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keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

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

word count: ~9.4k

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

You’re his only solace.

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

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

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

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

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

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

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

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

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

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

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

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

Waste away, all alone.

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

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

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

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

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

It’s a harder descent.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

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

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

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

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

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels comfortable, warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to be called?”

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

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

His mouth is dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

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

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

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

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

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

...

The next days are long.

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

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

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

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

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

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

It feels safest with you near.

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

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

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

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

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

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

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

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

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

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

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

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

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

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

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

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

So, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you see now?”

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

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

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

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

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

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

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

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

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

“I can do it myself.”

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

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

Safety scissors would be even easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

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

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

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

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

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

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

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

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

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

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

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

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

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

“Please, please!”

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

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

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

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

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

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

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

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

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

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

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

...

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

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

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

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

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

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

At your bedside, he freezes.

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

You don’t even notice him.

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

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

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

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

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

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

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

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

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

Then, there’s silence.

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

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

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

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

As much as he can, anyways.

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

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

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

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

We just don’t talk about it.

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

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

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

Your demon was near, though.

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

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

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

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

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

There was just you.

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

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

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

It’s molten.

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

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

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you melt into him.

...

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

None of them make progress.

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

...

Endeavor visits him.

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

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

It helps you relax.

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

And so, so sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

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

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

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

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

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

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

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

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

(Maybe it is.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

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

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

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

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

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

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

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

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

Some things never change.

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

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

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

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

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

Keigo is Hawks.

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

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

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

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

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

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

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

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

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

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

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

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

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

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

But you’re not in the common room.

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

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

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

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

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

Even with the inevitably of progress.

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

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

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

But he’s insatiable that last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More, more, more.

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

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

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

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

...

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

How can he not?

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

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

All disgusting reminders.

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

And won’t ever give him again.

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

...

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

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

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

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

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

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

...

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

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

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much had you lost?

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

He had no idea.

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

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

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

And alive.

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

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

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

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

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

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

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

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

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

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

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

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

“... P-Pardon?”

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

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

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

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aredlily · 7 years

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I feel weird.

#what if im pregnant?#to those who get periods:#do you ever have a weird period and go #even though you KNOW #there is no possible way that can be true?#cause yeah #but ive also been sick for like over a month cause allergies #so thats probably it #but its been two months in a row so you know #IM PARANOID

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reallifesultanas · 4 years

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Portrait of Ibrahim I / I. Ibrahim portréja

Birth and childhood

Ibrahim was born in October or November 1615 as the fourth son of Sultan Ahmed I and his favorite concubine, Mahpeyker Kösem Sultan. At his birth a total of seven (or eight) princes were before him in the line of succession to the throne: Ahmed I's younger brother, Prince Mustafa; Ibrahim's brothers: Osman, Mehmed, Murad, Bayezid, Hüseyin, Kasim, and there was a prince named Suleiman who was born about the same time. With such a background, it seemed almost impossible that Ibrahim could ever ascend the throne.

Ibrahim’s childhood was very difficult, as his father Ahmed I died in 1617 and for many years there were fights over the throne and a kind of hereditary chaos plagued the empire. The people were fed up with the fratricide, but Ahmed did not write a legal decree about who would follow him on the throne, his brother, Mustafa, or his eldest son, Osman. Eventually, with the accession of Mustafa, the inheritance officially changed, the throne no longer passed from father to son but was taken over by the oldest male. The following years were quite confusing, Mustafa was soon dethroned because of his mental illness, and Ibrahim's half-brother, Osman, ascended the throne. Osman was a very unpopular, bad ruler.

During the chaotic years, the child Ibrahim was torn from his mother, his sisters, and kept locked up with his brothers. Then, in 1621, his brother, Prince Mehmed, was executed by the then reigning sultan, Osman II. The death of his brother must have filled little Ibrahim and his brothers with terror. Not surprisingly, soon it became visible that Ibrahim was not completely mentally stable. The traumatic years made the young prince paranoid and unstable.

The reign of his full-brother, Murad IV, may have brought him some peace from 1623, as for about ten years their mother, Kösem Sultan, ruled the empire as regent and protected her sons with all her strength. It is important to mention, however, that Ibrahim practically had barely met his mother for six years from the age of two, so the reunion was less satisfying for him than to his older brothers, who could at least remember their mother.

The dread

We don’t know much about the daily life of Ibrahim and his brothers. Based on the surviving information, it is probable that while Kösem ruled as regent, although the princes lived locked up, they were not in complete isolation and could receive an education. However, the relative calm period ended soon, along with the regency of Kösem Sultan. In 1632, a Sipahi rebellion broke out, during which the rebels executed several loyal men of Sultan Murad. To make matters worse, the soldiers publicly demanded that Murad should show them his younger brothers. Murad was forced to give in to the demands and introduced his younger brothers. Ibrahim and his brothers could then face up that as long as they exist, they would always be dangerous to Murad, and this threatened their own lives.

Murad was also traumatized by their difficult childhood, which made him a tough and tyrant ruler. Unsurprisingly, he considered Selim I as his role model and tried to follow him in everything. This is why he wanted to bring back the old order of succession so that after his death his son would follow him on the throne, and not one of his younger brothers. In addition, Murad was deteriorating mentally and physically, so he began to become paranoid and saw conspiracy against him in everything. After the victory of Revan in 1635, while the people celebrated he ordered the execution of his two half-brothers, Prince Bayezid and Suleiman. The already unstable Ibrahim was certainly pushed further down the slope by this tragedy.

One of the last things that ruined Ibrahim’s common sense came in 1638, when after the victorious campaign in Baghdad, Murad executed his full-brother, Kasim, who was said to be the closest to him among his brothers. According to some sources, Ibrahim was also present in the Revan Pavilion, where the execution took place and his life was saved only by the supplication of Kösem Sultan due to his mental illness. Others said Murad did not even try to execute Ibrahim at that time. Either way, it must have been hard for Ibrahim that his brothers died next to him in a row, and his only brother, Murad, was more unpredictable.

His accession to the throne

After the execution of Kasim, Murad's health deteriorated for months. He had a chronic illness, but we don’t know much about it. Some said he may have had epilepsy, others said he may have had similar digestive problems as his father (Ahmed I) and grandmother (Handan Sultan). These were further aggravated by combat injuries, as Murad himself fought in his campaigns; and cirrhosis due to alcoholism. Murad was able to recover from his combat injuries, as in early 1640 he celebrated Ramadan without any problems, met his vezirs, and took part in events. In fact, to further tire his sick body, he regularly rode and alcoholized with his friends. On one such occasion, Murad lost consciousness and was taken back to Topkapi Palace by his bodyguards. According to some, on his deathbed, Murad ordered the execution of Ibrahim, but there is no evidence of this.

As Murad passed away, the throne passed to the oldest (and in this case the only) heir, Ibrahim. Grand Vizier Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasha went to Ibrahim's apartment, telling him that Murad was dead, so he had the throne. However, Ibrahim did not believe him. The mourning Kösem Sultan then tried to talk to her son, but Ibrahim did not trust anyone after the tragedies of recent years, so he refused to leave his apartment and ascend the throne. He thought the whole thing was just Murad’s intrigue, and if he left his apartment he would be executed immediately. Ibrahim wanted to present himself as a faithful and humble brother, so he refused to come out on any request or order. Finally, Kösem Sultan ordered that the dead body of Murad should be taken to Ibrahim. Even then, Ibrahim did not believe, he examined the body thoroughly to make sure Murad was dead. Eventually, Ibrahim realized that he was the new ruler and ascended the throne.

The accession of Ibrahim to the throne in 1640 did not solve the greatest problem of the dynasty, the question of the heir. After Murad systematically murdered his brothers and his sons died of natural causes, Ibrahim was the only heir. New princes were needed as soon as possible, but Ibrahim showed no interest in women and sexuality. Some said he was afraid of having a child because he was afraid Murad would execute him then, others said he simply didn’t care. They tried in every way possible to arouse the sultan's sexual desire, made pornographic depictions for him, and offered him aphrodisiacs. The persistent endeavor eventually became successful, with his first son (and presumably his first or second child), Mehmed, born in January 1642. Legend has it that the aphrodisiacs had such a strong effect on the Sultan that he organized arranged orgies for himself, and there were several reports of various perversions.

The birth of Prince Mehmed was followed in turn by the other children, Gevherhan (1642?), Suleiman (1642), Fatma (1642?), Ahmed (1643), Murad (1643), Atike (?), Selim (1644), Osman (1644) , Beyhan (1645?), Ayşe (1646?), Kaya (?), Ümmügülsüm (?) and at least two anonymous sultanas. It can be seen, that Ibrahim’s initial dread of women soon dissipated as in a short time he produced an extremely large number of children. Ibrahim was not a very good father to his children. He was often unpredictable due to his unstable mental state. This is well exemplified by an event around 1645 when he quarreled with Prince Mehmed's mother, Turhan Hatice. Turhan Hatice complained that the sultan did not care for Mehmed, but instead played a lot with the son of the wet-nurse, whom he raised and cherished as his own. The couple's quarrel escalated to the point where Ibrahim, in his rage, threw away Prince Mehmed, who had suffered a serious head injury in the cistern and wore its mark on his forehead for the rest of his life.

Ibrahim and women

The foregoing events already suggest that Ibrahim did not have a nice relationship with his firstborn son's mother. According to some, after the abuse of Mehmed, the relationship between Turhan and Ibrahim was completely severed. It nuances the picture somewhat that it seems that in addition to Mehmed, Turhan gave birth to at least one other child to Ibrahim, Atike Sultan. The date of birth for Atike is unknown, so it is difficult to determine whether she was born before or after the incident.

In addition to Turhan, Ibrahim had seven other Hasekis, with which he practically destroyed the power of Haseki title, since the mother of all his children had this title. Two of the Hasekis stand out, Şivekar was an Armenian concubine who was able to gain serious political influence by being able to influence Ibrahim anytime, anywhere. Şivekar is also an interesting concubine because her existence proves one of Ibrahim's perversions. For the sultan, having once seen a cow from behind he decided that he wanted to acquire the fattest woman in the empire, as it might best resemble a cow. In the end, it was Şivekar who met the parameters, so she got into the sultan's harem. The other special Haseki was Telli Hümaşah, who twisted Ibrahim around her finger so much that the sultan married her. Hümaşah’s prominent position is well illustrated by the fact that Ibrahim assigned his own full-sisters and niece to serve Hümaşah.

It is a well-known legend that Ibrahim took away one of his deceased brothers, Murad IV's concubine. There is no clear evidence to support or refute this. Some say this concubine was none other than Ayşe Haseki, Murad’s favorite, who asked for the sultan’s favor in the matter of marrying off her daughter and then the sultan tried to rape her in exchange for the favor. Others say it happened to an insignificant concubine, but there are also those who say the rape case did not happen because when Ibrahim asked Sultan Murad's former concubine the woman refused the order and turned to the harem leader who, along with Kösem Sultan, forbade the sultan to touch the concubine of his deceased brother.

In addition to the former story, however, it is certain that Ibrahim kidnapped or forced Hazerpare Ahmed Pasha’s wife to be his favorite. Some say the woman received the orphaned Beyhan Sultan to raise her. Another time, Ibrahim wanted to take the daughter of Seyhülislam Muid Ahmed Efendi to his harem. When Seyhülislam did not allow this, Ibrahim abducted the girl from a public bath. Some said he raped her, others said the sultan was stopped just in time. In any case in the end Ibrahim sent the girl back to his father soon after.

