands slide up towards your breasts, sharply pinching your nipples and tugging at them. You moan, arching your back and clenching your thighs together. “Especially that one. Love abusing your tits like this, babe.”

You whimper as he continues toying with you, giving sharp twists and tugs to earn more gasps from you. “A-Ah, Taehyung!”

“Look how desperate you are. Little slut,” Taehyung growls, shoving the shirt up over your tits. He lifts it over your face, blinding your vision. You feel his teeth on you, making you jolt and yelp in pain when he bit you. You squirmed under his hold, your movement kept to a minimum as he pinned you beneath him. It turned you on a bit how strong he was, forcing you to take what he gave you. You couldn’t even reach down to do anything about it, with the way the shirt was bunched up over your face and arms. He sucks harshly on your neck and chest, no doubt leaving hickeys on you.

He yanks the shirt the rest of the way off of you, and you’re left naked beneath him. Smug bastard was still fully clothed. He stares down at you with a satisfied daze, fingers now lightly dancing over the marks he left on you. The juxtaposition of his gentle touch compared to how ravenous he was before was jarring. “Everyone’s gonna know you’ve been fucked if you don’t cover these up the next few days.”

“You’re so possessive.”

His hand comes up to your neck, a light and comforting pressure being applied. “What makes you say that?”

“What about when you saw me dancing with Jungkook?” You pointed out.

“Oh,” his fingers tighten around your throat for a second, “that.”

“Looked like jealousy,” you say, sounding almost too smug for your own good.

“Hm, I think I prefer the term you used before.” He starts choking you properly now, making you feel light headed. “Possessive.”

You gasp as you feel him touch your pussy, fingers rubbing circles into your clit. You were wet already, go figure. “After all… I own you, don’t I?”

You mewl, whimpering under his touch. “Yes, sir. Please…”

“Please what?” Taehyung asks, yanking you up so your face was closer to his. “What do you want me to do, slut? I can do anything I want with you. You’re mine. All of you.”

“Yes. You own me, every part of me,” you agree, trying to gasp out the breaths to form the words. “Want you to cum in me. Every hole- I’m yours. Claim me.”

“Oh? Little freak,” Taehyung smirks. He yanks down his pants, springing out his cock. He’s hard already, an angry shade of red, precum already leaking from the tip. He gives it a few pumps, hissing at the feeling. “Guess we should start with your mouth then. Show me what you’re good for.”

You practically drool at the sight, mouth automatically watering. Your lips part, mouth ready and open, resulting in Taehyung slapping the tip against your lips. “Such a good girl. Knows just what to do when she sees a cock.” His hand reaches out to grasp your hair, pulling you closer to his erection. You catch the head in your mouth, immediately bobbing your head along with Taehyung’s rhythmic pace. 

He hisses, hips bucking automatically. He reaches too far for a moment, causing your eyes to well up with tears. You feel Taehyung’s cock twitch in your mouth at the sight. “Pretty slut. Love seeing you cry.”

You moan in response, trying to push your head down deeper. Taehyung groans, diving into your warm mouth, your throat a tight fit around his cock. “That’s right, choke on it. Show me how much you love having a fat cock in your throat.”

All you can do is whimper and service him as he continues using you to get off. His hips stutter, breath faltering before he yanks you off of him, drool dripping down your chin. You catch your breath, staring up at him in surprise. You keep your mouth open, patiently waiting for him to fuck your mouth again. He appears to appreciate it, fingers diving into your mouth, giving you something to suck on in the meantime. “You’re such a good slut for me,” he growls, pulling his fingers out to wipe the saliva on your cheek. “Go lay on your back and spread your legs. Show me what’s mine.”

You don’t hesitate to do what he asks, getting in position as he climbs over you. He reaches over to his phone, and before you can question him on his plans he’s kissing you deeply. He smacks your inner thigh, making you flinch and keep your legs open. His thumb circles your clit, immediately giving you pleasure and making your knees go weak. “There’s someone I wanna tell first about us dating.”

You furrow your brows, confused. “Who?”

“Jungkook.” You hear his phone buzzing, looking down at his screen to see he was calling Jungkook. Before you can make any commentary or protests, he plunges two digits inside of you, making you gasp as he locates your g-spot with expert precision. “Want him to hear how well I fuck you.”

“Hello?”

Taehyung grins, bringing the phone up to your ear, making you hold it, the volume already turned up for you two to hear him perfectly. “It’s for you, baby.”

“J-Jungkook?” You stammer the words out, trying to even your breathing as Taehyung moves his fingers faster, thumb continuing to roll over your clit. Fuck, if he kept this up, you’ll be coming in minutes.

“Y/N? How come you’ve got Taehyung’s phone?” Jungkook’s voice didn’t sound nearly as questioning or as confused as it should’ve. “Are you there with him, still?”

“Y-yeah, he’s- o-oh…” You accidentally let out a moan, feeling the warm, soft sensation of Taehyung’s tongue on your pussy.

“He’s what?” Jungkook’s voice sounds deeper than usual right now. Raspier. “What’s he doing, Y/N?”

You whimper, fingers tightening on Taehyung’s roots, pulling at his scalp. “H-his tongue is…”

“Where’s his tongue?”

“…on my pussy.” You feel your face burn as you say it out loud, feeling embarrassed despite the fact Jungkook couldn’t even see the indecent acts you were committing.

“Fuck.” Jungkook sounds so breathless already. Was he turned on? “Does it feel good, princess?”

Your thighs jolt at the sudden nickname, hips jumping as you ride Taehyung’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, simply groaning as he continues to devour you. “Yeah, feels so good. Feel like I’m gonna cum any minute.”

“Gonna cum while I’m listening? Like some kind of slut?” Jungkook snickers. “Gonna let me hear those pretty moans?”

“Yes, yes, yes…” You felt the band of pleasure begin to tighten, your toes curling in anticipation. “Taehyung, Jungkook…”

“Fuck, always wondered what you’d sound like moaning my name,” Jungkook rasps. “Want me to talk you through it? Want me to call you a dirty slut while you cum in Taehyung’s mouth?”

“Mm, fuck, I’m so close. Please.”

“Really wish I was there. I bet you’d love for me and Taehyung to tag team you, huh? I bet we’d ruin you.”

You clench around Taehyung’s fingers, tightening as you neared your end. Taehyung released your clit momentarily with a wet pop, speaking loudly enough for Jungkook to hear. “She really liked that, Kook. Greedy pussy is sucking me in.”

“Yeah,  I knew she would.” Jungkook lets out a sharp hiss. He must be touching himself right now. “Knew she was secretly a slut. Just needed to get dicked down, huh, Y/N?”

You remembered why Taehyung wanted Jungkook to hear in the first place. His possessiveness.“T-Taehyung and I are dating now.”

“That’s great news, Y/N. I’m happy for you both.” You could hear the low purr in his voice. “Wanna know the best part about that?”

“What?” Your voice was strained, so close to the edge.

“Best friends share everything.”

You come apart on Taehyung’s fingers, curling in as you ride out your orgasm. You don’t get much time to recover, though, only getting in a few shallow breaths before Taehyung’s mouth is claiming yours. You let out a shaky moan, tasting yourself on his tongue. You let out a gasp as you feel him line up with your entrance, shoving himself into you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, hastily pumping into you as he pants against your mouth, eyes boring into yours. “Liked hearing that, huh? Liked having him hear what you sound like when you cum? Want me and Jungkook to share you? One cock not enough?”

You can barely form words, moaning as Taehyung pummels you. “N-No, love your cock, I-“

“Shh, it’s ok baby.” Taehyung’s coos are soft and condescending, a stark contrast from the rough way he manhandled you, trying to reach as deep as possible. “Should’ve known you were a greedy thing. I’m prepared to spoil you.” He gives you a sweet kiss, hand flying down to touch you. “I’m not that selfish anyways, I’ve learned to share my toys. Jungkook doesn’t play as nice as me though, sweetheart. Sure you can handle him?”

Jungkook chuckles at that. “She can handle it. Say, Y/N, what’re you made for, huh?”

Your cheeks burn with humiliation. You turn your head away from the phone, only for Taehyung to aggressively grab your jaw, swinging your head back to the phone. “Answer him, slut.”

You let out a whimper, feeling so overstimulated and overwhelmed, the edge that was coming your way once more simply tantalizing. “Cock,” you say softly.

“Hm? Couldn’t hear you.”

“I’m made to take cock,” you moan out, eyes beginning to cross from how well Taehyung was fucking you.

“What a good girl,” Jungkook cooes, the vibrato of his voice caressing your ears. “You’re right. Not so stupid all the time.”

Your orgasm washes over you for a second time, and Taehyung has to pull out abrubtly to keep from coming. He gives his soaked cock a few more strokes, breathing heavily. He’s hovering over you, his deep pants echoing in your ear opposite from his phone. His hands run up and down your waist, letting you both catch your breath. You stare down at his erection, lubricated with both your wetness and his pre-cum. “Why didn’t you cum?” you ask, breathless.

“Did you forget already?” Taehyung laughs breathlessly. “Jungkook’s right, you are stupid. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He quickly flips you over on your stomach, hiking your hips up to present your ass to him. You squeal when his hand comes down with a loud crack, stinging your skin. His lips brush over the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “One more hole, baby. All of you is mine, remember?”

You let out an obscene moan when his tongue presses against the rim, circling and teasing you. You had never before been touching in that area, and while you were more than happy to let Taehyung be your first, the sensations were unfamiliar. “Taehyung!”

He hums against you, tongue starting to dive in. “You seem to like this already, huh? Little anal slut.”

“What’s he doing to you, Y/N? You’re sounding kind of pathetic.”

“He’s-he’s eating out my…” You moan, feeling his tongue dive into you, face buried. “My ass.”

“You’re so dirty. Can’t believe you like getting your ass eaten,” Jungkook moans. “You’re such a dirty slut. You sound so needy even though you just got fucked.”

“I can’t help it. It feels so good.” 

“Only nasty little girls like getting their ass played with,” Jungkook scolds. “Admit it.”

“I’m- I’m a nasty slut who likes having her ass played with.” You bite down on your lower lip, feeling like you were going crazy. “Taehyung, please.”

Taehyung pulls away, letting his thumb circle the rim before pushing inside, pumping inside you slowly to get you used to the sensation. Your mouth drops into an ‘o’ form, concentrating on the vile pleasure being awarded to you.

“She’s so wet,” Taehyung comments, reaching for his bedside drawer to yank out lube, pouring out a generous amount. You moan, fisting the sheets as he starts pumping his fingers into you. “Dripping all over my sheets just from me eating her ass.” He pulls out his finger to dive back in, letting you feel the sensation of his tongue. He comes back up, fingers returning to scissor your hole, stretching you out in preparation. “Likes every nasty thing I do to her.”

“Y/N, can I FaceTime you when he finally puts it in your ass?”

You recall Taehyung’s earlier comment, and look back to him. He strokes his cock, aligning it with your back entrance. “Hurry up and call, Kook. I won’t be able to last much longer.”

You’re greeted with a different notification, and soon Jungkook’s face graces your screen. You see he’s shirtless, in only his boxers, the waistband pulled beneath his balls to let his cock spring free. He’s laying in bed, cheeks flushed a heavenly color, phone pulled back enough for you to see him jerking his enormous cock for you to see. “Jungkook, fuck!” You blurt out the words as Taehyung starts to push the tip inside.

“Like what you see?” Jungkook snickers. He had no right being that confident in his generous size.

You glower at the screen, biting your lip as you shamefully nod your head. “Yes.”

“Want it in your mouth?” Nod. “Pussy?” Nod. “What about your tight ass?” Another nod. You moan, sounding purely pornographic as Taehyung slowly inched deeper into you. “Fuck, Y/N, you look so hot like this.”

“I think that’s the first nice thing you’ve said all call.”

“I think you like the fact I’m so mean to you. If you wanted nice you wouldn’t have wanted Taehyung.” Jungkook’s hand sped up as he watched your expressions. “How does it feel?”

“Weird,” you say honestly. Taehyung finally gets as deep as he can, pulling his hips back to fuck you. You can tell from the tremor in his thighs he won’t last much longer. “But good. Dirty and amazing all at once.”

“Mm, Taehyung’s gonna have to train you to take a cock up your ass regularly, so you’re ready to be used.” You whimper at that, hearing Jungkook’s voice crack as he reached the edge. “Maybe he’ll let me help.”

“He wants me to slut you out to him so bad,” Taehyung chuckles in your ear. “Maybe I’ll let you suck his cock whenever he’s having a bad day. Or I’ll have him help me punish you when you’ve been too much of a brat.”

“I would’ve helped you earlier,” Jungkook groans, getting closer to climax. “Would’ve spanked that pussy til it was all puffy and red, would’ve made her cry.”

“Hear that, slut? We’ve got a lot of plans for this tight snatch of yours.” Taehyung reaches down to grab it possessively, nails slightly scratching you as his hips falter. “Fuck, I’m coming.”

“Come in me, please sir,” you beg. Taehyung rewards you, hips flush against yours as he empties his load as deep into you as he could. Jungkook finally lets out his release too, and you see cum coat his chest. His moan sounds absolutely delicious, and you’re left quivering as Taehyung’s sweaty form slumps against yours, worn out.

All three of you are left gasping for air.

Taehyung reaches for the phone. “We’ll call you later, Kook. Still on for Valorant tonight?”

“Yeah man, talk to you later.”

Jungkook hangs up, leaving you and Taehyung alone, sweaty and breathless. Taehyung curls up next to you, cuddling you close as he buries his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. “Ready for breakfast, beautiful?”

[elizabethrobertajones]

Dean & Cas Are In Love

A hopefully one day conclusive study of these assholes, hopefully told as briefly as I can.

[it went fuckin canon? Rendered useless in my own job. Posting these gifsets from my drafts for @mittensmorgul​ who can make better use of them than me.]

-------

I think I giffed the first 4 just because no one can resist that hug and “nice peach fuzz” boop. The raw affection while Cas stays stock still because he’s living an entirely different genre of survival horror to Dean. You know, Dean in an action RPG with one clear objective (handily these are often like, Find Wife, for a generic action guy). And Cas is in some sort of indie psychological horror where the very concept of Wifey is poison and he must resist the temptations of Save Wife to paradoxically Save Wife. 

I think Gif 5 is right after “we’re getting out of here” just to seal Dean’s pride in having accomplished his objective and heard the quest completion music. 

Then a gif of Benny cutting in because this nonsense has gone on long enough and he can see Cas is resisting all this and Dean after a minute of this conversation is wilfully blind to what is plain to Benny: Cas is resisting all this good cheer, and to Benny this is suspicious because you SHOULD only want to get out of Purgatory. Benny is being used here to show the absolute blinders Dean has on when it comes to Cas: to have a straight guy to the dynamic (ironically) simply to display that Dean is NOT on a simple emotional level here, and if he wasn’t already proving to be compromised over Cas in getting here, now they’ve arrived it’s become abundantly clear he’s on a whole other level with Cas to Benny when we’re talking Brothers In Arms.