In addition to his concubines, harem servants also successfully influenced the sultan, such as Şekerpare, who, with his sweet manner, was able to persuade the sultan to do anything and who gained immense wealth and influence. Not surprisingly, Ibrahim’s tragic end was ultimately caused by his influenceability. His concubines only influenced the Sultan in relatively harmless things, but soon he came under the influence of a much more dangerous person.

The ruler

We cannot really talk about Ibrahim as a ruler. Because of his mental condition, his mother, Kösem Sultan, and Murad IV's last Grand Vezier, Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasha, ruled in his place. Although Kösem Sultan and Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasha were not in a good relationship and even constantly rivaled each other, they still worked excellently together for the sake of the empire. Ibrahim, although was not capable to rule alone, tried to live up to expectations in the first few years of his reign. He constantly followed the events, regularly negotiating with the Grand Vizier, for which his handwritten letters also serve as a good example. These letters from Ibrahim are significant because it shows that Ibrahim was properly educated, was not weak-minded, so he was actually only struggling with mental illnesses caused by trauma.

Ibrahim's early reign was therefore hopeful in relation to his condition. He did not replace his brother's former leaders, his pashas, so in fact, the change of sultan took place very simply and everything could go as before, which was very positive for the empire. Over time, however, he came under the influence of a certain Cinci Hoca and rebelled against his mother. Cinci Hoca was an occult science charlatan who considered himself a religious leader. Cinci Hoca convinced the sultan in various ways that he could cure his headaches and mental problems. Instead, he took advantage of Ibrahim’s credulity and amassed a huge fortune for himself and his supporters. Events eventually deteriorated to the point where, without any experience or aptitude, Cinci Hoca was appointed by the Sultan as Chief Kadi; Cinci Hoca's faithful companion, Silahdar Yusuf Aga, became the Grand Admiral. Cinci Hoca's greatest opponent was Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasha, the Grand Vizier, so he constantly spoke against him, as a result of which the Sultan executed Kemankeş Pasha in 1644. Kemankeş Pasha was replaced by another supporter of Cinci Hoca, Sultanzade Mehmed Pasha. Sultanzade Mehmed Pasha was, by the way, the son of Ayşe Hanimsultnasa, thus the grandson of Ayşe Hümaşah Sultan and the great-grandson of the Mihrimah Sultan and Rüstem Pasha.

By getting under the spell of unfit persons, Ibrahim started to destroy the state, which formerly was great, led by Murad’s pashas. Over time, Ibrahim replaced all of Murad’s previous pashas and replaced them with his own confidants who were unable to manage properly. Similarly, people’s displeasure was triggered by the launch of another costly campaign. In 1644, Maltese pirates attacked an Ottoman ship on which, in addition to the chief black eunuch, the son of Prince Mehmed's wet-nurse, whom Ibrahim loved and cherished more than his own son, was present. Under the pretext of attack, the Fifth Venetian-Ottoman War broke out in 1645 and lasted for 24 years.

Shortly after Kemankeş was executed, Ibrahim also exiled his mother, Kösem Sultan. He originally intended to send his mother to the island of Rhodes, but eventually, his concubines persuaded him to send her only to another palace. Over time, dissatisfaction grew, and more and more people turned to Kösem Sultan in exile for help. Kösem Sultan's well-known letter to Hezarpare Ahmed Pasha - whose wife had previously been abducted by the Sultan - was written this period. The letter says "In the end he will leave neither you nor me alive. We will lose control of the government. The whole society is in ruins. Have him removed from the throne immediately." The letter is a good indication that Ibrahim’s insane rule threatened more and more people. The sultan executed people for almost no reason and gave high positions to those who were completely unfit. More and more people turned against Ibrahim and it was increasingly likely that he would not be able to stay on the throne for long.

The end

The situation deteriorated to the point that in 1647 Kösem Sultan and the new Grand Vizier, Salih Pasha and Seyhülislam Abdürrahim Efendi, tried to dethrone Ibrahim but failed. Salih Pasha was executed and Kösem Sultan remained in exile. The following year, both the Janissaries and the Ulema joined the rebellion, and on August 8, 1648, the mad sultan was easily dethroned and imprisoned. Then due to the evidence, Kösem Sultan returned to the palace. She there received a letter from the leading statesmen, asking her to give them Prince Mehmed so they can make him sultan in the Janissary Mosque. Kösem Sultan rejected the request and asking the leaders to go to the palace and let's discuss the situation. Kösem Sultan personally welcomed them at the second gate - without any kind of paravane, just veiled - and argued at length for them why they should leave Ibrahim in his position. She told them that the sultan had only followed the advice of bad people, so it was enough to get rid of these advisors. It is doubtful that Kösem Sultan really thought so or simply felt that this was expected of her as Ibrahim’s mother. The latter can be inferred from her earlier letter in which she clearly stated that Ibrahim should be dethroned; and that, after two hours of discourse, Kösem Sultan agreed to the ascension of Mehmedm, barely six and a half years old. It is important to note, however, that based on the recorded speech of Kösem Sultan, she only agreed to Ibrahim’s dethronement due to compulsion. Kösem Sultan for concluding the discourse with the following sentence: "All are united in the opinion that the Sultan must be deposed; it is impossible to do otherwise. You tell me that if I don't hand over the Prince, they will enter the palace and take him by force." So whatever she felt or thought, Kösem showed outwardly that she was trying to protect her son as a mother.

Ibrahim's followers were removed from their positions at the same time as the sultan's dethronement happened, and most of them were executed. Then they had to decide the fate of Sultan Ibrahim soon, but it was not easy. There used to be a mad sultan who was simply closed up after his dethronement, so this could have been possible in the case of Ibrahim. However, Ibrahim caused too much pain to the people, executed too many, and simply had too many supporters to keep him alive. Eventually, the new Grand Vizier, Sofu Mehmed Pasha, asked the Seyhülislam Efendi to allow the execution of Ibrahim. Seyhülislam allowed it. Some say Kösem Sultan also agreed to the execution, others said was not notified until the last minute so she could not prevent it. Finally, Ibrahim was strangled on August 18, 1648. According to the descriptions, when the execution squad entered the sultan's room, he, clutching the Qur’an, asked to be shown which line of the Qur’an suggests his execution. He said that if they show it to him, he would surrender. Of course, this was not possible, one of the executioners threw the noose around the neck of the sultan from behind. Like his dethroned mad predecessor, Mustafa I, he was also buried in Aya Sofya.

Used sources: A. D. Alderson - The Structure of the Ottoman Dynasty; L. Peirce - The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire; N. Sakaoğlu - Bu Mülkün Kadın Sultanları; M. Ç. Uluçay - Padişahların Kadınları ve Kızları; C. Finkel - Osman's Dream: The Story of the Ottoman Empire; G. Börekçi - Factions and favourites at the courts of Sultan Ahmed I (r. 1603-17) and his immediate predecessors; S. Faroqhi - The Ottoman Empire and the World; C. Imber - The Ottoman Empire 1300-1650; G. Piterberg - An Ottoman Tragedy, History and Historiography at Play; F. Suraiya - The Cambridge History of Turkey, The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603–1839; Howard - A History of the Ottoman Empire; Öztuna - Devletler ve Hanedanlar; F. Davis - The Palace of Topkapi in Istanbul; Y. Öztuna - Genç Osman ve IV. Murad; G. Junne - The black eunuchs of the Ottoman Empire; R. Dankoff - An Ottoman Mentality: The World of Evliya Çelebi; R. Murphey - ‘The Functioning of the Ottoman Army under Murad IV (1623–1639/1032–1049):Key to Understanding of the Relationship Between Center and Periphery

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Születése és gyermekkora

Ibrahim 1615 októberében vagy novemberében született I. Ahmed szultán és kedvenc ágyasa, Mahpeyker Köszem szultána negyedik közös fiaként. Születésekor összesen hét (vagy nyolc) herceg állt előtte a trónöröklési sorban: I. Ahmed öccse, Musztafa herceg; Ibrahim bátyjai: Oszmán, Mehmed, Murad, Bayezid, Hüseyin, Kasim és Ibrahimmal nagyjából egyszerre született egy Szulejmán nevű herceg is. Ilyen háttérrel szinte kizártnak tűnt, hogy Ibrahim valaha is trónra kerülhet.

Ibrahim gyermekkora igen hányatott volt, hiszen 1617-ben édesapja I. Ahmed elhunyt és hosszú éveken át trónviszályok dúltak és egyfajta örökösödési káosz sújtotta a birodalmat. Az embereknek elege volt a testvérgyilkosságból, azonban Ahmed nem rendelkezett arról, hogy ki kövesse őt a trónon, öccse, Musztafa vagy legidősebb fia, Oszmán. Végül Musztafa trónralépésével hivatalosan is megváltozott az örökösödés, többé nem apáról fiúra szállt a trón, hanem a legidősebb férfi foglalta el azt. A következő évek meglehetősen zavarosak voltak, Musztafát mentális betegsége miatt hamarosan trónfosztották és Ibrahim féltestvére, Oszmán került a trónra. Oszmán nagyon népszerűtlen, rossz uralkodó volt.

A kaotikus évekből a gyermek Ibrahim minden bizonnyal annyit érzékelt, hogy elszakították édesanyjától, lánytestvéreitől és elzárva tartották fiú testvéreivel együtt. 1621-ben aztán édesbátyját, Mehmed herceget kivégeztette az akkor regnáló II. Oszmán. Bátyja halála bizonyára rettegéssel töltötte el a kis Ibrahimot és testvéreit. Nem meglepő hát, hogy Ibrahimról hamarosan kiderült, mentálisan nem teljesen ép. A traumatikus évek paranioássá és instabillá tették a fiatal herceget.

Némi nyugalmat hozhatott neki bátyja, IV. Murad 1623-as trónralépése, hiszen innentől nagyjából tíz évig édesanyjuk, Köszem szultána uralta a birodalmat régensként és minden erejével fiait védelmezte. Fontos azonban megemlíteni, hogy Ibrahim gyakorlatilag két éves korától kezdve hat éven át szinte alig találkozott édesanyjával, így bizonyára nem töltötte el akkora nyugalommal és megkönnyebbüléssel az újraegyesülés, mint idősebb testvéreit, akik legalább emlékezhettek anyjukra.

A rettegés

Nem sokat tudunk Ibrahim és testvérei mindennapjairól. A fennmaradt információk alapján valószínűsíthető, hogy míg Köszem régensként uralkodott a hercegek bár elzárva éltek, nem teljes izolációban voltak és oktatásban is részesülhettek. A relatív nyugalom azonban hamarosan, Köszem régensségével együtt végleg a múlté lett. 1632-ben szpáhi lázadás tört ki, melynek során a lázadók kivégezték a nagyvezírt és Murad szultán több hűséges emberét. Hogy a helyzet tovább bonyolódjon a katonák nyilvánosan követelték, hogy Murad mutassa meg nekik öccseit. Ezzel jelezni akarták neki, hogy ha akarnák le tudnák cserélni valamelyik öccsére; másrészt pedig keringtek olyan alaptalan pletykák, hogy Murad és Köszem megszabadultak a hercegektől. Murad kénytelen volt engedni a követeléseknek és bemutatta öccseit, akiket a katonák ekkor éltetni kezdtek. Ibrahim és testvérei ekkor szembesülhettek azzal testközelből, hogy amíg csak léteznek, mindig veszélyesek lesznek Muradra, ez pedig saját testiépségüketis fenyegette.

Muradot szintén megviselte nehéz gyermekkoruk, ami miatt kemény kézzel uralkodott. Nem meglepő, ha példaképének I. Szelimet tartotta és őt próbálta követni mindenben, így a régi öröklési rendet is vissza akarta hozni, hogy halála után fia kövesse a trónon, ne pedig öccsei közül valaki. Emellett Murad mentálisan és fizikailag is egyre rosszabb állapotban volt, így kezdett paranoiddá válni és mindenben konspirációt látott személye ellen. Ezek együttesen okozták azt, hogy 1635-ben a győztes revani hadjárata után, míg az emberek ünnepeltek ő elrendelte két féltestvére, Bayezid és Szulejmán hercegek kivégzését. Az egyébként is labilis Ibrahimot minden bizonnyal továb taszította ez a tragédia a lejtőn.

Az Ibrahim józaneszét tönkretévő egyik utolsó dolog 1638-ban következett be, mikor a győztes bagdadi hadjárata után Murad kivégeztette édestestvérét, Kasimot is, aki állítólag testvérei közül legközelebb állt hozzá. Egyes források szerint Ibrahim is jelen volt a Revan Pavilonban, ahol a kivégzés történt és az ő életét csak Köszem szultána könyörgése és elborult mentális állapota mentette meg. Mások szerint Murad meg sem próbálta kivégeztetni Ibrahimot ekkor. Akárhogyan is, minden bizonnyal megviselte Ibrahimot, hogy testvérei sorra fogytak el mellőle, egyetlen bátyja, Murad pedig egyre rosszabb állapotba került és egyre kiszámíthatatlanabb lett.

Trónralépése

IV. Murad Kasim halálát követően egyre rosszabb egészségi állapotban volt, hónapokon keresztül nyomta az ágyat. Több alapbetegsége is volt, azonban ezekről nem tudunk sokat. Egyesek szerint epilepsziás lehetett, mások szerint neki is hasonló emésztőrendszeri problémái lehettek, mint apjának (I. Ahmed) és nagyanyjának (Handan szultána). Ezeket tovább súlyosbították a harci sérülések, hiszen Murad maga is harcolt a hadjáratain; valamint az alkoholizmusa miatt kialakuló májzsugor. Murad harci sérüléseiből képes volt felépülni, ugyanis 1640 elején a Ramadánt minden gond nélkül ünnepelte, találkozott a vezíreivel, rendezvényeken vett részt. Sőt, hogy tovább fárassza beteg testét rendszeresen járt lovagolni és alkoholizálni barátaihoz. Egyik ilyen alkalommal Murad elvesztette az eszméletét és testőrei vitték vissza a Topkapi Palotába. Egyesek szerint halálos ágyán Murad kiadta a parancsot Ibrahim kivégzésére is, ám erre nincs bizonyíték.

Ahogy Murad elhunyt, a trón a legidősebb (és jelen esetben egyetlen) örökösre szállt, Ibrahimra. A nagyvezír Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasa ment Ibrahim lezárt lakrészébe, elmondta neki, hogy Murad meghalt, így övé a trón. Ibrahim azonban nem hitt neki. Ezekután a gyászoló Köszem szultána próbált meg beszélni fiával, de Ibrahim az elmúlt évek tragédiái után senkiben sem bízott, így megtagadta, hogy elhagyja lakrészét és elfoglalja a trónt. Úgy vélte az egész csak Murad cselszövése, és ha elhagyja lakrészét azonnal kivégzik. Ibrahim hűséges és alázatos testvérnek akarta mutatni magát, így semmilyen kérlelésre és parancsra nem volt hajlandó kijönni lakrészéből. Végül Köszem szultána úgy rendelkezett, hogy Murad holttestét vigyék be Ibrahimhoz. Ibrahim még ekkor sem nyugodott meg, alaposan megvizsgálta a testet, hogy biztos legyen benne, Murad elhunyt. Végül Ibrahim felfogta, hogy ő az új uralkodó és elfoglalta a trónt.

Ibrahim 1640-es trónralépésével nem oldódott meg a dinasztia legnagyobb problémája, az örökös kérdése. Miután Murad szisztematikusan kiírtotta testvéreit, fiai pedig természetes okból hunytak el, Ibrahim volt az egyetlen örökös. Mielőbb szükség volt új hercegekre, Ibrahim azonban semmilyen érdeklődést nem mutatott a nők és a szexualitás iránt. Egyesek szerint rettegett attól, hogy gyermeket nemzzen, mert félt, hogy akkor Murad kivégezteti őt, mások szerint egyszerűen nem érdekelte a dolog. Minden létező módon igyekeztek felkelteni a szultán szexuális vágyát, pornográf ábrázolásokat készítettek számára, afrodiziákumokat szolgáltak fel neki. A kitartó próbálkozás végül eredményes lett, 1642 januárjában megszületett első fia (és feltehetőleg első vagy második gyermeke), Mehmed. A legendák úgy vélik, hogy a vágyserkentők olyan erősen hatottak a szultánra, hogy előfordult, orgiákat rendezett magának és több beszámoló szerint is különböző perverzió voltak.

Mehmed herceg születését sorra követte a többi gyermek, Gevherhan (1642?), Szulejmán (1642), Fatma (1642?), Ahmed (1643), Murad (1643), Atike (?), Selim (1644), Osman (1644), Beyhan(1645?), Ayşe (1646?), Kaya (?), Ümmügülsüm (?) és legalább két névtelen szultána. Látható tehát, hogy Ibrahim kezdeti rettegése a nőktől hamarosan feloldódott és rövid időn belül extrém sok gyermeket nemzett. A gyerekekkel szemben Ibrahim nem volt túl jó apa. Instabil mentális állapota miatt gyakran volt kiszámíthatatlan. Ezt jól példázza egy 1645 körüli esemény is, mikor összevitatkozott Mehmed herceg édesanyjával Turhan Haticével. Turhan Hatice nehezményezte, hogy a szultán nem törődik Mehmeddel, ellenben sokat játszik a szoptatósdajka fiával, akit sajátjaként nevel és dédelget. A pár veszekedése odáig fajult, hogy Ibrahim dühében elhajította Mehmed herceget, aki a ciszternába esve komoly fejsérülést szenvedett és élete végéig viselte nyomát a homlokán.

Ibrahim és a nők

Arra már az előbbi események is utalnak, hogy Ibrahimnak nem volt felhőtlen a viszonya elsőszülött fia anyjával. Egyesek szerint a Mehmedet ért bántalmazás után Turhan és Ibrahim kapcsolata teljesen megszakadt. Némileg árnyalja a képet, hogy olybá tűnik Turhan Mehmed mellett még legalább egy gyermeket szült Ibrahimnak, Atike szultánát. Atike szultána születési ideje nem ismert, így nehéz megállapítani, hogy még az incidens előtt vagy már az után született.

Ibrahimnak Turhan mellett hét másik Haszekije is volt, mellyel gyakorlatilag elvette a Haszeki rang súlyát, hiszen minden gyermekének anyja megkapta ezt a titulust. A Haszekik közül ketten emelkednek ki, Şivekar egy örmény ágyas, aki komoly politikai befolyást tudott magának szerezni azzal, hogy bármikor, bármiben képes volt befolyásolni Ibrahimot. Şivekar azért is érdekes ágyas, mert létezése bizonyítja Ibrahim egyik perverzióját. A szultán ugyanis miután egyszer látott egy tehenet hátulról úgy döntött, hogy a birodalom legkövérebb nőjét akarja megszerezni magának, hiszen az hasonlíthat legjobban a tehénhez. Végül Şivekar volt az, aki megfelelt a paramétereknek, így került a szultán háremébe. A másik különleges Haszeki Telli Hümaşah volt, aki olyannyira az ujjaköré csavarta Ibrahimot, hogy a szultán feleségül is vette. Telli Hümaşah kiemelt pozícióját jól mutatja, hogy Ibrahim saját édestestvéreit és unokahúgát osztotta be Telli Hümaşah mellé szolgálónak.

Jól ismert legenda, miszerint Ibrahim megerőszakolta elhunyt bátyja, IV. Murad egyik ágyasát. Nincsenek egyértelmű bizonyítékok, amik alátámasztanák vagy cáfolnák ezt. Egyesek szerint ez az ágyas nem volt más, mint Ayşe Haszeki, Murad kedvence, aki a szultán szívességét kérte lánya kiházasításának ügyében, majd a szultán megpróbálta őt megerőszakolni a szívességért cserébe. Mások szerint egy jelentéktelen ágyassal történt mindez, de olyanok is vannak, akik szerint az erőszakra nem került sor, mert mikor Ibrahim kérette Murad szultán egykori ágyasát a nő megtagadta a parancsot és a hárem vezetőhöz fordult segítségül, aki Köszem szultánával együtt megtiltotta a szultánnak, hogy elhunyt tesvtére ágyasához érjen.

Előbbi történet mellett azonban az bizonyos, hogy Ibrahim elrabolta vagy kényszerítette Hazerpare Ahmed Pasa feleségét, hogy legyen a kegyeltje. Egyesek szerint az asszony megkapta az elárvult Beyhan szultánát, hogy nevelje. Máskor pedig Ibrahim, a Seyhülislam Muid Ahmed Efendi lányát akarta háremébe vitetni. Mikor a Seyhülislam ezt nem engedte, Ibrahim egy fürdőből elraboltatta a lányt. Egyesek szerint megbecstelenítette, mások szerint még időben jobb belátásra bírták a szultánt, aki kétségkívül visszaküldte a lányt apjához nemsokkal később.

Ágyasai mellett hárem szolgálók is sikerrel befolyásolták a szultánt, így Şekerpare, aki negédes modorával bármire rá tudta venni a szultánt és aki hatalmas vagyonra és befolyásra tett szert. Nem meglepő, hogy Ibrahim vesztét is végül befolyásolhatósága okozta. Ágyasai viszonylag ártalmatlan dolgokban befolyásolták csak a szultánt, amit a legtöbben még elnéztek neki. Hamarosan azonban egy sokkal veszedelmesebb ember befolyása alá került.

Az uralkodó

Ibrahimról, mint uralkodóról nem igazán beszélhetünk. Mentális állapota miatt édesanyja, Köszem szultána és IV. Murad utolsó nagyvezíre, Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasa uralkodott helyette. Bár Köszem és Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasa nem voltak jóban, sőt állandóan rivalizáltak egymással, a birodalom érdekében mégis kiválóan dolgoztak együtt. Ibrahim, bár maga nem volt alkalmas az uralkodásra, trónralépése utáni pár évben igyekezett megfelelni az elvárásoknak. Állandóan követte az eseményeket, rendszeresen tárgyalt a nagyvezírrel, melyre kézzel írt levelei is jó példaként szolgálnak. Ibrahim ezen levelei azért jelentősek, mert kitűnik belőle, hogy Ibrahim megfelelő oktatásban részesült, nem volt gyengeelméjű, tehát ténylegesen csak a traumák okozta mentális betegségekkel küzdött.

Ibrahim korai uralma tehát állapotához képest reménykeltő volt. Nem cserélte le bátyja korábbi vezíreit, pasáit, így tulajdonképpen nagyon egyszerűen zajlott le a szultánváltás és minden mehetett a korábbiak szerint, ami a birodalom szempontjából igen pozitív volt. Idővel azonban egy bizonyos Cinci Hoca befolyása alá került és fellázadt anyja uralma ellen. Cinci Hoca okkult tudományokkal foglalkozó sarlatán volt, aki magát vallási vezetőnek tekintette. Cinci Hoca különböző módszerekkel meggyőzte a szultánt arról, hogy képes gyógyítani fejfájását és mentális problémáit. Helyette kihasználta Ibrahim hiszékenységét és hatalmas vagyont halmozott fel magának és támogatóinak. Az események végül odáig fajultak, hogy minden tapasztalat és alkalmasság nélkül Cinci Hocát nevezte ki a szultán a főkádinak; Cinci Hoca hű társát, Silahdar Yusuf Agát pedig a főtengernaggyá tette meg. Cinci Hoca legnagyobb ellenfelének Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasát, a nagyvezírt tekintette és állandóan ellene beszélt, minek eredményeképpen a szultán 1644-ben a kivégeztette Kemankeş Pasát. Kemankeş Pasa helyére Cinci Hoca egy másik támogatóját Sultanzade Mehmed Pasát nevezte ki Ibrahim. Sultanzade Mehmed Pasa egyébként Ayşe Hanimszultána fia volt, tehát Ayşe Hümaşah szultána unokája és Mihrimah szultána dédunokája.