(I mean Dean has a whole subtextually gay thing with Benny too, who comes across incredibly queer and in like a sad gay movie with Dean in the Benny-centric episodes, so when I say they exemplify Brothers In Arms and Benny is the straight guy, I am talking by Supernatural standards.) 

The I Prayed To You line then drops one of the biggest bombs in all of Destiel, and in later years will be amplified by the Longing Retcon two seasons later, which implies all prayer to a specific angel doesn’t need a whole formal letterhead and stamp and mailing address carefully written on it before it can be sent, but can just be a quick drunk text from your heart with no conscious intent. Making this entire year 1000x worse from Cas’s survival horror game perspective. Even before that, of course, this was the most dramatic statement of emotional intent from Dean we’d gotten thus far and as with the “has too much heart” statement being a thesis on Cas, this became basically the tentpole evidence for Dean’s point of view on Destiel, proving how much he cared.

Cas then reveals a sliver of how rough it’s been for him, and shattered Dean’s bubble with the explanation of where he went on arrival in Purgatory and why. That it was another self-sacrificial gambit, and a forbidden star-crossed lovers type thing of Cas being near Dean would doom him simply by proximity. Nom nom nom tropes.  

[cyren-myadd]

Do you have a snippet???

I love the squidward meme, that's how i feel when i ask for snippets too 🤣 here you go you poor beggar, Ch. 17: Spare the Rod, will be posted this Sunday!

“Oh Miles,” when Quaritch finally spoke, his voice was painfully gentle. “I’m not here to punish you. A punishment means you did something wrong, and son, the only thing you’ve done is exactly what I was expecting you to do. The one who’s done something wrong is me. It was stupid of me to think you would pick the easy way. Giving you the option in the first place was a mistake.”

Spider narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“I see you still don’t get it. Let me put things this way.” Began Quaritch. “You met my dog, Cupcake, today, and I’m sure you saw how well trained she is after your little escape attempt. I only have to give a command once and she’ll do anything I ask without hesitation.”

His words made Spider shudder, remembering how Lopez had stood still and let Spider hit him with a rock under Quaritch’s orders.

“But she wasn’t always like that. You may have noticed Cupcake looks a little different than the other dogs. That’s because she’s part wolf. There’s a reason they say dogs are man’s best friend. It’s in their nature to serve man; obedience brings them joy. Wolves on the other hand? They’re wild animals. It’s in their nature to fight, not to obey.

“Now, when the labcoats first gave me Cupcake, this caused some problems. The other dogs learned to obey their masters quickly, but Cupcake was a bit of a rebel. She would ignore me and try to run away whenever she got the chance. No matter how much I punished her, she stayed just as wild as she’d always been. This made me angry, but only at first. After a while, I realized there was no point in getting angry. She was just an animal doing what her instincts told her to do after all. No point in getting mad at nature. Once I realized this, I was able to make a lot of progress with her. I stopped punishing her out of anger and started… how should I put it? Disciplining her.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Spider asked.

“Oh, no, not at all. Punishment is meant to hurt. When you get angry with someone, you punish them for pissing you off. Take Sully for example. He needs to be punished for what he’s done. Discipline, on the other hand, is completely different. It’s done out of love, not anger, and the goal is to teach a lesson. See, once I started disciplining Cupcake instead of punishing her, acting out of love instead of anger, I finally got the results I wanted. She’s learned that obedience brings her joy.”

Quaritch ran a gentle hand over Spider’s peach fuzz. “So, no, Miles, I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to discipline you, because I love you.”

[blubushie]

how long did it take you to grow a beard on t? ive been on it 8 months and zero sign of facial hair yet :(

(Checks calendar) Uh... Four years.

I'm gonna assume you're FtM here for general ease, correct me if I'm wrong.

Please bear in mind that my being intersex HEAVILY skews things. I was kept at a VERY low dose of testosterone for those four years (14-18)—basically only enough to ensure I wouldn't get osteoporosis because of my missing ovary (which was removed at 14). I never got a bolus dose so my voice never deepened. My body remained more or less androgynous. At 17 I went to my own doctor in Georgia, took advantage of their intersexism and desire to "fix" me, and was placed on a low adult dose of androgel. I was on that for about 3 months to stabilise before being put on injected pellets for another 10 months, during which my beard grew in. I started getting peach fuzz by 3 months in which still on Androgel, by 6 months in I was growing a really shitty moustache. But it still wasn't a bolus dose, and while my voice deepened somewhat depending on how I position my tongue and whether or not I'm speaking with my chest, it did not drop.

I had my last testopel appt in February of 2019. Five months later my testosterone ran out and I haven't been on testosterone for 5 years since up until April of this year, when I went back on Androgel. I have a testopel appt in July.

I'm telling you this so you understand that my experiences heavily skew my history and success with testosterone. My body had been slowly masculinising for three years until I got put on a higher dose, which basically jump-started the facial hair cycle, and since then my beard has had five years to figure out its schtick (though it's starting to fill out more now that I'm at a high adult dose again).

Really, you need to look elsewhere. Are you noticing a difference on T? Any bottom growth? More body hair? Is it affecting your voice? Is your body fat redistributing to a masculine pattern? How's your libido? Are you getting new acne anywhere?

If these things haven't changed in 8 months, then your T levels are too low. If they have, then don't worry. Think of how long it took your body to feminise during puberty. Couple years, right? It's probably gonna take about that long for T. Cuz all things considered, you are going through puberty again.

Also, genes have got a LOT to do with it. If a lot of your ancestral history is Native American, East Asian (especially Chinese), or Mexican, you probably won't grow much of a beard or chest hair. Bonus points to that though—if you're any of these, you probably won't experience much male pattern baldness either.

With time—and the right dose—it all comes down to genes. My dad can grow a full beard, I can grow a full beard, my dad has a full head of hair at 75, I have a full head of hair. No clue about my mum's side because she's adopted and we don't know who her birth parents are, so the jury's still out on whether or not my hair stays as I get older.

Just be patient, mate. It'll come to you in time. And if it doesn't, bring it up to your doctor if testosterone isn't doing anything to your body, cuz it means you either need a higher dose, or your body is converting your testosterone to oestrogen. Best way to check that? Get a blood test for testosterone.

Chookas! Here if you need me.

Also, protip: if/when you grow a beard, if you choose to grow it out long like Kratos or some shit, it WILL be patchy. There's no helping it. Massage your jaw because applying pressure to your follicles stimulates growth (males grow facial hair to protect against impact during fights since jawbones break easily—massaging the places where you want growth stimulates your follicles to grow more hair to protect against impact). And also just... Don't cut it. Beards are naturally kinda patchy, but at a certain length they fill out. So don't shave! That thing you hear about shaving promoting hair growth? That's bullshit! Just massage! (This works for anywhere you grow hair btw! Yeah even your scalp! But it will not reverse male pattern baldness.)

[animal-lover-forever]

Guys! I just woke up and had a thought.

So the mutagen is all about transforming people/animals into the last thing they touch. But we all know those rules don't quite work with Splinter.

Well, what if instead of mutating into a human/rat hybrid/mutant, he mutated into a human/rat/turtle hybrid/mutant?

He has a shell, his skin is green and he doesn't really have any fur. (More like peach fuzz.) His face shows more resemblance to a rat with his snout, teeth, and ears. He still has a rat tail too. He would still have his rat paws/hands but he would have 3 fingers instead of 4. He runs colder than a human but has an easier time generating body heat than the turtles. He can now hold his breath for an hour or so. (Longer than a human or rat, but not as long as the turtles.) He would be less likely to brumate than the turtles when it gets cold, but he would still find himself becoming a bit more tired during the winter.

...