Azzal, hogy Ibrahim alkalmatlan személyek bűvkörébe került azt történt, hogy a korábban Murad pasái által nagyszerűen vezetett állam az összeomláshoz közeledett. Ibrahim idővel leváltotta Murad összes korábbi pasáját és saját bizalmasaival helyettesítette őket, akik nem voltak képesek megfelelően irányítani. Hasonlóan az emberek nemtetszését váltotta ki egy újabb költséges hadjárat indítása. 1644-ben máltai kalózok támadtak egy oszmán hajóra, melyen a fő fekete eunuch mellett jelen volt Mehmed herceg szoptatósdajkájának fia is, akit Ibrahim a saját fiánál, Mehmednél jobban szeretett és dédelgetett. A támadás ürügyén 1645-ben kirobbant az ötödik velencei-oszmán háború, mely 24 évig tartott.

Ibrahim nemsokkal Kemankeş kivégzése után édesanyját is száműzte. Eredetileg Rodosz szigetére szándékozta küldeni anyját, de végül ágyasai meggyőzték, hogy csak egy másik palotába küldje. Idővel egyre nőtt az elégedetlenség, egyre többen fordultak a száműzetésben lévő Köszem szultánához, hogy segítségét kérjék. Köszem valószínűleg széműzetésében írta meg jól ismert levelét is Hezarpare Ahmed Pasának - akinek feleségét a szultán korábban elrabolta -, mely így szólt: "Végül sem titeket, sem engem nem hagyna életben és újra elveszítenénk az uralmat az állam felett, ezzel pedig lerombolnánk társadalmunkat." A levél jól jelzi, hogy Ibrahim őrült uralma egyre többeket veszélyeztett. A szultán szinte minden ok nélkül végeztetett ki embereket, és teljesen alkalmatlanoknak adott magas beosztást. Egyre többen fordultak Ibrahim ellen és egyre valószínűbb volt, hogy nem maradhat sokáig a trónon.

A vég

Odáig fajult a helyzet, hogy 1647-ben Köszem szultána és az új nagyvezír, Salih Pasa és a Seyhülislam Abdürrahim Efendi megpróbálták trónfosztani Ibrahimot, azonban lebuktak. Salih Pasát kivégeztették, Köszem pedig száműzetésben maradt. A következő évben aztán a janicsárok és az ulema is csatlakozott a lázadáshoz és 1648. augusztus 8-án könnyűszerrel trónfosztották és bebörtönözték az őrült szultánt. Ekkor Köszem a bizonyítékok alapján visszatért a palotába, hiszen ott kapta meg a vezető államférfiak levelét, miszerint adja ki nekik Mehmed herceget, hogy a janicsár mecsetben szultánukká tegyék őt. Köszem elutasította a kérést és arra kérte a vezetőket, hogy menjenek a palotába, hogy megvitassák a helyzetet. Köszem személyesen fogadta a második kapunál az odasereglőket - minden fajta paraván nélkül, csupán elfátyolozva - és hosszasan érvelt nekik arról, hogy miért kellene meghagyniuk Ibrahimot a pozíciójában. Elmondta nekik, hogy a szultán csak rossz emberek tanácsát követte, így elég azoktól megszabadulni. Kétséges, hogy Köszem valóban így gondolta vagy egyszerűen úgy érezte, hogy Ibrahim anyjaként ezt várják tőle. Utóbbira enged következtetni korábbi levele és hogy két órányi diskurzus után Köszem beleegyezett az alig hat és fél éves Mehmed trónra ületetésébe. Fontos azonban megjegyezni, hogy Köszem rögzített beszéde alapján Köszem csak kényszer miatt ment bele Ibrahim trónfosztásába. Köszem a következő mondattal zárta le a diskurzust: "Mind egyetértetek tehát, hogy a szultánt trónfosztani kell, lehetetlen bármi más megoldás. Azt kéritek tőle, adjam át nektek Mehmed herceget és ha nem teszem erőszakkal viszitek ki a palotából." Így bármit érzett is vagy gondolt is Köszem, kifelé azt mutatta, hogy édesanyaként próbálja védeni fiát.

Ibrahim követőit a szultán trónfosztásával egy időben eltávoltották a pozícióikból, majd legtöbbüket ki is végezték. Ibrahim szultán sorsáról is hamarosan dönteniük kellett, azonban ez nem volt egyszerű. Korábban már volt egy őrült szultán, akit trónfosztása után egyszerűen csak elzártak, erre Ibrahim esetében is lehetett volna tehát lehetőség. Ibrahim azonban túl sokaknak okozott fájdalmat, túl sokakat végeztetett ki és egyszerűen túl sok támogatója volt ahhoz, hogy életben hagyják. Végül az új nagyvezír, Sofu Mehmed Pasa kérvényezte a Seyhülislam Efenditől, hogy engedélyezze Ibrahim kivégzését. A Seyhülislam engedélyezte. Egyesek szerint Köszem szultána is beleegyezett a kivégzésbe, mások szerint az utolsó pillanatig nem értesítették, nehogy megakadályozhassa azt. Végül Ibrahimot 1648. augusztus 18-án megfojtották. A leírások szerint amikor a kivégzőosztag belépett a szultánhoz, az a Koránt szorongatva azt kérte, mutassák meg neki, hogy a Korán mely sorára hivatkozva akarják kivégezni és ha megteszik megadja magát. Erre természetesen nem volt mód, az egyik kivégző hátulról rádobta a hurkot a szultán nyakára. Hasonlóan trónfosztott őrült elődjéhez, őt is az Aya Sofyában temették el, mint I. Musztafát.

Felhasznált források: A. D. Alderson - The Structure of the Ottoman Dynasty; L. Peirce - The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire; N. Sakaoğlu - Bu Mülkün Kadın Sultanları; M. Ç. Uluçay - Padişahların Kadınları ve Kızları; C. Finkel - Osman's Dream: The Story of the Ottoman Empire; G. Börekçi - Factions and favourites at the courts of Sultan Ahmed I (r. 1603-17) and his immediate predecessors; S. Faroqhi - The Ottoman Empire and the World; C. Imber - The Ottoman Empire 1300-1650; G. Piterberg - An Ottoman Tragedy, History and Historiography at Play; F. Suraiya - The Cambridge History of Turkey, The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603–1839; Howard - A History of the Ottoman Empire; Öztuna - Devletler ve Hanedanlar; F. Davis - The Palace of Topkapi in Istanbul; Y. Öztuna - Genç Osman ve IV. Murad; G. Junne - The black eunuchs of the Ottoman Empire; R. Dankoff - An Ottoman Mentality: The World of Evliya Çelebi; R. Murphey - ‘The Functioning of the Ottoman Army under Murad IV (1623–1639/1032–1049):Key to Understanding of the Relationship Between Center and Periphery

#ibrahim I #deli ibrahim #ibrahim the mad #mahpeyker kösem #Kösem sultan #Turhan Hatice Sultan #turhan hatice #Murad IV #Osman II #sehzade bayezid #Sehzade mehmed #sehzade kasim #Mustafa I #Ahmed I

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come-on-shitty-boys · 4 years

Text

//the third spring. miya atsumu//

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: None

Notes: pspspsps someone give me motivation to finish my art project

PART I. II. III. IV.

There was not a single thing that could ruin this perfect spring day. The sun was high in the sky without a single cloud in sight. It was warm and bright and nothing could ruin Atsumu’s mood, not even the nervous twisting of his stomach or the clamminess of his palms. You just looked so pretty and the smile on your face as the soft breeze tossed your hair around was the only sight that he wanted to see for the rest of his days.

The clear skies and the new blossoms of flowers in every direction never failed to bring a new shine to your eyes that Atsumu found utterly enchanting, leaving him to count down the days to when he could see it again. Each year when he woke up to the grass starting to take back its green color and the trees beginning to sport new leaves, it was as if his day was instantly made whenever the sun would seep through the blinds to welcome him to a brand new spring day.

The park in which he took you on your first date, where you had your first kiss, where he had been bogged down by allergies, had become a favorite spot for the both of you. The cherry blossoms that lined the paths had become so much more than just trees full of flowers, they had become little beautiful pieces of memories that were sprinkled throughout your time together. They represented all of the laughs the two of you had shared, your body falling against his as you were overcome by giggles. They were the way that you would always scoop the petals up by the handful just to sprinkle them over his head, more than one slipping into his shirt, making your boyfriend jump and dance while he tried to become blossom-free again. They were the familiarity of lazy morning kisses pressed against his shoulder, the softness of your hand in his, the feeling of your fingers absently entangling in his hair whenever you were seated next to him on the couch, some show playing in the background.

Atsumu had your sandals in one hand, yours in the other. You hadn’t been wearing the shoes for thirty minutes before complaining that they were torturing your feet. You said that the straps were rubbing your ankles and the absolutely miserable pout on your face was enough to have him leaning down to help you out of the strappy shoes.

“Didn’t I tell ya’ that they looked uncomfortable?” He joked, looking up at you as he slid your shoe off your foot.

You whined, playfully smacking the top of his head and offering him your other foot when prompted. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

You just looked more at peace with the soft grass hitting the soles of your feet, feeling the coolness of the ground with each step. Even after all of these years, you still had the ability to steal every ounce of air from his lungs with one look, one smile. It was a feeling that he never thought he would experience. He’d heard other people talk about that feeling of being on cloud nine, like you’re constantly dreaming, as if there wasn’t anything that could tear down your good mood, and for years he had believed that it was impossible to feel that way about any one person. But, then, three springs ago, you had walked into his life without even realizing that you had his heart beating out of his chest and had him constantly checking to see if his hair looked alright, making sure that he sat up a little straighter and smiled a little wider just to get your attention. And he realized that if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up. Atsumu wanted to remain in this blissfulness with you for as long as he could.

You tugged gently at his hand, no words exchanged, you just urged him to follow you down towards the shore of the pond where the ducks piddled about, shaking out their feathers as they swam. You didn’t even give him a heads up before you plopped yourself down on the grass, pulling him down rather ungracefully to sit beside you. As if there was a magnet connecting the two of you, your head immediately found his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him to fidget with the tips of his fingers.

Atsumu hums lightly, planting a gentle kiss to your temple, the slight chill of the spring breeze racing across your bare shoulders, huddling closer to your boyfriend. “I told ya’ you were going to get cold.”

“But, ‘mu, I wanted to look cute,” you huff.

“Princess, you always look perfect.”

“I’m pretty sure you have to say that.”

He laughed, a full, genuine laugh, but still not loud enough that he would disrupt the peace of the moment. “If I didn’t believe it, we wouldn’t be right now, would we? You’re easily the most beautiful person that I’ve ever laid eyes on, princess.”

You just shook your head, lifting your face towards his, that smile that he wanted to see every single day for the rest of his life was stretched across your lips. “You’re such a lover boy, ‘mu.”

“Who could blame me?”

He watches as you playfully roll your eyes, but there was no disguising the soft flush of your cheeks at his words.

Yeah, there wasn’t a single thing that could ruin Atsumu’s good mood. His stomach was still doing summersaults, but he just tried to focus on anything else. Your hand as you traced his fingers, the ducks waddling through the grass, small little ducklings following in neat rows, the weight in the pocket of his jacket that was barely noticeable, but, somehow, still very much there.

Well, alright, maybe there was one thing that could ruin his mood. But, he swears that he was trying to make this moment as romantic as possible. He just wanted to get you closer to the water, but when he pulled you to your feet, walking backwards to the shore, Atsumu really did expect you to warn him at the very least. But, rather, he, quite literally, fell victim to one of the ducks who was just minding its own business in the grass, the perfect tripping hazard to send the setter tumbling backwards down the gentle slope towards the water. Even over the sounds of frantic quacking and his body splashing into the pond, Atsumu could hear your laughter filling the air as you moved towards him to offer him a helping hand. And he wanted to smile, he really did, but his brown eyes widened in panic when he placed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It wasn’t there. He stood quickly, peering down into the water in hopes to maybe see the small glimmer of a diamond catching the rays of sunlight. But, in the dark murkiness of the pond, there was almost no hope. His hands immediately went to his hair in frustration, a heavy groan escaping him as he slammed his hands back into the water.

Your brows crinkled in concern, stopping in your tracks. “Atsumu? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “I just- I had something in my pocket and it must’ve fallen out.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy, silly. We’ll just look for it. What was it?”

“I can’t- I can’t tell you!”

“‘Mu, how do you expect me to help you find it when I don’t even know what I’m looking for?”

He just shook his head, squinting towards the water as if that would help him find out of this iSpy nightmare any faster. “It’s alright, Princess. Don’t worry about it. It has to be around here somewhere.”

And so, you sat down on the bank, unsure of what you could do to help other than provide a small bit of emotional support for your obviously distressed boyfriend. You let your fingers rake through the grass as Atsumu kept bending down to pick things up from the bottom of the lake, examining them closely to see if they were his missing object, and then returning them to the water. It felt like an hour had passed before his shoulders sagged in defeat and he trudged sadly from the water.

You wrapped one arm around his waist, standing on your toes to give him a kiss of consolation. “Come on, ‘mu. Let’s go home and get you into something dry before you get sick.” He nodded sadly, unwilling to believe that all his plans had just been flushed down the drain, or rather, the pond. Completely blinded by his own self-pity, he barely even noticed that you stopped in your tracks. “I think someone lost their engagement ring, ‘mu.”

The blonde head of the setter immediately whipped around to look at what you were talking about. You had bent down to pick up a simple silver band with smaller diamonds set around a slightly larger one in the center, just like the one that he had been hiding in his gym bag for nearly a month now. “Can I see that?” He took it from your fingers, taking a closer look at the band just to be sure, and sure enough, clear as day, your first initial was elegantly engraved next to his. “I know who this belongs to.”

“Really? Whose is it?”

Miya Atsumu loved spring, even if the wind felt like a hundred tiny knives trying to slice him to pieces now that he was dripping from head to toe. He might’ve looked like a wet dog with his hair plastered flat against his head and clothes hanging limply from his form, and maybe these weren’t going to be the memorable moments that the two of you had always envisioned, but there was no disguising the smile on his face when he sank down onto one knee, watching your hands cover your face in shock as he held the ring out to you.

“It’s yours.”

{Taglist: @moncymonce @nicka-nell @celosiiaa}

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#atsumu miya #atsumu x reader #miya atsumu #haikyuu x reader #miya #atsumu #hq #hq!!#hq x reader #haikyuu imagines #fluff #atsumu fluff #imagines #x reader

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anythingandeverything1d · 4 years

Text

Not in the same way

A few months ago:

You were sitting cross legged on Harry’s bed while he was on the phone. You were scrolling thorough pictures of the two of you and smiling thinking about how great the past year had been together. You had fallen completely head over heels in love with him in that time and he genuinely made you the happiest person on earth. You had been wanting to tell him that for quite a while you just didn't know how to make it special and memorable. So, with the help of some friends, you had painted a map onto a small wooden board with all the places Harry had toured and in each area that was filled in was a picture of the two of you. The bottom had your initials carved into a heart with the date you had started dating. You were so excited to show him the finished product. He walked back in the room with a slight frown on his face, not looking up from the phone but you smiled, patting the bed next to you “Harry..”

“Yeah love?” he mumbled still looking down.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” his head finally glanced up from the phone and looked at you curiously.

“Mhm...come sit down.”

He sat next to you with his hand on your knee and his eyes curiously looking into yours. “What kind of surprise are we talking here?” He leaned over kissing your ear, causing you to slightly smile.

You looked down, feeling a little nervous to how he would react. You pulled the board out from the pillow it was sitting under and handed it over to him. “I just wanted to do something to commemorate making it through this past year together and let you know that I love you.” You looked at him looking at the gift but he remained silent so you nervously continued on..”I love you so so much Harry and I’m grateful for every moment we have together, whether we are FaceTiming late at night when I can't sleep or if we are just having a lazy day in bed. I know that you will be leaving in a few weeks to do your next tour so I thought you could take that with you. To give you a little piece of home while you're gone.” Your cheeks had blushed red and you had looked down.

“Oh.”

You looked at him a little confused and hurt. “Oh?”

He set the board gently down and looked at you running his fingers through your hair with a pained expression on his face. “It’s just that, you know with me leaving and everything and I’ll be gone so much longer this time that I thought maybe it would be a good idea to take a break.” His lips pressed together and he watched you carefully. You just stood up from the bed and looked at him before turning away to hide the tears.

“Oh.”

“(y/n) I mean I just think-”

“No I get it.” you grabbed your jacket from his floor and walked out the door mumbling goodbye, and that was the last you had heard from Harry Styles.

Present Day:

It had been a few months since the break up with Harry. At first you had taken it really hard but eventually you moved on with life and tried forgetting about the curly haired boy you once knew. “Hey beautiful.” Luke said wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Ready for the award show tonight?”You had only been dating Luke for around a month but it felt good, and he did make you really happy. Tonight 5 Seconds of Summer would be performing at the AMAs and Luke had invited you to be his date, which meant getting red carpet ready of course. You smiled and nodded.

“Of course I am!” You pressed a kiss to his lips. “Im really excited to see you guys play.”

“Im really excited for you to watch us and for me to see you in this dress.” You rolled your eyes and laughed at him. Your dress had been specially designed. It was a sleek black dress with a slit up the side to show off your leg, and Luke had been eyeing it since you originally got fitted.

“Speaking of which” you grabbed the dress from his hand. “I need to actually get dressed so mind leaving?” He stuck his lip out and pretended to pout.

“I could help you get into the dress you know.” He wiggled his eyes and bit his lip.

“Oh I’m sure you could, but something tells me that I would end up with less clothes on then when we started..”

“I wouldn't complain..” his kissed your lips, lingering a little longer before you smiled and pushed him softly away.

“Go.” you laughed. “Before I change my mind and you miss your performance and the award show all together.”

“Anything for you.” he said with a wink. “I should probably be getting ready as well. See you soon beautiful.” He kissed your cheek once more before leaving the room. Your stylists luckily came in as he was exiting and sat you down in the chair.

You spent the next few hours getting ready. From getting into the gown, to getting hair, makeup, and nails all done. It was quite a process but the end goal was totally worth it. You spun in the mirror admiring yourself before heading out to meet Luke and the other guys. They were huddled in the corner by the car and all stopped dead when you walked over. Their mouths dropped and Luke stepped forward taking your hand and slowly spinning you. “(y/n)...uh” he stumbled while his face turned bright red. “You look absolutely stunning.” The other guys nodded their agreements and you smiled thanking them all before climbing into the limo after them.

You were nervous..you hadn't been on a red carpet since Harry and you didn't know what to expect from tonight. Luke held your hand tightly and squeezed, assuring you that everything would be perfect. He helped you out of the car and held onto your waist as the paparazzi flashed their cameras, pushing closer to ask questions and get the best shot. Luke looked forward and guided you to the next camera location and smiled kissing your cheek as you posed with a smile. You had taken nearly a hundred pictures with him when an interviewer came over asking for some news on their new album. You backed up, giving them space and watching with a smile as they teased new hints and what song they would be performing. You were about to join them when a guy with a camera stepped in front of you, causing you to stumble backwards and trip into the person behind you.

“Sor-” you stopped dead as you looked up into the face of person whose hand had stopped you from falling. Your eyes were looking into the emerald green eyes of none other than Harry Styles. Your heart was pounding and you shifted your feet taking a step back from him. Harry was surprised too. His eyes traveled your body slowly from head to toe, leading your face to turn a very dark red color. His eyes made their way back to yours and he smirked seeing the blush on your cheeks. “Sorry..” you awkwardly continued, trying to step back from him.

“(y/n)....” Harry breathed. “Uh- its, you look um” he stumbled with his words. You stumbled with your thoughts as you looked him up and down. He was wearing a white floral suit with a black button down shirt. His hair in soft curls. You could barely look away, he looked like a god. “You look-wow” he breathed out again. You shuffled away and looked down, he noticed and grabbed your hand again. “Look (y/n)..there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about...I just didn't know how to go about it..and Ive been meaning to call or text or just show up on your door ste-”

“Harry-”

“No seriously. Look I was an idiot. I never shouldve let you leave that night and I’m sorry for that. I just had some things going on and-”

“Please...Harry just stop.”

“No because I’m in love with you. I always have been..” He looked at you and stepped forward. You willed your legs to move but nothing happened except for your heart rate rising as he got closer. Luckily, Luke, Ashton, Calum and Michael had finally made their way over. Luke looked from you to Harry with a concerned gaze as he followed your hand that was resting in his. You awkwardly pulled it away and took Luke’s instead. Harry looked disappointed and then upset watching the exchange happen and you just looked at your feet.

“Everything okay?” Luke asked noticing the tension.

“Yeah, Harry had just stopped me from falling. I tripped over the guy with the camera.”

“You always are a clumsy one.” Luke laughed pulling you close. “Thanks for helping Harry, its always a pleasure.”

“Same to you guys. I look forward to seeing your performance tonight.” He said, his eyes leaving you and focusing on the group.

“Yeah it should be a good one, but we have to get going to sound check.” Luke turned to you, “Ready?” you nodded and he smiled kissing your nose and pulling you along. “See ya later Harry.” Harry didn’t answer, just watched with a murderous look in his eyes as Luke pulled you away.

You sat in a chair listening to sound check, or partly listening. Your mind had been stuck on Harry since the encounter and it was driving you to distraction. All of the emotions that you had shoveled way down after the breakup were making their way up to the surface. Hurt, confusion, disbelief, and lust. Did he love you, did he not? “(y/n)?” Luke asked concerned. You shook your head and looked at him.

“What?”

“We asked what you thought...”

“Oh...I thought you guys sounded great” you lied. You hadn’t actually listened to a thing they had just sung but your answer had satisfied them. He smiled and nodded taking the guitar and setting it down.

“Well then boys, we should probably get out to the awards then and find our seats.” You followed slightly behind the boys trying to get your brain focused on the show ahead, but when you came to your seats you were surprised to find Harry in the row directly behind yours.

“Well isn't this exciting.” he said looking at you with a devilish grin. “Just like old times right guys?” You thought you were going to be sick. No one else seemed to notice the tension or anxiety Harry had caused within you and you were grateful for that and annoyed. Luke should've been able to pick up on the shift... The awards started and luckily that meant no distractions..or so you thought. Harry touched you at every point he possibly could. A tap with his foot on your leg. His fingers brushing against your neck as he leaned forward to comment something to one of the boys. Every touch was driving you deeper into your thoughts and deeper into your feelings.