I don't know. I just think about the times Splinter picked up the turtles and still turned into a humanoid rat.

And 2012 TMNT has proved that multiple things can mutate together. Ex: the Turducken/Chimera & Justin. (There might be others, but I can't remember right now.)

My point is, Splinter should totally be part turtle along with part rat. He came in contact with the turtles at the same time as the rat (or human[s]) if not later. Which means the turtle DNA should probably take priority.

But what do you guys think?

[eriquin]

The Trolley Problem, Part 30

Another thing happens to make Steve realize how much information he's missing.

(master post)

Steve’s alarm went off again. It roused him from a nightmare that was quickly fading away. Something about chasing monsters and flickering lights. At least this time there weren’t any Russians. 

He managed not to slap it with his bad hand this time, and he made sure to set it to ring again the next day. He still had to figure out how to deal with El being in his house before his parents came back, so he couldn’t afford to sleep in. 

As if thinking about El had summoned her, he heard a gentle tap at his door. She jumped back when he opened it, even though he tried not to look scary. 

“Someone is here,” she said. There was a scared little quiver to her voice. 

He went across the hall to look out the window from his mom’s craft room. Tommy’s truck was in the driveway and he and Carol were climbing out. “It’s just Carol and Tommy coming back,” he said. “Just like they said they would, remember?”

El nodded and smiled a little, but she stayed in the hallway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’ll go let them in,” he said. “You just woke up, right? Go, uh, brush your teeth and stuff, I guess?” He pointed at the bathroom, and she nodded and disappeared into it.

Carol and Tommy looked very nervous at the door, and Carol pushed past him to get inside. “El’s still here, right?” she asked once he closed the door. “Is she okay?”

“I think so,” Steve said, suppressing a yawn. “She’s upstairs brushing her teeth. What’s going on?”

“I gotta check something,” Carol said. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the back of the house, where his parents’ bedroom was. Steve looked at Tommy for answers, but he just frowned and shook his head. Carol came back quickly, holding something yellow. “I was right.” She held it up for them both to see. It was a t-shirt from Benny’s diner. 

Steve frowned at it. “What does that mean?” 

“There were cops at Benny’s this morning,” Tommy said. “They wouldn’t let us in. Said something about an investigation.”

“Oh, did Benny’s close already?” Steve said. “I forgot that happened this year.” 

The stairs creaked, and they looked up to see El quietly coming down them. She looked spooked, as usual. Carol bit her lower lip. “El, sweetie? Were you at Benny’s diner yesterday?”

El nodded slowly. “He gave me that,” she said, pointing at the t-shirt. 

“Wait, what?” Steve asked. “Benny did? But he... What happened?” 

“Bad men,” El said. She pointed her fingers like a gun at Steve’s head. 

“Shit,” Carol said, twisting the shirt up in her hands. “That’s what we thought. The lab, right? They found you? They shot Benny?” El nodded slowly. 

Tommy tapped Steve on the arm. “Did that happen last time?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I thought... I mean, I knew Benny died, but they said it was suicide.”

“It’s got to be a cover-up,” Carol said. “The lab would stage it like a suicide so people don’t talk about it too much. I wonder if the cops will be fooled by it. They’re a bunch of bumpkins.”

Steve rubbed his forehead, trying to come to terms with the new information. He wondered what else he’d missed, what else people had failed to tell him or that he’d just forgotten. “Oh my God. They killed Benny.” 

“Those bastards,” said Tommy. They had a somber, quiet moment while they all processed it. 

El came the rest of the way down the stairs and wrapped her arms around Carol’s waist. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. 

“Yeah, me too,” Carol said, running her hand over El’s peach fuzz. “We can’t stay long, though. We were gonna try to get some clothes for you, but somebody couldn’t figure out how a laundry room worked.” She gave Tommy a little smirk. 

Tommy just rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “Yeah, and we were gonna get breakfast, too, but... Well, at least Steve’s house has coffee?” 

“Yeah, I’ll make it,” Steve said, heading towards the kitchen. “And maybe we’ve got cereal or something.” He stopped short in front of the fridge. “Oh, wait! Eggos! El loves Eggos.” He took the box out of the freezer and held them out at her.

El just looked confused. She was still tucked under Carol’s arm. “What are Eggos?” 

Steve stopped short. “You don’t... Okay. I’ll make some for you.” He shook his head and went to put them into the toaster. 

Carol said something to El about raiding closets and getting her something new to wear, and took her out of the kitchen. Tommy started making coffee while Steve stared at the toaster. Tommy always put too much coffee in the filter and Carol complained, but Steve wasn’t going to stop him right now. Strong coffee sounded like something he could use.

“You doing okay, man?” Tommy asked. “Like, uh...” He trailed off when Steve looked over at him.

Steve laughed a little bit. “Not really, Tom,” he said. “I’m just fucking this up at every turn, aren’t I?”

“No! No way,” said Tommy. “I mean, this whole thing is pretty messed up. There’s a monster and people at the lab are killing people.”

“I should’ve known what was going to happen to Benny,” Steve said. He leaned on the counter and put his head in his hands. “I just... Like, I don’t know if someone told me and I just forgot, or if no one bothered to tell me, you know? I’m just dumb old Steve, there to watch the kids.” 

Tommy hopped up onto the counter next to him and looked confused. “Seriously? Come on, man. That can’t be right. You know all this stuff.”

“Literally, if anyone else came back instead of me, they would’ve done a better job,” Steve said. “Nancy? She would’ve probably exposed the lab in the papers by now. Jonathan would’ve been home to help his brother, or Mrs. Byers would have... Christ, she doesn’t even know what’s going on now. Maybe that’s for the best, you know? So she doesn’t have to worry about her kids this time.”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Yeah, but you kept Will from getting taken, right? That’s gotta count for something.”

“I don’t know.” Steve felt his voice crack. “Was it worth it to let it get Eddie instead? Why couldn’t it have taken me, huh? I know how to deal with the Upside Down.” 

“Shit, man, don’t say that.” Tommy hopped down and pulled at Steve’s shoulders until he was standing up straight and facing him. “If it took you, who would explain all this stuff to us? Munson? We wouldn’t have believed him.” 

“Yeah, but...” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t even know if he’s alive, Tommy. His uncle must be worried sick, and nobody’s telling him anything.”

“We’ll get him back, okay? Kill the monster, all that stuff. You said the girl knows how to open portals and stuff, right?”

“A gate. And yeah, when she’s older,” Steve said. “She’s just... She’s so little right now.” 

“Well, maybe she can open a little gate for us, and we can go get Munson and bring him back,” Tommy said. 

There was a squeak near the doorway as El appeared, with Carol right behind her. She was wearing one of Steve’s old outfits from middle school, a striped sweater and blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up. She pulled her hands into the sleeves of the sweater and held them up to her mouth, staring at them in shock. 

“A gate?” she asked quietly. “No. No gates.”

Steve stood up straight. “That’s not what...” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No, we won’t make you open a gate. Tommy was just, like, theorizing how we could get Eddie back. We’ll figure it out.”

El looked very serious. “He is trapped there?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “The demogorgon got him on Sunday.” 

“Demogorgon?” El asked, confused.

Steve frowned. “The monster, with the...” He held his hands in front of his face and mimicked it opening up like a flower. 

El flinched and nodded. “Demogorgon,” she said more confidently. “It got him.” 

Carol rubbed her back and got her to sit down at the counter. Steve put some Eggos on a plate for her and got out the syrup. Tommy finished making coffee, and put more Eggos into the toaster. Carol got out the juice for El while the rest of them had some very strong coffee. They ate breakfast mostly in silence.