Luke seemed to finally notice something off so he put his arm around you, leaned in and whispered a “are you okay?” against your ear.

“Yeah, just a little hungry” you lied. He didn’t look fully convinced so you placed a kiss on his lips, earning a smile from him, and an angry look within Harry. Unfortunately the boys all had to leave to prepare for their performance. and get on stage, which meant you would be alone with Harry for the next 20ish minutes at least. You had wished the guys all good luck, hugging them tightly before they walked away. You then nervously settled into your chair as Harry walked around and took Luke’s seat.

“So. You and Hemmings?” Harry mumbled leaning extra close, his hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“Yeah.” you said distractedly, playing with the bracelet on your wrist and avoiding eye contact with him.

“When did that start?”

You looked up annoyed. “When do we break up again?” you said sarcastically. Harry also looked annoyed and he sat up straighter before leaning in closely again.

“So you just move on like that?” he said pointedly.

“Like what Harry?” he was getting a rouse out of you and he knew it.

“I just find it a little suspicious that you tell me you love me and then move on so quickly, that’s all.”

“Fuck you Harry.” He smirked and pressed on.

“Does Hemmings know about us? Does he know about how you felt, all the nights we spent together?”

You rolled your eyes. “Leave me alone Harry.”

“Ahh so he doesn't know which is why he didn’t seem to notice the reaction you had to me earlier.”

“How about you just go back to your seat now?” you ask but he has other plans. “And there was no reaction.”

“Now you never have been a good liar love. Are you going to tell him or should I?”

That led to the snap. You hadn’t mentioned Harry to Luke before because you didn't want questions about your feelings. You didn’t want the memories of him. You had kind of just assumed he already knew since it had been a public relationship in the past. Your eyes locked on his and you leaned in close. “Harry. I swear to god. Don’t you even dare. Its my relationship and I’ll decide when I want to tell him things about my past, so read my lips and leave me the fuck alone”

Harry grinned and whispered, “I thought you would never ask.” He pressed his lips to yours, cupping your cheeks with his hands and pulling your face closer. You reached up, your hands on his chest. You meant to push him off but he gently bit down on your lip and your body gave in. You moaned softly into the kiss and your hands knotted into his black shirt, wrinkling the once ironed fabric. Your brain was telling you no but everything else in your body was telling you yes. Harry’s kiss left goosebumps running up and down your body and when he pulled away, you were gasping for your breath while your body begged for more. Harry look satisfied with himself and sat up straighter with a smile on his face. “Tell me love, how's that kiss compare to the ones you have with Luke?” You groaned annoyed with him and scooted a seat away as the lights dimmed and the music played. The boys had chosen to perform Not in the Same Way, one of your favorite songs on their new album. You hummed along to the words, trying to ignore the very smug face Harry had sitting next to you. The words of the song really hit you differently at that moment. “I love you, you love me, but not in the same way.” Did you love Luke? Did you love Harry? Did either of them love you? There was so much you were confused on. The song ended and you hadn't really noticed. You were still distracted by the fact Harry was sitting near you, the smell of his cologne intoxicating you as if it were a drug. Your brain felt fuzzy and you were feeling off balance. Harry seemingly saying what you were thinking whispered, “He loves you, you love him but its not the same because you, my love, still love me.” Your mouth dropped open and you looked at him as he smiled before moving back to his seat, crossing his arms as he sat back down behind you. Luke and the guys made their way back over and you dramatically grabbed him, kissing him hard on the lips and giving Harry a look behind you. The other guys whistled and clapped Luke on the back before sitting down again.

“Did you like the show?” Luke asked with a smile.

You nodded, your brain was comparing the kisses. Harry’s was knee weakening. It made you want to drown in him forever. Luke’s was gentle and comforting. Everything going on in your brain was making you feel sick. “Uh I’m going to run to the bathroom” you told Luke who nodded and turned the other guys to talk about the performance. You stood up and wobbled grabbing the chair for support, causing Luke to turn to you with a look of concern.

“You okay?” he went to stand up and help you.

You stepped back. “I’m fine, just tripped.” You turned again, making a point to not look at Harry and walked out to find the bathroom. Once you made it to the bathroom, you gripped the edge of the sink and looked in the mirror. You had tears threatening to spill out of your eyes from frustration. You weren't even mad Harry had kissed you. You were mad that you had enjoyed it. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to never see him again. You looked up again and jumped when you saw Harry standing behind you in the mirror. You took a deep breath and slowly turned hissing “What are you doing in here?”

He sighed and looked at his feet. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay...you seemed a little off when you left.”

“And you had to come into the women's bathroom to do that? Aren't you a little worried someone will walk in and freak out?”

“I locked the door behind me. Its just me and you.” he stepped forward and ran his fingers across your cheek. You weren't sure how to feel about this situation and you tried to step away but your body willed you forward leaning into his touch. He sighed and opened his arms. Unwillingly you walked into them, your head against his chest and your arms tightening around his torso. “(y/n)...”

You shook your head and stepped away looking at him. “Please don’t Harry. I really can’t.”

“I can’t live without you anymore.”

“You seem to have done well the last few months without me.”

“You don't even know. I’ve been a disaster. The only thing keeping me from rushing to you was the fact that Louis and Liam talked me out of it. They said just to wait until tour was over. That there was no point to put stress on you while I was away. But then of course you had to go get yourself a new boyfriend.”

“Oh I’m so sorry I didn’t just continue to let the break up ruin my life. I’m sorry I found someone who actually wanted me.”

“I want you more than I want to breathe. I don't know what else I need to do to get that into your head.”

“There’s nothing you can-” Harry cut you off. His hands tugging you hard against him, his lips crashing into yours. His hands slid down your back and gently squeezed your ass. You didn't even pretend to not enjoy it and soon you were matching his energy. Your arms tangling up around his neck. He picked you up and sat you on the counter by the sink, his body between your legs. His tongue ran down your neck and your head tilted back in response. He continued down, pressing gentle kisses along the soft skin on your chest and he laughed softly. “What?” you asked partially annoyed and partially willing him to continue.

“I just wish this dress was easier to get off..” He kissed you again, biting your bottom lip and tugging before slipping his tongue into your mouth where it tangled with yours. The taste of Harry was overwhelming and what you had been missing more than anything. After another minute Harry pulled away, gasping for air. Your head leaning against his shoulder while catching your breath. He hugged your body tightly and your arms snaked around his ribs where you squeezed hard, hoping he would never let go. The two of you sat like that for a few minutes before Harry reluctantly pulled away. You looked at him and he looked back and smiled.

“What’s that look for?”

“You mean my smile?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just happy I have you back. I feel like I can breathe normally again, I-”

You sighed and looked down. “Where do we go from here Harry? What happens next?”

“You break up with Hemmings.” “I can’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because...it-it wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“And it’s fair for me to just sit back and let you walk away again, knowing how we both feel?”

“You pushed me away the first time Harry. Lets not forget who's fault that was.”

He shook his head. “I know. I know it was my fault, which is why I won't back down now. I don't care if it hurts him. I need you. Look I’ll give you till the end of the night.”

“Or what? You’ll tell him? That will hurt me too Harry you know that right?”

“Or I’ll leave. And you will never see me again.” Harry turned and walked out without looking back at you and your heart dropped as you were faced with the hardest decision you may have ever needed to make.

----

Part 2

Hope you all like it! xoxo

#one direction #directioners #one direction imagines #one direction fanfiction #5 seconds of summer #luke hemmings #luke hemming imagines #Harry Styles #harrystyles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles imagine #5sos

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hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

So I know you don't really write PRU things but how about PRU averting? Like when Newt starts to realize something is wrong he goes to Hermann for help?

this isn’t exactly what you wanted (at all) but the concept for this fic has been making me laugh all week. sometimes a bitch just wants to write a slightly unhinged jealous ex hermann unknowingly seducing aliens out of newt

safe for work except for some makeouts and implied past banging, but hermann tries very hard for it to not be. also ive definitely written similar plots before but who cares

—————

They send a ranger-in-training to break the news to Hermann. He’s not sure what they expected him to do, really, or how a teenager in oversized khakis might have prevented it in the first place. Rage? Cry? Break things? His relationship with Newton Geiszler has been highly publicized at this point, he supposes, down to every last gory detail; their scientific rivalry, their heated laboratory debates, their–er–rather dramatic love affair, which ended on a deeply sour note when Newton packed his bags and left Hermann for better funding and a swanky flat with more windows than walls seven years ago. As far as gossip is concerned, that is.

“Tomorrow?” Hermann says.

The ranger nods and says nothing. She’s awfully young–too young, Hermann thinks. And awfully afraid of him. Right, of course: he’s crotchety, daft old Dr. Gottlieb, notorious for his short temper and avoidance of socialization at all costs. He furrows his brow an appropriate amount and nods, as if to appear deeply consternated, or perhaps lost in brooding abstraction. “I see,” he says. “Hm. That wretched Dr. Geiszler, here, after so many years. The nerve of him. Thank you.”

The girl doesn’t move.

“Ah,” Hermann says. “Dismissed, I mean.”

Between the bare bones staff and Hermann’s incredibly low rank back in Hong Kong, he still hasn’t quite gotten used to the notion that he has things like interns and underlings again, let alone people who–when sent to deliver him a message, or paperwork, or lab equipment he submitted forms for–need to be explicitly dismissed to leave his presence. Newton would love it. Or, at the very least, he’d love teasing Hermann for it. (Control freak, that was what he’d call Hermann.)

Back in the safety and solitude of his private laboratory, Hermann brews a fresh pot of tea and mulls the news over. It’ll hardly be the first time Newton’s set foot at the Moyulan Shatterdome. It’ll hardly be the first time Hermann will have seen Newton since the Events of seven years ago, either. It will, however, be the first occasion on which the two collide: Newton always seems to schedule his routine Moyulan visits when Hermann is tucked safely away in some conference or council in some other bloody country, leaving their paths to cross at the most inane social events, banquets and fundraisers and black tie occasions that leave Hermann stifling under his collar and his leg aching from the strain of standing for so long.

Their words to each other in such situations have always been terse, brief, polite. Newton, after all, is a very important (and very rich) man these days, and he has plenty of elbows to bump and high society buggers to flatter without Hermann getting in his way. It’s pleasantries, is all. Lovely to see you, Dr. Geiszler. How’s work, Dr. Geiszler? The champagne is excellent, isn’t it, Dr. Geiszler? By Jove, it’s maddening. Just once Hermann would like to shout and snap at him like the good old days, to grab hold of that stupid bloody tie and shove him against a wall and kiss him, or bite him, or do anything that isn’t smile and pretend to care when he mentions that–that Alice floozy he’s shacking up with. And now, with Newton finally giving Hermann a window to meet in his own territory…

Hermann keeps a small volume of Newton’s early research on his desk–compiled long before he even knew the man–and he takes it out now, slipping a well-worn polaroid out from between its pages and propping it against his tea mug. Newton smiles out at him. “Horrible little man,” Hermann says, lovingly, and gently brushes his index finger against that handsome face.

He feigns a stomach bug to clock out of work early–fooling no one, of course, but his staff chalks it up sympathetically to the prospect of seeing his notorious ex tomorrow and says nothing–and makes a mad dash into town for a haircut and manicure. After some consideration, he pops into a clothing store for a new button-down, too. A nice one. One that fits him well. (You have a hot bod, dude, Newton would always say, you should be flaunting it.

No, no raging, or crying, or breaking things. It’s been seven years since Newton walked out on Hermann for a cushy job and designer suits, and Hermann has exactly one course of action in mind: winning him back.

——

Newton is not exactly as Hermann remembered. The changes in him are noticeable, and–for the most part, barring the loss of his glasses and personal sense of style–Hermann feels entirely neutral about them: hair more neatly tamed, stubble more neatly shaved, body ever-so-slightly more toned. Hermann seems to recall Newton saying something about CrossFit or some sort of damned exercise bike he bought at the last banquet they attended–lost ten pounds this past month! New Year’s Resolution, you know, ha, gotta stay in shape for Alice (and this was the point at which Hermann clenched his champagne flute so tightly it burst, and he excused himself to find a napkin with which to tend to his bleeding and a tall glass of whiskey from the open bar with which to tend to his agonies). Whatever it is, it seems to be working.

He manages to lure Newton out from under the thumb of his boss with vague claims of research, though Newton is not happy about it. “I got shit to do, man,” he complains. His eyes are inscrutable behind his expensive sunglasses. “It’s just not a good time. Busy, busy, busy, you know.”

They’ll have the laboratory to themselves, even more so than usual. I’ll need to have a few private words with Dr. Geiszler, Hermann had ominously announced to his staff that morning, and they’d all looked at each other in excitement. An infamous Geiszler-Gottlieb row! Hermann locks the door behind them.

“You poor dear,” Hermann says. “Running yourself ragged. You must be exhausted.”

Newton shrugs. “I am a little. I guess.” He shrugs again, and this time preens a little with it. Good: Hermann wants him nice and flattered. “It’s hard work being as important as I am, you know.”

“I imagine,” Hermann coos sympathetically. He brushes his hand across Newton’s shoulders, then nudges him at the small of his back towards his desk. “Please, Newt, I insist you have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” Newton says, waving him off.

The instant coffee is located on the middle shelf of Hermann’s bookcase, between a dusty variety box of Twinings and an elaborate kaiju action figure Newton left in their apartment when he walked out. Hermann spoons some into a chipped blue mug and watches Newton through the man’s reflection on the kettle. He leans back in Hermann’s desk chair; he rolls his shoulders; he pops open a button on his maroon suit coat; he spies something propped up on Hermann’s desk, and picks it up. The polaroid. Hermann ducks his head to hide his smile.

“Good times, huh, dude?” Newton says. He waves it in the air.

“Mm,” Hermann says.

He hands the mug of coffee over to Newton, who’s yet to put down the polaroid. Milk and plenty of sugar. Exactly the way Newton always used to take it. “There we are, dear,” he says. “Are you hungry? Might I get you anything to eat? I’ve plenty of biscuits, and, er...” He casts a guilty glance around the mess of his workspace. “...Oranges.”

“No thanks,” Newton says, but it’s vague, unconvincing. His eyes are locked on the photograph. “Good times,” he repeats.

“Nothing to eat at all?” Hermann says.

Newton shakes himself. “Nah,” he says, and pats his stomach. “On a diet. You know, for Alice.”

Ah, of course; Alice. The mystery woman Hermann despises the very existence of. For years after Newton first broke the news to Hermann he was seeing someone new, Hermann used to pour over magazine articles and gossip sites for even a glimpse of what she might look like (and for the chance to do something cathartic, like crop her angrily from a photograph with Newton or scribble over her face with a Sharpie). Probably horrendously ugly; possibly blonde; undoubtedly lacking taste, and humor, and any other sorts of qualities a mate worthy of Newton ought to possess. At the very least, Hermann knows she isn’t at all supportive of Newton in the way she should be. Every banquet and fundraiser, she’s too busy to come, every dinner invitation Hermann finally accepts so he may properly hate the woman, she must cancel at the very last minute due to some strange illness or another.

Privately, Hermann thinks she feels threatened by him. As she should be. He and Newton have been in each other’s heads, after all, wrote letters in their youth, shared a laboratory for years, shared a bed for longer than that. It’s a simple fact one will ever know Newton like Hermann knows him.

“Of course,” Hermann says, with icy kindness. “For Alice. How is she these days? I was ever so put out when she caught–what was it–influenza, yes, that night we were meant to dine together. And the time before that, with pneumonia. And laryngitis before that. Terrific bloody coincidences, aren’t they.”

(Sorry, dude, Newton said over the phone, not sounding very sorry, but rather quite distracted. She was probably in the room, egging on his lies. She's sick. Can’t see you after all. Rain check?)

“Yeah,” Newton says. He’s started to shake his leg up and down, a nervous tic Hermann is all too aware of, seeing as he’s picked it up himself after their drift. Along with an annoying tendency to hoard sentimental rubbish. “Coincidences. If I’m being honest, Hermann–I’m not too keen on you two–well.” A strange look crosses his face, replaced in a blink of an eye with a toothy smile. “Old flame and the new flame, it’d be awkward for everyone, y’know?”

“Especially for her, I’d imagine,” Hermann says, and then he swings himself down into Newton’s lap.

Newton goes very still; the photograph slips from his fingers and flutters to the floor. “Hermann?” he squeaks.

Dropping his cane, Hermann nuzzles his face into the crook of Newton’s neck and breathes deeply; the Newton of his memories smells of burnt coffee and the sharp tang of preservation chemicals, but the Newton of now smells more of expensive cologne than anything else. Hermann can’t say he likes it much, but he presses a small kiss there anyway, marveling at the lack of the scratchy stubble he remembers so well. “What–what are you doing?” Newton says.

Another kiss. Hermann slips a hand up to caress Newton’s jaw, and Newton shivers. “I should think it’s obvious,” Hermann says. “Mm. Come on, now, love, I know I can’t be the only one of us who’s been aching for this.”

“It’s,” Newton stammers, “I,” and his sturdy fingers grip Hermann’s waist, though he makes no move to shove him away. In fact, he only draws him closer. Marvelous. “I’ve got–someone, dude,” he says, gazing at Hermann between heavy eyelids. “Alice. I have–”

Hermann kisses him, pouring into it every ounce of longing he’s felt for the last seven years, and Newton melts against him with a moan. “But does she make you feel the way I do?” Hermann murmurs.

“Uh,” Newton says.

He swipes his tongue into Newton’s mouth, enjoying the sharp jolt that shoots through Newton when he brushes against his own tongue, and pulls back with a small bite at his bottom lip. Newton always liked when Hermann kissed him messily. “Do feel free to touch me,” he says.

Newton does: one hand leaves Hermann’s waist and inches up his side instead, pausing to shove one half of his lab coat off, then the other. The coat slips to the floor as well. Newton splays five fingers over Hermann’s right pectoral. “Nice shirt,” he says, sounding rather dazed. “Good color on you.”

“I’d hoped you like it,” Hermann says happily. “Remember what you always used to say, about flaunting it? I thought it was time I’d take your advice.”

“I do,” Newton says. “I do remember. Ha.” His face splits into a grin, one of the first truly Newton-esque ones Hermann’s seen on him in years, and Hermann feels a small flare of triumph. He catches the hand at his chest and draws it to his mouth, brushing a kiss over the knuckles. Newton’s tattoos, vibrant as ever, poke out from beneath one maroon sleeve.

Hermann remembers kissing those tattoos. He remembers tracing the shape of red-yellow waves with his fingertips, of pinching the eyes of the great kaiju splashed across his chest, of teasing Newton for his rather unadorned arse and how pale it was in comparison to the rest of him. You’re one to talk, buddy, Newton would say, and he’d deliver a playful smack to Hermann’s, all skin and bones, dude, I think I bruised my hand. He used to like to keep his glasses on in bed so he could see Hermann. Make sure it’s actually happening, he’d say. His sunglasses are folded uselessly on Hermann’s desk. “I could make you so loud,” Hermann says. “We’d get noise complaints. Remember?”

Newton nods, eyes fixed on the knuckles Hermann kissed.

“I knew exactly where to touch you,” Hermann says, dropping his voice, “and how to touch you. I still do, Newton.” Newton dissolves into whimpers when his neck is kissed, a certain spot by his left thigh pressed on with a thumb; when being made love to, he likes his sides stroked, fingers pressed against his tongue; when doing the love making, he likes his hair pulled, nails raked across his back.

“Please,” Newton says, his voice cracking. “Can you–?”

Hermann shoves that ugly maroon jacket to the floor, then winds that ugly tie around his fingers and gives Newton a sharp tug. Newton moans, twice as loud as before. “Yes, darling, of course.”

They kiss, Hermann making quick work of the buttons of Newton’s shirt, Newton seemingly too shy to do anything beyond grip Hermann’s shoulders. A pink blush is spreading from the tips of his cheeks down to his neck. It’s very sweet. “Hermann,” he says.

“Mm?”

Newton wets his lips. “You like when I do this,” he says, and gives Hermann’s ear a little tug.

(They’re so big, Newton would say, it’s adorable, you’re adorable, and Hermann would swat him away, but then Newton would kiss the shell of his ear, bite his earlobe, and Hermann would gasp, and sensitive! Newton would say, adorable, absolutely adorable.)

“They’re sensitive,” Newton says. “You like when I kiss them.” He grins again, though it slips away after a moment. “I think they’ll be looking for me soon.”

“You are so terribly important, after all,” Hermann says. “It’s a very good thing I’ve locked the door. I haven’t finished having my wicked way with you yet.”

This time, Newton laughs, though it’s an uncertain little thing. “Listen,” he says, strangely urgent, and he squeezes Hermann’s arm. “Don’t let me leave, okay?” Then he shakes his head. “Actually, no. Take me home with you. Away from–from work. And Alice. Yeah. Let’s go now.”

This is unexpected, though Hermann cannot deny it’s not exactly what he hoped would happen when his foolproof plan of seduction worked. He’s suddenly very pleased he made a few more stops after picking up his new shirt: first for a very expensive bottle of wine and the makings of a dinner the Newton of ten years ago loved, the next a rather discreet one for the sort of supplies they’d need to, er, take this one step further. “Oh, yes,” Hermann says. “Oh, darling, absolutely. Er–now now?”

“Now,” Newton says. He plants a series of discoordinated, rapid-fire kisses across Hermann’s mouth and chin. “Now,” he repeats. “Keep talking to me.”

“About what?” Hermann says, frowning.

“Anything,” Newton says. “And touch me. Keep touching me. Hermann–when we get there, I have to tell you–”

“Alright, Newton, alright,” Hermann says. He did forget how needy Newton could get. He’s also missed it. He strokes back some of Newton’s neat hair, gropes around for his cane, and eases himself to his feet with a small groan. (He’s not quite as young or agile as he used to be.) Newton immediately springs to his own feet and latches onto Hermann’s arm. He's not merely needy tonight--a bit on edge, too, it seems. “Off we are, then. Be a dear and get my coat for me.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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goose-books · 4 years

Photo

goose-books productions: a 2020 review

view the image in higher quality here! (open the image in a new tab to zoom in.) thank you to my dearest @yvesdot for the template

transcripts and month-by-month details under the cut! for reference, you can find my projects here :-) overall, new and old followers, thank you for another good year over here! [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your h

january

i spent late 2019-early 2020 working on 2019’s nano project, quark, aka the speculative fiction thing about new york city and prophets and dissections of the chosen one trope and gay people. quark is my second-oldest project (five years!), but it’s also probably the most ambitious, so it’s been... difficult to wrangle into place, and i didn’t end up finishing a first draft. oh, well.

enjoy a snippet that is devastatingly emblematic of everything about quark. the tone. the homoerotic tension. the ensemble cast all talking over each other. the fact that caelum has spent pretty much this entire scene crying. fun autopsy report meeting.

Marble stares at the notebook in Shade’s hands. Or maybe he’s staring at Shade’s hands. Dawn feels a little voyeuristic, so she does what she does and says a dumb and unrelated thing: “Augustus, I think this pizza-on-the-floor thing is hurting my ass.”

Augustus flutters his hands. “Sometimes nonconformity is painful.”

“At least we’re originals,” Caelum mumbles into his sleeve.

“Exactly,” Augustus says.

“True originality doesn’t exist,” Marble says.

“Oh,” Shade deadpans, “it’s going to be a fun autopsy report meeting.”

It isn’t.

february

in january i stressed myself out trying to make the plot of quark work. so in february, i decided to take some time and write something Entirely For Fun. like, entirely for fun, no rules. and. my god. how do i explain the project i started calling “third eye for the bad guy.”

it was an unholy mashup of many of my past hyperfixations, including the gone series, a tale of two cities, warrior cats, and the left hand of darkness. one of the characters was a canon scalie and one was a canon fictionkinnie. it centered around a polycule of wannabe-evil-overlord high schoolers. i only wrote like three chapters but i was lost in the sauce for all of february and then i just… like… wiped it from my mind and moved on? somehow??? one character was a werewolf and that literally wasn’t relevant at ALL

Someone was going to die on these steps.

This had been Ivy Lee Palomo’s thought last year during the all-school photo, and it rose in her mind again now. The one hundred marble stairs leading up to the great double doors of Saint Constantine Academy were the school’s pride and glory, steep as the mountain, sharp as the blade under Ivy Lee’s skirt. With the cutting wind and snow glazing the stone more often than not, with the freshmen wild and wired on their first day of their first year, it was really only a matter of time before someone slipped and cracked their fucking head open.

It wasn’t going to be her. Not when she had Doc Martens and reflexes like an electric coil. Still. Ivy Lee didn’t want to watch someone die. She didn’t get along with dead people.

march

in march, i got back to the project i’d started in 2019 - AMT, my podcast! it’s a shakespeare retelling set in a modern high school; this excerpt is funnier and also more unnerving in context. (double, double, toil and trouble...)

INDRAJIT: What the hell are you doing?

[PAUSE.]

DEE (like she’s lying): Making pasta.

[ALL THREE OF THEM LAUGH.]

NONA: That’s right.

MORA: We have the keys to Mab’s office.

DEE: We’re using her stove.

NONA: To make pasta.

DEE: Do you want some?

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

INDRAJIT: No.

april

and darkling rears its head! all of my other projects have existed for at least a year; darkling (specfic king lear retelling) is... special. it was conceived in april, when i started hyperfixating on king lear, and i still managed to write an absolutely ridiculous amount of content for it. it was like the power of hyperfixation let me speedrun the entire process. which. okay.

iv: control

They say Cressida Stayer was nine years old when she turned her hair to gold. They laid her down in bed blonde, and the next morning, the waves cascading down her shoulders were solid metal, glinting harshly in the sunlight, weighing her down, creating that odd head-cocked expression she still wears now. Nine years old. Two or three years before most people develop enough magic skills to dye a single curl. Much less transfigure their hair into precious metal.

People also say Leovald Stayer’s immediate reaction was to hack it off her head and melt it down for cash. But generally they say that part a lot quieter.

may

in may i wrote AMT episode 15, by which i mean that in may there was a day when i sat in my room with the door shut for literally five straight hours listening to the same three songs on loop as i wrote the climax of one of the plotlines of AMT. so. that sure was… a day.

ISAAC: Do you want… do you want someone to drive you home? Hawk, you’re worrying me -

HAWK (almost cutting him off): Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m here to help. With your… thing.

ISAAC (quietly): I… don’t know if you should be here to see this.

HAWK (a little louder, more audibly upset): Well - what else am I going to do? Go home and - and have my dads talk at me and - and not be able to answer them? Because I can’t? I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

[PAUSE.]

ISAAC (V.O.): I wonder if this is what he feels like, on the outside, looking in at me. Watching someone else hurting. Helpless and afraid.

He still fits perfectly in my arms. I rest my chin on top of his head and pull him close to me, like I can stop him from shaking, like I can stop anything from happening the way I know it’s going to. I bury my face in his hair. He smells so familiar. He’s so warm.

God, Hawk. I love you so much. You shouldn’t be here to see this. Something bad’s gonna happen. And you’re not the kind of person who belongs in a tragedy.

june

okay, honestly, i should talk about “night shift” here, because in june i wrote a whole short story in one night (and then foamed over it for a week), but i am still in the process of submitting it places! so i am terrified to put even a sentence of it online. instead: the other thing i did this month was to finish AMT! (sixteen episodes and somewhere around 175k, iirc, but don’t quote me.) these lines are the opener to the final episode!

RAHMA (V.O.): The combined series of sophomore year disasters stretched through November. It’s June now. It’s taken me… a long time to get this all put together. I was going to make a vlog about it, initially - well, calling it a vlog sounds frivolous. I was going to make a video recounting the whole deal. All of it. From when I kissed Avery Fairchilde to the very last night. I scripted dozens of drafts; I put together dozens of bullet-pointed lists of what to cover… and it was never enough. Because Avery and I weren’t the only ones involved. Even if I was only focused on the two of us, it wasn’t just the two of us.

So… I gathered up everyone else. The whole town of Ellisburg is still talking about the week the town went crazy, but it wasn’t just a week. There was a lot leading up to it. And I think if anyone’s going to talk about it, it should be us. The people who lived it. So here we are. The most ambitious Rahma Ashiq production of all time - at least so far.

july

every july i pause whatever else i’m doing to celebrate the birthday of aurum & argentate, twins from my oldest and dearest WIP The Mortal Realm. july fifteenth! mark your calendars. they’re princes, though argentate would really rather not be; you can read the full birthday piece here.

“Do you… plan to get dressed?” A bit of the usual humor crept back into Aurum’s voice. “Although if you want to speak to the kingdom in your underthings, by all means, you have my full support.”

Argentate scrubbed at his face. He wasn’t dressed, no, but the usual malaise hung over his shoulders like a cloak. Guilt. Nerves. The sick sense that he hadn’t done something he was supposed to. The numb knowledge that it was too late to change a thing.

“I meant to,” he said. “Get dressed, I mean.” The rest went unsaid: I have just been sitting here. On the floor. Thinking about how I should get dressed.

“Ah,” Aurum said, extending his hand. “The traditional route. We’ll save the nude speeches for the future, then.”

Argentate took his hand, stumbling a little as Aurum pulled him to his feet. He steadied himself on the closest wall, taking a few deep breaths. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. His hands found their way to the cross, again and again.

august

this summer, i wrote an entire draft of Valentine Van Velt is Dead, AKA “holden caulfield goes to exposure therapy,” AKA the weird little personal side project i keep tucked into my coat. interesting features include second-person narration from a narrator who doesn’t like the main character all that much. so reading it is kind of like the book wants to kill you? with an added dash of general melancholy.

You used to live here. That’s the thing that’s got you feeling so off.

You didn’t recognize your old house. I mean, you kind of did. You remembered that the road was on a hill. That hill felt like a goddamn forty-five degree angle when you were a kid. But if you didn’t have the address written down you wouldn’t have known it at all. It would have been just another little suburban house in rows of perfect little towns that make your skin crawl.

So now you’re in this diner looking out a gross smudgy window trying to block out the elevator music pumping through the speakers in the ceiling or whatever. I don’t know how speakers work. You’re trying to tune that shit out. The waitress comes over and catches you by surprise so you just point at some coffee thing on the menu so she’ll go away. For the record: you don’t drink coffee.

There’s a public library across the street. A little square building. You probably used to go there. The lady comes over and thunks your coffee on the table and gives you a kind of look, like she wants to know what in the goddamn hell you think you’re doing here and not at school. You sip your coffee and look out the window until she leaves you alone again. And then you spit it back into the cup because, for the record: you don’t drink coffee.

september

i spent september and october prepping for nano, so i was mostly working on darkling...

It’s late spring; still, at this time of night, on a rooftop, there’s a chill. The wind plays with the end of Ruby’s coat, with her hair. She hands the bottle off to Jasper, stares up at the fogged-over sky, wishes she were lying in Dany’s arms in Dany’s bed instead of here. Wishes, even, that Dany were the one on the roof with her. At least then they’d be cold together. At least then she wouldn’t have to imagine what Dany would say; she could just listen, and watch Dany’s flashing smile and her flinty eyes.

(She cuddles. This is another thing Dany does that Dany probably shouldn’t do, based on everything about Dany; it’s not like rattlesnakes cuddle. But Dany likes to nuzzle into Ruby’s side and rest her head on Ruby’s collarbones and toss an arm over Ruby’s chest, and hold her down like she’s worried she’ll float off somewhere. She’ll card her fingers through Ruby’s hair and hum. Even though they could get caught, even though she’s probably got better places to be - Dany cuddles.)

Ruby imagines it, momentarily, both of them on the roof together, sprawled like horrifyingly beautiful gargoyles, sharp teeth flashing, blood running hot. Up here - it’d be like they ruled the world.

But whatever. Jasper’s fun. He’s hot. He’s got a sharp tongue in a lot more ways than one. And she likes when he lets the mask down. She likes seeing the soft bits underneath. She wants to sink her teeth and nails into them so hard she draws blood. Masks don’t bleed. Ruby would know; that’s why she is what she is.

october

...though i was also in creative writing class in school, and thus ended up writing a bunch of poems of varying quality (my teacher had a real thing for poetry) and also one darklingverse short story where rory and cressida hold hands! which you can find here.

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

november

and then november of course was nano which was an adventure all the way through. (opening tumblr on the fifth day of nano to find out about d*stiel... was something.)

“Apologize to me. Or get out of my house.”

Gracen’s voice is very, very low. For a moment she thinks he hasn’t heard her at all. Then he spins, eyes blazing. “What did you say?”

Gracen watches her own chest heave. She pushes herself up off the desk, stands with the effort of pushing a mountain off of her back. Leovald is six-foot-four. Gracen is six-foot-two. In her heels, in the heels she must wear to be a professional woman, to be a lady - they are the same height.

Gracen wipes her nose. When she lowers her arm, there’s a streak of blood across the back of her hand. Fire shivers in her chest; her heart rings in her ears; her voice could cut steel.

“I said,” she says, low, slow, volume building, “apologize to me. Or get. Out. Of. My. House.”

december

and finally, the poem i posted this year! it’s called the beast sonnet, and you can find it in its own post over here (with commentary! how sexy.)

i kill the beast and drop down to my knees, my blade stained dark with blood of stygian hue, and for a moment these scarred hands shake free, and hold a world unfurled for me anew. but once-mourned victims, victors, vices find; fear winged me; now its absence strips me bare. my sword now dulls, my legs, my voice, my mind; the beast, pried from my throat, leaves no skill there. and still i hear it laugh, O DEVOTEE— O CHILD DEAR, NO GLORY WITHOUT ME.

i was quite productive this year; i have to think it was because i was avoiding things... the peak of my productivity happened over the summer and in november, AKA, college app hell. (almost done with the last applications! pray for me.)

a general breakdown of what occupied me this year:

(no, i don’t know why the “various other things” category ended up so large... i blame all the one-off projects i wrote a single page for, and also whatever the fuck happened in february. yes, i do know why it looks hideous; it’s because each of my WIPs has a theme color

thank you once again for spending some time at goose-books dot gov this year! what to expect for next year: well, i very much hope i can produce AMT... also hoping to get darkling ready for beta readers, so keep your eyes out!

#max.txt #and that's a wrap!!! what a goddamn year.#okay. breath in. tags:#quark tag #third eye tag #(i think there are like. two posts in that one?)#amt tag #darkling tag #tmr tag #vvvid tag #wow that was a lot of text. if you read all this... [blows you a kiss] thank you!#max actually writes #year in review

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