“We’re going to need to get to school soon,” Carol said. She looked over at Steve. “You’re skipping again, right? Do you want me to call it in?” 

Steve shook his head. “Yeah, I’m skipping, but don’t bother calling. It doesn’t matter that much. Just keep an eye out for, like, anything weird. If you hear anything, call me from the payphone, okay?”

“What is school?” El asked.

“It’s like a prison, but for kids,” Tommy said.

“Dude,” said Steve. He gave Tommy a disbelieving look and gestured at El. “Really?”

“Christ, Tommy, you’re so insensitive,” said Carol.

Tommy held up his hands as an apology. “It was a joke!” he said. “I forgot where she came from, okay?”

El frowned. “But, what is prison?” she asked.

“There, see?” Tommy said. “She’s not even offended.” 

Steve sighed and dropped his head in defeat. “I just... I’ll tell you later, okay El?” 

They wrapped up breakfast, making an extra set of waffles for El because she was enjoying them after all. Carol came over to give her another hug on their way out and told her that she’d be back as soon as she could. Steve thought he heard her whisper something about ice cream again. It made El giggle.

Once they were gone, Steve went back upstairs to get dressed. He came out of his room to find El waiting in the hall for him. 

“You know the future,” she said. 

“Yeah, some of it,” Steve said. “Only the stuff I was involved with, though. I don’t know as much about what happens to you.”

“You have powers?” 

Steve shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think I lived it and then my mind traveled back. Maybe someone did it to me, sent me back here.” 

El frowned and crossed her arms. “You know about the gate.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I know about the gate under the lab. About the Upside Down and the monsters and stuff.”

Her lower lip quivered. “I opened it,” she said softly. “You know I opened it.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Steve. “I don’t really know why, though. And I know you close it, eventually, so there’s that.”

She looked down the hallway, towards the window. It was a clear day, and they could see the trees in the backyard through it. “There is no ‘why’,” she said. “There was a monster. Papa made me try to find it. I got scared. Then the gate opened. The monster came out.” She looked back at Steve. “I opened the gate but I did not mean to.” 

Steve leaned back against the wall and thought about it for a moment. He didn’t fully understand the situation, but he’d heard enough about the lab and the people who kept El there to know that ‘Papa’ was the person in charge and that she had always been afraid of him. She looked so much smaller now, hunched in on herself, that he just wanted to wipe away any guilt she was feeling about it. “It’s not your fault,” he said. 

She shook her head. “But, your friend is gone.” 

“Hey, I know,” he said. He slowly reached out to her, not sure if she was still feeling wary of him. She didn’t flinch, and let him put his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not your fault, either. You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t do anything on purpose.”

She shuffled towards him, just a half-step. He took it as a sign to open his arms and pull her closer. It was clear that she needed a hug, and she wrapped her little arms around his waist and squeezed him back tightly. He shut his eyes and mumbled the kind of things that he thought his mom would say. Things like, ‘it’s okay now’ and ‘it’ll be okay,’ even though he didn’t believe it at all. He wasn’t sure if El did, either. 

After a minute of this, she picked her head back up. She hadn’t been crying, just shaking a little. “Can I see him?” she asked. She held her hands up in a rectangle. “A picture?” 

Steve frowned and furrowed his brow in thought. “You mean Eddie?”

El nodded. “I can find him,” she said. She matched his expression. “I can try.” 

He took her by the hand and led her down to the living room, where his mom had stashed all his yearbooks. He got one every year, and Eddie was a senior and in a club. One of them probably had a picture of him, somewhere. They found one, and El squinted at it for a long time. She asked for a blindfold, so he got her one of his dad’s ties. He’d never seen her do this, but he knew that it helped for her to have some kind of static, too, so he switched on the stereo and turned it to an empty station. 

She sat on her knees with the yearbook in front of her and the stereo behind her. She tried for twenty minutes to find Eddie, until the nosebleed covered the top of her lip and Steve made her stop. She looked completely exhausted when she pulled off the blindfold, and he helped her get cleaned up.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was a little hoarse, like she was on the verge of crying. “I couldn’t find him.”

Steve pulled her into a sideways hug again. “I know,” he said. “It’s okay.” There was a small comfort in knowing that, even if she hadn’t seen him, at least she hadn’t seen his body. He offered to make her more Eggos and some ice cream to go with them. Then, they could curl up in the basement and watch television until she felt better, or until school was out and the rest of the kids came back. It was the best they could do.

[moodr1ng]

honestly im starting to rly dislike these "you dont need hrt to pass" "you dont need to lose weight to pass" posts bc its pretending passing is like, a thing unaffected by social norms and expectations and frankly its conflating "passing" with like, being legitimate in your gender as a trans person which is insane to me.

like, i started to socially transition at 15. shaved my head, wore mens clothes exclusively, wore at least one binder every single time i was outside (and typically at home too) if not two binders on top of each other, i shaved my hairline into a more masculine shape, i shaved my peach fuzz and put mascara on my sideburns and eyebrows, i never did anything slightly gender non-conforming because even the idea of painting my nails black sounded way too feminine, and i never passed. at best i would passingly be referred to as "young man" until i opened my mouth, at which point hearing my voice had everyone correct themselves to "miss" while profusely apologizing and reassuring me i definitely didnt look like a man. i could be in baggy jeans, a big hoodie, two binders and a shaved head and random men would still approach me on the street to hit on me. no efforts were ever enough. i did everything in my power and i never passed, until i started hrt at 21. 6 years of trying so hard and never succeeding, and in 6 months on t i could stealth as a cis man.

and thats like, because passing is not a judgment on how trans you are nor is it something removed from society. i didnt pass not because i wasnt "valid", not because i was doing something wrong, not because i failed in some way, but because passing is not something anyone can just decide to do regardless of anything else. passing depends on how other people see you. and because it does, it will always be influenced by other peoples biases rather than any of your beliefs.

so yeah, sometimes if youre fat thatll make people clock you. it did for me. sometimes before hrt you wont be able to pass. i didnt. i dont think just burying your head in the sand and insisting thats never true is actually helpful for anyone. i think it wouldve just made me feel like shit, honestly, when i was trying so fucking hard to pass and i couldnt pass for reasons outside of my control - to be told that actually, those things didnt matter and i didnt need them to pass. like, what does that imply about the real reasons im not passing, then??

you dont need hrt to be the gender you are. you dont need to lose weight to be the gender you are. you dont need any transition tools to be the gender you are. you dont need to cut your hair or grow it out, you dont need any particular clothing, you dont need any visible changes to be the gender that you are. and you also really do not need to pass to be the gender that you are, and if you dont pass - whether or not youre trying to - that means exactly nothing about you or your gender. maybe lets focus on that.

[doberbutts]

I had a bit of a question about your T journey if you don’t mind sharing about it.

I started T a little over a month ago and I’ve been astounded by the immediate changes because I’ve already started filling in real terminal facial hair instead of just peach fuzz, growing an adams apple, and getting some fat redistribution on the hips which has been super awesome, but has been leading me to wonder about the possibility of being intersex or having hormonal weirdness going on underneath the surface since it’s been so quick.

How did you go about talking to your doc about that/testing? Im not sure how to really broach the conversation

Well, some people do just get changes really fast, so I wouldn't discount that as a possibility. Especially if you weren't particularly virilized prior to HRT, you might just have gotten lucky! I already had many of these things even prior to HRT, to the point where multiple friends of mine trans and cis thought I started T the moment I stopped shaving my face, when the reality was that I just... stopped shaving my face and allowed the hair that was already there to regrow... and it continued to surprise people every time I told them no, I have not yet started HRT.

Like I had someone mad in my notes because she thought I'd already fully transitioned medically as a teenager and was incredibly jealous and bitter that she was in her early 20s and still couldn't access medical transition. Which is an unfortunate situation to be in but A: not really my fault and B: interesting assumption considering I started taking testosterone two months shy of my 30th birthday (meaning after that conversation, and I've now been on T just shy of 5 months) and still have my factory-installed parts.

So honestly I can say if you're not running into this sort of situation, it is very possible that you just got lucky with your timeline and that you are not intersex. I have known something was off about my hormone levels since I was a little kid, I just wasn't told the full information and my diagnosis was deliberately kept from me. I didn't go into this thinking that I was perisex, I've been trying to get answers regarding my intersex status for the past 5 years and it was just 5 months ago that I finally got the truth.

That said, if you are interested in a definitive answer, I would get a referral for an endocrinologist and tell them your symptoms and see if they find anything interesting. It is still possible to be intersex and not have any virilization, it just depends what type of intersex. A friend of mine spent most of their life thinking they were a perisex cis woman only to discover during completely unrelated abdominal surgery that they had a testicle in place of an ovary, making them intersex. They now also identify as nonbinary, after taking several years to come to terms with what that means for them, as they were a radfem for a spell and even after getting better still held some preconceptions. Again, there were signs that something was up, they at one point bled for over a year and then didn't bleed again for 5 months, and then started bleeding off/on every two weeks. But they weren't virilized, so they'd assumed it was something like PCOS [which can be considered intersex if virilization is occurring, but wasn't really at the time] or endometriosis [which is not intersex].

[death-in-a-handbasket]

more random and dumb ayatsuji yukito HCs

he hates bugs with a passion (he’s fine with spiders, not the big one)

he looks really weak and skinny like no muscle at all but is actually really strong

he can NOT grow a beard like it’s not possible (I doubt he can grow any body hair)

the glasses he wears are for fashion and he has really bad eyesight but refuses to get actual glass

He hates blood, like he can watch someone get brutally murdered but gets really upset when he sees his own blood, like a paper cut makes him feel like throwing up.

he can’t look in the mirror for too long because he doesn’t like how he looks like it just seems like something is wrong with his reflection.

he’s really bad with names

honestly the shit about bugs is totally valid (me too king) but other than spiders I feel like he’d also have a weird soft spot for moths? I don’t know they just feel like a good motif for him bro but that’s my personal feels

ALSO YEAH I know he’s tall and slim but I know he’s wiry as fuck and has a surprising amount of strength and dexterity? Like if his ability didn’t kill people he could make bank off being an assassin. imagine him working clay and that’s how his arms are so strong. yeesh ,, whew

also yeah I see him as a no hair man 100%,, bro looks like a doll I don’t think this man has to shave for shit he’s already smooth, also he’s pale with light hair to boot, it’s not like anything would show up anyways, best he can do is peach fuzz

now the glasses one is HILARIOUS, it’s not prescription but he still needs them 💀 please. he reads his books close so I’m betting this fucker is nearsighted

I feel like him seeing his own blood is really unnerving, like he doesn’t give a fat fuck about anyone else’s shredded remains but he nicks himself while working on a doll and bro is like

something something unnerved by the confirmation of his own humanity

ALSO ABSOLUTELY WITH THE MIRROR STUFF. CLUTCHES MY CHAPTER IN MY LITTLE GOBLIN HANDS

POINTS AT THIS. He doesn’t think he’s unattractive by any means but I think that bitch starts disassociating in front of his reflection fr

also me too I can’t remember names for shit. birthdays either. I’m sorry to everyone whose birthday and/or name I’ve forgotten 😔 it’s not intentional man

[snarltoothed]

okay… weird tangent. but like, brute force manual labor aside women actually ffr literally do everything better than men? even stereotypically manly things if the woman in question is interested in doing and (especially in the case of what i’m about to discuss) able to do the “man thing”.

i was thinking about it and honestly, i have never seen a woman with a beard or moustache whose facial heard was objectively unattractive… if you disregard the fact that facial hair in general never fits into what society considers “objectively attractive” for women.

women with beards aren’t that common right. there are not all that many women with actual full beards (probably more than you’d think considering that a lot of women remove their facial hair… even when it’s unpigmented peach fuzz… but dermaplaning is another fucking discussion), that’s just how sexual dimorphism works, women generally have lighter and lesser facial hair.

however… whenever a woman DOES have the hair growth pattern for a beard (for whatever reason) and grows it out… she always keeps it nice, clean, well-groomed, even shaped well if she boasts a thick enough face rug for shaping to matter… and it is obvious WHY, dgmw, i know women are socialized to care more about being attractive and “presentable” — but frankly some men will have the fucking ugliest unkempt beards and i think female socialization is correct on the “take some pride in your appearance” front with this one.

i literally had to explain to my last ex that he might come off as more professional in interviews if he like… invested in a beard trimmer and shaped it every so often. because the man’s beard was rectangular. like, disturbingly rectangular. i’ll give him credit for keeping it in… a bubble braid (?) most of the time, that was kinda cool aesthetically… but when he took those hairties out and smoothed out the kinks… the man looked like he’d walked straight out of minecraft.

and the thing is… he didn’t even know what i meant. he was like “what do you mean shape it?” and i just had to fucking white guy blink at him and patiently explain that the mid-length beards you see on like, “attractive” actors don’t just… grow in shaped like that and that men with longer facial hair often still trim small parts of it to shape it in a way that better flatters their faces? and that if he wasn’t sure how to shape it himself he could absolutely just get it done at the barber’s…

and of course he had to ask if i personally thought it would make him more attractive like dude… obviously, but i was bringing it up gently! and as a serious tip on how to maybe come off as more hirable in interviews which could’ve been completely unrelated to my personal thoughts about it because i literally don’t look hirable in my day to day either. not that this entire paragraph is even related to the point i just forgot how annoying men can be. i’m actually not entirely sure how asperbergers even became a thing, because i swear on my mother i have never met a man who DOESN’T have trouble reading social nuances. (i’m aware that aspergers is no longer a thing and that instead we now acknowledge that all parts of autism exist on a spectrum and i’m also aware that the nazis came up with it but please let a woman make a joke)

back to the actual point tho… like dude? you are in your early thirties and have had a beard since your mid twenties bro you… you aren’t familiar with the idea of being able to trim your beard into a different shape? that’s like being unaware of the existence of hairstyles as an elemenary schooler??? and did he just… never look in the mirror at any point before i mentioned this and notice that his beard was literally rectangular, right angles and all? or did he and he was just like “whatever i guess that’s just how my beard looks nothing i can do about that”? baffling.

and women, no on expects women to have facial hair, in fact it is discouraged. women with beards don’t have as many beard-having peers to learn from. and yet… they keep those beards looking fabulous.

even just a little moustache looks better on a woman, but that’s not a fair comparison. men never look good with JUST a moustache. it either looks like they’re a teenager, really into like… steampunk, or a creep of some sort depending on their natural hair growth and style of moustache.

[galaxofmuses]

" mmm ... may I pet Sky's point - ies, please? "

by ' point - ties ', she means his quills. a little hand slowly reached for Skyler's head & stopped just before they could make contact. she then wiggled her fingers.

" skuh ... Sky can show me how? " // ( for Sonic / Skyler 🥺 only if he wants to! though hedgehog quills won't pierce skin when relaxed, I think (?), it's fine if he doesn't want to take the risk ! )

Skyler was honestly hesitant from this moment and goes over to kneel over his innocent friend who is always so considerate to ask. 

“Hey Ari...” 

He takes a hesitant pause and then covers his concerns with a smile. Sky replies in a more softer tone then usual, but there is a slight stern yet not enough to scold the child.

 “I don’t think you want to pet these quills. They’re still pretty dangerous if you’re not careful enough.” 

Knowing that these quills did a number on Dr.Eggman’s machines and his lackys. The last thing he wants is to harm his good friend. Takes her hand to his peach fuzz muzzle with a grin.

“You can keep holding the potato face instead okay?”  

[danielpinalarts]

Just... drop the act

It happens all the time, doesn’t it? You scroll down social media and at some point you realize it’s that time of the year when the males are out there talking about their sadness. 

And they should, I have spent my entire life being treated as a man and even believing myself to be one for a while; and it *is* sad and that sadness and pain deserves to be talked about. But each time it’s the same argument: “We don’t get compliments, we don’t get affection, and women get a lot of it; women should fix that”.

I still remember the first time someone who was not my parents touched my cheek tenderly, the warmth of their hand, the almost tickling sensation of skin rubbing against a very early peach fuzz beard... it made me cry. Not because I had never received such a gesture, my parents were loving to the best of their abilities and I received hugs and kisses all my life but... not from other people. Other people were the ones who called me gay for wanting to get close to other men, the ones who beat me in the bathrooms for literally touching someone’s shoulder or hugging my friends.

I remember the first time someone I was attracted to told me I was handsome, I remember each and every piece of clothing I wore to shreds because someone, anyone, told me they looked good on me. So you see, those people who complain... I think they have a point and it’s still not on women to give it to us.

Every time they bring this up they stop short of the answer. “We don’t have affection, if we show affection we get dogpiled on... and we won’t do anything about it” the rest of the sentence seems to say. We can cry when someone hugs us, we can hide emotions without anyone noticing, we can freeze in terror when we desperately want to comfort someone and we can’t just reach out and touch them... we can fall into deeply toxic and abusive relationships as we feel the tender touch, the sex, the kisses will never happen again if we’re dumped... and even then we do nothing.

For all they claim to be warriors, brave and strong and put women down as weak and useless they still expect that pain to be resolved by them if it means we get to perpetuate that myth of the strong, stoic man who only ever cries at the touch of a woman; and never quite consider how hurt that strong man must be that he cries when loved.

We can hug each other, folks, we can tell each other “i love you”, we can compliment how we look, we can listen to how we feel, we can cry together, we can talk about love and not just sex. We not only can, we should, we must. We are humans, we need it we desire it. We built this and we can tear it down and if it kills manliness in the process what of it? what have we got out of it that we don’t delude ourselves into believing only we possess or deserve? I mean we got privileges, and that sure must feel nice but in exchange we lost everything

“ The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence towards women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves “ thing is: that part is not dead, it’s the one that cries for help and makes the hair on your neck stand on end when you feel the breathe of someone you love hit your chin  while you cuddle. 

It only dies when you do, and a lot of people try that, too

In my memory it’s a sunny monday, I am thirteen and my face is full of zits, my knees hurt because a group of kids pushed me down the stairs and tried to insult a manliness I still think I possess. 

It’s my last week at school before I go be homeschooled and begin the biggest depressive spiral of my life, one that takes me about ten years to clear.

I am eating with my friend with my eyes forward, our shoulders close but carefully apart, I don’t want to look at his neck or the way his arms are bigger as he hits puberty, I don’t want to feel his hand again when he gives me fakes tattoos, I want to eat my lunch and hope that it undoes the knot in my throat and lets me live a single day without giving them more ammo, and I kinda need someone right now and he’s my friends but the pain comes back and... “I like your hair” he says “it’s pretty”

My mum has said that a thousand times, she loves how curly it is, I always think she’s just being nice because I am a hideous, zit ridden, affeminate, dark skinned monstrosity —with about fifteen years of deconstruction ahead of me before I realize there’s nothing wrong in any of that. But right now it feels true, it feels truer than it has ever been: I am kinda cute.

We sit in silence for the rest of recess, I do not look at his face, and I ask my dad to shave my head when i get home.

I could’ve used a hug that day

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Can you please do a smutty continuation of tattoos please???

I am such a thirsty bitch, so of course I will! I kinda got a little carried away with this one, it has got the SPICE. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

*NSFW WARNING - MINORS DNI*

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Thomas would have arguments about this, that, and the other, it never went farther than a makeup make out session.

But hearing Thomas say that he loved you for the first time, it lit a fire in you that you knew wouldn't be put out by a simple make out session.

You held Thomas' hand tightly as you both rushed back to camp, quickly finding yourselves in the privacy of your shared hut. Your nerves were skyrocketing, the anticipation of what was to come exciting you and making your hands shake.

Before the Maze, you and Thomas had only been intimate a few times. You both had only just started to learn about each other's bodies before W.C.K.D. separated you. At the back of your mind, you wondered how much you would remember about how to please each other. There have been plenty of opportunities to be with each other ever since coming to the Safe Haven, but no other moment felt right until this night.

When Thomas kept looking back at you with an excited grin, you knew everything would be okay.

As soon as the door was shut, Thomas lifted you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly to the bed. You giggled as Thomas threw you onto the bed, quickly placing himself to hover over you as he kissed and nipped at your neck. He grinned wide as he helped you remove your shirt, trailing sloppy kisses across your collarbones, licking up your jaw until he came back to your lips.

You quickly flipped Thomas over so that you were straddling him, helping him remove his own shirt then stopping to simply look at him, slowly trailing your digits down his torso while trying to catch your breath.

Thomas couldn't help but blush under your intense gaze, just one look conveying how much you loved him. "You mean so much to me." He whispered, sitting up and wrapping his arms around you, trailing soft kisses up your neck.

Thomas' skin felt scorching against yours, his teeth gently pulling at your sensitive flesh making you sigh heavily.

You brought Thomas' hand up to your mouth, kissing his knuckles. You smiled seeing his tattoo, your name being a permanent reminder of your unique connection. You placed a gentle kiss to the ink, Thomas letting out a surprised moan, quickly replacing it with a sharp chuckle. "That felt so good." He awed.

"What?" You giggled, confused.

"When you kissed the tattoo, it felt...really fucking good."

"H-How? It's just a tattoo."

"I don't know." Thomas stammered, a wide grin on his face as he brought your tattooed wrist up to his mouth.

You gasped as Thomas licked across your wrist, a spark of electricity jolting through your body that went straight to your clit. "What the fuck?" You quietly exclaimed.

"You felt that, right?"

It was an odd discovery. All this time, you've never had that happen, you and Thomas never really gave any special attention to each of your tattoos either. If W.C.K.D. did give you those tattoos, why would they make it so that it felt so amazing to have it kissed or licked by each other? Maybe they didn't put those tattoos there, but it was some other divine being that connected you. Either way, the thought that you and Thomas might truly be soulmates aroused you to no end.

You crashed your lips back against Thomas', starting to slowly grind yourself on his hard erection, the sudden friction making Thomas groan into your mouth. You pulled back to unclip your bra, Thomas staring at your breasts with half lidded eyes, getting high off just the sight of you.

You sighed heavily when Thomas took one of your nipples into his mouth, his hot, wet tongue causing more heat to pool at your core, making you ache painfully for him. Thomas hummed in satisfaction when you let out an impatient whine, trailing back to bite down on your bottom lip gently. "These need to come off." Thomas growled, pulling at the button of your pants.

You chuckled when Thomas flipped you over, kissing and biting his way down your torso until he arrived at the hem of your pants, slowly pulling them down your legs. You watched with lust filled eyes as he took the waistband of your underwear in between his teeth, pulling them down your legs just as slow, all while keeping eye contact with you.

You whined frustratingly as you felt Thomas' breath on your core, almost feeling his peach fuzz on your flesh before he moved back up to kiss your pouting lips. You didn't stay frustrated for long before you felt one of Thomas' digits slide in between your folds, smiling smugly at your breathy moan. "So impatient..." He smirked, watching your expression intensely as he inserted a finger into you easily, almost moaning in sync with you. "And so wet for me..."

You gasped as Thomas inserted another digit while thumbing your clit, then leaning down to devour your moans as he finger fucked you. You held onto the back of head roughly, tangling your fingers in his hair, eliciting a groan from him. With your other hand, you reached down and started to palm his still clothed erection. "These need to come off too." You whispered as you placed a kiss just below his ear.

Thomas removed his fingers from you to reach for his belt buckle, only for you to stop him. "Let me." You smirked as you pushed him down below you, quickly undoing his buckle and taking his off his pants with fervor.

You smiled up at Thomas' needy gaze as you placed a kiss on his brief covered cock, just the simple act making his throb with anticipation. You then freed his erection, hearing a sigh of relief from the man as you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock. "Fuck, Y/n..." He whispered, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

You quickly leaning forward to grab his hand and move it away from his mouth. "Don't do that. I wanna hear you, baby." You continued sucking the head of his dick, his wanton sighs of pleasure traveling straight to your core.

You lowered your mouth further on his dick, surprising yourself with how far you got without gagging, hearing Thomas' first actual moan making you feel a sense of pride. Maybe you haven't forgotten how to please him.

You smirked as you felt Thomas buck against you, his needy moans getting louder the faster you bobbed your head, eventually he stopped you. "You were gonna make me come, baby. I want this to last."

Thomas gently cupped your face and leaned forward, kissing you passionately as you moved to straddle him, moaning into his mouth as you started to grind yourself on his now saliva coated cock. But he quickly flipped you over yet again, not breaking the kiss while kneading your breasts, placing himself in between your legs.

You felt yourself throb at the sight of Thomas pumping his cock, lining himself up at your entrance, first looking to you in confirmation. "Please, Thomas..." You begged, the need for him was all you could think about.

You and Thomas both moaned loudly as he pushed himself inside you, stretching your walls deliciously. "Fuck..." Thomas stuttered, your cunt perfectly encompassing his cock.

Thomas wasted no time, thrusting into you at a mildly brisk pace, his cock quickly finding your G spot, his quicken pace hitting it over and over again made you see stars, your eyelids fluttering closed as you held on to Thomas' shoulders for dear life. "Oh, Thomas..." You moaned, "you feel so g-good..."

You cried out as Thomas thrusted at a harsher pace, him groaning loudly as he felt your walls clench around him tightly. "Ah, I'm so close." Thomas moaned, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, as was yours.

"Touch me, Thomas, please."

Thomas eagerly reached down, using his middle and index fingers to rub your clit in fast tight circles, taking your hand and placing rough sloppy kisses on your tattoo, the sensation so intense your grip on Thomas' shoulders tightened to the point you broke skin, the sudden stinging pain causing his cock to twitch inside you.

Thomas' moans got louder as he neared his climax, burying his head in your neck, biting down on your flesh slightly while still keeping a constant stimulation on your clit. Suddenly feeling a rush of heat to your core, you brought Thomas' lips to yours, leaning your forehead against his, looking into his eyes as long as you could before they eventually closed tightly as your orgasm washed over you.

You then grabbed his wrist, copying his previous actions and kissing on his tattoo, causing his eyes to widen and let out an animalistic growl.

"Yes, Y/n, fuck!" Thomas groaned, your walls pulsing around him as you rode out your intense orgasm and your tongue on his tattoo making him reach his own climax, moaning your name as he filled you up with his cum.

Thomas collapsed beside you, wiping away the bead of sweat that had traveled down the side of his face while you placed your head on his chest with an exhausted, content sigh. You smiled as you heard his heartbeat slowly even out, relaxing as you ran your fingers up and down his torso. "Why did we wait so long to start doing this again?" Thomas chuckled, taking your hand and giving your knuckles a gentle kiss.

You chuckled back, shrugging. "I don't know. I guess we've just been so busy with everything else."

"Yeah." Thomas replied softly, gently grabbing your jaw and guiding your lips to his. "I've missed this, being with you."

You smiled fondly. "Me too."

Thomas opened his mouth to say something but hesitated, but seeing the lovingly curious look in your eyes, he had to say this. "I...If you're that worried, I won't go back." Thomas almost melted when he saw your eyes light up.

"Really?"

"I have everything I could ever need right here, right next to me." Thomas said as he caressed your cheek, looking at you like you were the whole universe.

You blushed, his statement bringing tears to your eyes. "Only if that's want you really want. If you're dead set on going back, I won't stop you."

Thomas shook his head. "I wouldn't risk our relationship for anything...anything."

You quickly pulled Thomas in for another passionate kiss, finally reaching a true understanding feeling just as amazing as the orgasm that he had just given you. "I love you so much." You grinned, planting kisses all over his face.

Thomas chuckled, laying back down and pulling you to lay on his chest again, the both of you feeling like all was right in your own little world.

~~~~~~~~~~

if i had a dick, it would be hard right now

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii

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

word count: ~9.4k

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

You’re his only solace. 

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

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

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

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

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

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

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

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

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

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

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

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

Waste away, all alone.

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

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

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

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

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

It’s a harder descent. 

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s grim in its predictability. 

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

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

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

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

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

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels comfortable, warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to be called?”

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

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

His mouth is dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

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

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

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

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

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

...

The next days are long.

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

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

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

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

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

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

It feels safest with you near.

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

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

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

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

“Can I show you some?” 

“...Constellations?”

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

Whatever you’d like, he’d do. 

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

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

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

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

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

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

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

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

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

So, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you see now?” 

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

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

...

After that night, you always share the same couch. 

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

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

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

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

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

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

“I can do it myself.”

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

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

Safety scissors would be even easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It bothers him— 

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror. 

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

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

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

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can. 

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant. 

All the same, the trim feels good. 

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

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

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

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

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

“M-make it stop!” 

Keigo stills.

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

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!” 

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

“Please, please!”

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

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

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

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

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

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

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

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

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

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

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

...

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

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

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

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

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

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

At your bedside, he freezes.

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

You don’t even notice him.

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

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

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

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

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

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

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

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

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

Then, there’s silence.

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

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

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

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

As much as he can, anyways.

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

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

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

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

We just don’t talk about it. 

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

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Keigo can’t disagree. 

...

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

Your demon was near, though.

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

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

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

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

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

There was just you.

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

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

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

It’s molten.

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

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

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you melt into him.

...

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

None of them make progress. 

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

...

Endeavor visits him.

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

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

It helps you relax.

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

And so, so sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

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

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

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

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

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

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

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

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

(Maybe it is.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

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

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

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

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

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

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

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

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

Some things never change.

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

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, obviously I can't fight—” 

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

You’ve done enough. 

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

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

Keigo is Hawks.

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

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

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

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

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

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

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

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

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

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

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night. 

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

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

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

But you’re not in the common room. 

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

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

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

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

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

Even with the inevitably of progress.

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

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

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

But he’s insatiable that last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More, more, more. 

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

...

Keigo leaves the next morning. 

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

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

...

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

How can he not?

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

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

All disgusting reminders. 

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

And won’t ever give him again.

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

...

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

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

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

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

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

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

...

...

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

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

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it. 

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much had you lost?

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

He had no idea.

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

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

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

And alive.

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

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

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

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

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?” 

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

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

The need to keep something precious safe. 

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

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

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

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

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

“... P-Pardon?”

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

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi