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zaebeecee · 7 months ago

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To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 3/?

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Read on AO3

Chapter 3 Art by @fletchingbrilliant

•••

TW for Valentino typical violence under the cut. I make up for it with Angel and Alastor talking again at least? Note: I headcanon Alastor as the same kind of ace that I am, so he IS STILL ACE and this is STILL A SHIPPING FIC.

•••

“Who is it, amorcito?”

Angel Dust’s hand froze over the brush laid on his vanity, the light sound of his dressing room door clicking shut somehow feeling as loud as if Valentino had just slammed it. Angel curled his fingers slightly, then committed to trying for casual, picking up the brush and beginning to touch up his hair and his chest fluff. “Who’dya mean, Val?”

Long, cold fingers came to rest on Angel’s shoulders, practically burning through the thin material of his silk robe. Valentino leaned down until his head was level with Angel’s, and he exhaled a thin stream of pinkish smoke, the scent rich and heady as always. Immediately, Angel felt dizzy, and he drew a shaken breath as he met Valentino’s eyes in the mirror.

“Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t notice?” Valentino purred, one of his free hands touching Angel’s cheek and stroking gently along the line of his jaw up towards his cheek. Angel’s eyes fluttered as he resisted closing them or jerking away, his breath stuttering briefly as he remembered the last time those claws had been so close to one of his eyes. “It’s always been such a ghastly flaw in your otherwise impeccable appearance. And now, to see it so… garish? How could I not notice my precious araña had been marred?”

Angel made himself smile a little. “I wasn’t hidin’ it, Val,” he said, keeping his tone flirtatious and his demeanor relaxed. He’d only been able to come up with one possible excuse that his boss might buy, and even then, it relied on Valentino wanting to believe it. “If you’re askin’ me who activated it, I couldn’t tell ya. Happened when I went clubbin’ the other night and I guess I bumped into somebody. Didn’t really care enough to find out.”

“Hmm…” Valentino kept watching him in the mirror as Angel resumed his primping, silently pleading with the moth to take the excuse and leave. Finally, Angel saw the other sinner smile.

It was not a good smile.

“Bullshit.”

That was Angel’s only warning before Valentino grabbed him and tore him from the vanity bench, throwing him across the room and into the glass coffee table that sat in front of his comfy pink couch. Angel went straight through the table top, which burst around him in a horrific shattering scream and immediately tore through his robe and his flesh. Angel gasped, the pain that flooded his body only vaguely dulled by the fact that Val had done it at all.

Valentino was violent. Angel had known that since they were first getting acquainted. But he never, never hurt Angel badly enough to make him bleed before a shoot. It was too hard to cover up with makeup, he said. No, bruises were made to be given before a shoot, but breaks and lacerations were made to be given after.

Angel couldn’t speak as Valentino hauled him up out of the pit of shattered glass and splintering wood, holding him by the front of his robe and leaving him to dangle helplessly as the fabric tightened around his throat. “You ungrateful little bitch,” Valentino spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “After everything I have done for you, this is how you repay me? You cheating whore!” he shouted, throwing Angel into the wall over the couch. The spider demon hit the wall with a heavy thud and fell onto the cushions, his momentum so great that he bounced off of them and right back onto the glass-covered floor.

Gasping with pain, Angel peered up at the other sinner, trying to push himself up onto his hands and only managing to dig shards of glass into his palms. “V-Val, I’m sorry…!” The tears that fell from his eyes stung the open cut on his cheek. “I didn’t mean… I swear, I didn’t mean for it to happen!”

Valentino’s face was cast in shadow as he stood over Angel’s prone body, his lip curled in a snarl and his fists clenched. “Fix it.”

Angel shook his head. “…wh…what…?”

“Fix. It,” Valentino repeated sharply. “You have a month. After that, I will take care of it myself.” He turned, sweeping towards the door. “We’re working your blood into the shoot. Get up and get out here.”

Angel’s breath came out in a quiet sob as his boss slammed the door behind him, and he managed to roll off of the glass and shove himself onto his knees. He didn’t have time to do real damage assessment, but he did his best to quickly pick shards of glass out of his hands and what of his back he could reach before he staggered to his feet and hurried along behind Valentino.

The shoot was one of the worst he had ever endured. Angel’s state seemed to shock the entire studio, but under Valentino’s watchful eye, no one said anything; even Travis seemed to think it was excessive, but after a long beat, he simply called for places. The scripted scenario had been scrapped in favor of something improvised to match Angel’s injuries, which meant none of his coworkers were allowed to avoid them and more than one of them ripped open and bled on the floor. He even accidentally cut Rocky open with a shard of glass he hadn’t managed to remove, but to the big oaf’s credit, he didn’t say anything. They all knew what Val would do if anything interrupted filming while he was in such a mood.

After only one round of filming, Angel felt numb. He was aware of someone saying something to him, but he couldn’t make himself parse the words, much less respond. A hand grabbed him roughly by the forearm, hauling him to his feet, and Angel’s brain struggled to connect to his surroundings as he was pulled out a door and down a hallway. He realized it was Val at the same time as another door opened and Angel was thrown in, landing hard on a plush carpet that smelled like smoke this close.

“What do you want?” Val asked, and Angel tried to figure out how to answer such a strange question.

“What do you think?”

…a strange question that, it seemed, wasn’t for him.

Angel managed to raise his head enough to register that he was lying on the floor of Valentino’s office, and a short distance in front of him, he could see very well-polished black and electric blue spats.

“I am handling this,” Valentino said.

“Oh, no, that isn’t what I would call this.” Angel watched, perplexed, as Vox took one of his hands and pulled him to his feet, then set him down in one of the chairs near Valentino’s desk. Vox didn’t bother addressing Angel, however, only giving him the focus required to move him before he turned back to Valentino. “I would call this throwing one of your fits.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Valentino snarled. “He is my property and I will do what I like with him.”

“…within reason,” Vox amended. “Val, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. What you do inside the studio is your business. The moment you drag it out into the hallways, it becomes public, and therefore, it is the company’s business. And the company is not in the habit of parading around very expensive and very bloody whores while behaving like a jilted lover who just caught their wife with the milkman. I will not have it. Am I clear?”

Valentino was so angry he was shaking. He didn’t argue; he didn’t say anything at all.

Vox seemed to take that well. “Good!” he said brightly, and Angel heard the applause of a studio audience somewhere. Vox stepped forward and began physically guiding Valentino out of his own office with a hand on the small of his back. “Now, you let me take care of this and get back to the studio.”

“But—”

“Go, Val, I won’t damage your investment.”

Angel was shocked to see that Valentino listened, though he did slam the door again to get his point across. Angel looked from the door to Vox’s back, and he heard the CEO make some kind of disgruntled noise before he turned enough to cast his eyes down to Angel. “So,” Vox began, his voice cold and his smile no longer in place. “I hear you have an activated soul mark.”

Angel cringed and looked away. “…word travels fast.”

“Mm.” Vox went to the desk and opened a box Angel hadn’t noticed before. It looked like a first aid kit. He slid it over to Angel expectantly, and after a moment of hesitation, Angel began retrieving material to clean and bandage the wounds he could reach. “You knew this would happen eventually.”

“It’s not my fault,” Angel said, his protest weak. “It ain’t like I wanted to find ‘em.”

Vox sat in the chair across from him, looking him over critically. Angel knew that Vox didn’t like him—that wasn’t exactly a big secret, since Vox had never tried to hide it and Angel had never seen a reason to attempt to ingratiate himself to the television-headed demon—but he also knew that Vox was the most even-tempered of the Vees as long as Alastor wasn’t a factor, which frequently made him the easiest to deal with. “But you did. Now what?”

“Whaddya mean?” Angel asked, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the sting of antiseptic in his palm.

“I can at least gather you didn’t try to use this to beg your way out of your contract, since you don’t seem to have any broken bones,” Vox observed. Angel almost laughed. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“Nothin’,” Angel said. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do.”

Vox made a noise like a soft and thoughtful hum filtered through television static. “It wouldn’t be good for our brand,” he said. “Our premier porn star tied to a soulmate.”

“Look, whaddya expect me to do about it?” Angel asked, looking up at Vox again. “I already ain’t seein’ the guy, like, at all. I can’t get more far removed from him than I already am.”

Vox rolled his eyes. “You could sever it.”

Angel froze. “…sever?” he asked, his stomach flipping oddly.

“Yes. Sever,” Vox repeated, his smile returning and getting uncomfortably close to his public relations smile. “Now that you’ve found him, it’s possible to cut the connection. Your mark will disappear, Valentino will stop bitching, and your quality of life will doubtless improve greatly with him no longer worrying about it.”

Angel shook his head. “We don’t have a connection,” he said. Vox’s eyebrow lifted. “I mean, I know, there— there’s that,” Angel said, gesturing roughly at his leg, “but we ain’t got anythin’ else. There’s nothin’ to cut, how the fuck am I supposed to sever what doesn’t exist?”

“Well, frequently, death,” Vox said. “The exorcists have gotten many a sinner out of an undesirable soulmate bond. But… well, unless you have an angelic weapon and want to kill him yourself, I don’t think Val will wait for the next extermination.”

“So… what, then?”

“From what I hear?” Vox smiled again. “Heartbreak.”

Angel stared at him for several seconds before he started laughing. “Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he cackled. “I already told you, there ain’t nothin’ there.” As Angel’s mirth died down, he realized Vox was still smiling. “…Vox, look, I want this gone, too. But that ain’t gonna work.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to find something else.” Vox got to his feet and walked around behind Angel. The spider jumped when he realized that Vox was… treating the injuries on his back. It felt dangerous. It felt like a threat. I can hurt you so easily, and there would be nothing you could do to defend yourself. “I recommend you find something quickly.”

Angel swallowed. “What if I can’t?”

“Then it becomes a company problem.” Angel could clearly hear the smile in Vox’s voice. “And you can always trust VoxTek to deal with its problems.”

•••

By the time Angel arrived at the hotel again, it was late, so late that even Husk had gone to bed. Honestly, Angel didn’t mind it quite so much, since it gave him a full night of recovery before he saw anyone else and got more of their fucking questions.

He decided he did, at least, owe Husk when he saw a small bottle of malt liquor had been left unlocked behind the bar; Husk wouldn’t admit it was because he knew Angel always needed a drink after work, but he did. Angel almost smiled as he picked it up and carried it over to the private lounge that sat off the main lobby, because if he was caught with a liquor bottle in his room it would mean ‘a good talking-to’ and he wasn’t in the mood to put up with it. The door wasn’t locked, but he had barely taken a step inside when he realized that the room wasn’t empty. There was no one else inside, not that he could see, but there was a fire going and jazz playing on the radio.

Alastor.

“Sorry,” Angel said to the room at large, wondering if Alastor had gotten spooked by the door suddenly opening. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Angel turned to go, but the moment he did, a shadowy figure manifested on the wall and placed its hand on the door to close it.

“Angel Dust. Wait.”

The shadow vanished, and Angel watched it go before he turned back into the room. Alastor was standing beside the high-backed armchair he seemed to favor, his attire as neat and proper as ever and both of his hands on his microphone as it stood in front of him. The only clue Angel had to his demeanor was his smile, which was… off, in a way Angel couldn’t describe. Instead of trying, Angel adopted as casual a pose as he could and shrugged at him. “Whaddya want, Smiles?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately, which was strange, because the Radio Demon was never at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “You’re injured.”

“…yep,” Angel said slowly. “Well spotted. That what you wanted?”

“No,” Alastor said, and Angel almost felt himself flinch. Oddly, Alastor almost seemed to hesitate. “You don’t have to leave, my good man, it is hardly polite for me to toss you out of the hotel’s public spaces.”

Angel frowned a little. There was something Alastor wasn’t saying, but fucked if Angel knew what it was. “…kay.” Alastor just watched him as he padded over to the nearest couch and then tipped forward over the arm, face planting into the cushions. There was still so much pain, but just being horizontal was a relief. Angel reveled in the feeling before he turned his head enough to look at Alastor. “Are you just gonna stand there? It’s fuckin’ creepy.”

Alastor shrugged, then vanished into his shadow, re-emerging sitting in his chair a scant half foot away.

Angel almost laughed. “Dramatic bitch. Do you ever walk anywhere?”

“Why commit myself to such a mundane form of transportation when I possess something so much more efficient? And I’ve been given to understand it’s quite unsettling.”

“Uh-huh.” Angel pushed himself up enough to roll over onto his back, settling into the cushions with a contented sigh. He uncorked the bottle and took a pull from it, cringing at the terrible flavor and the burn, then repeated the process. He lowered the bottle, saw Alastor was watching him, and offered it out. “Want some? It’s gross.”

The corner of Alastor’s lip curled just slightly as he looked at the liquor. “Not a compelling sales pitch.”

“Usually, free doesn’t require a pitch.” Angel took it back anyway, putting one arm behind his head and looking at the ceiling.

“You aren’t usually this injured after your… work,” Alastor observed.

“You’re still on that?”

“Simply curious. I don’t exactly have a handle on how the industry works.”

Angel looked at him. “And you’re, what, interested?”

Alastor’s smile widened a little. “I wasn’t, but if it’s as bloody as it now appears, I might be.”

It took effort for Angel not to smile at that, rolling his eyes and looking at the ceiling. “Val was pissed off. We worked the bleeding into the shoot, but it ain’t typical.”

“I see.” Alastor sounded thoughtful. “What a scandal, one of the Vees lashing out so blatantly. Hardy in line with their image of perfection.”

Angel smiled and turned his head again. “You can always be baited with gossip, can’tcha, Smiles?”

“Good gossip,” Alastor corrected, one finger raised. “So much of it is so… tedious and uninteresting. Overly complicated romantic entanglements seem to be everyone’s absolute favorite,” he added with a sneer, waving one hand dismissively and rolling his eyes.

“Seems like everyone’s got a badly written love story in ‘em,” Angel said with a shrug.

“Hardly.” Alastor sounded more than just dismissive now, he sounded outright disdainful. Immediately, his tone shifted to something brighter. “So! Do tell, what could possibly have gotten the little bug so terribly worked up as to potentially damage his boss’s reputation so?” Angel’s smile slipped and he raised an eyebrow at Alastor. He watched the Radio Demon tip his head, his eyes narrowing, before they flicked to the side and landed on— “Ah,” Alastor said, his smile growing strained. “…yes. That. …no, I imagine he would be quite displeased, wouldn’t he?”

“Understatement.” Angel sighed and closed his eyes, raising one hand to rub his fingers along where the bridge of his nose had been. “He and Vox are on my fuckin’ case about it.”

Nearby, the music on the radio stuttered, and Angel heard the briefest burst of microphone static before the sounds continued as though nothing had happened. “You spoke with Vox?” Alastor asked, his voice almost overly casual.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s kinda my boss’s boss, we talk sometimes,” Angel said, casting Alastor a look.

“And the two of them are in agreement. How odd!” Alastor said brightly. “What could they possibly want you to do?”

“Apparently, you can sever a soulmate connection. Didja know that?”

Alastor hummed, looking thoughtful. “I will admit, there is something of a gap in my education when it comes to what they call ‘matters of the heart’. The idea of soulmates held very little interest for me, I’m afraid.”

Angel snorted. “You weren’t just champin’ at the bit to find your government issued significant other?”

When Alastor laughed, the canned radio audience laughed with him. “I had every mind to simply destroy mine, should I ever find them, and I gave very little thought to it outside of that.”

“So… what, you’re plannin’ on killin’ me?”

“Don’t be silly, dear fellow, Miss Charlie would be positively livid if I so dramatically decreased our tenant population due to an emotional inconvenience. Besides, I’m given to understand Niffty has formed something of an attachment to you, and one cannot go around upsetting Niffty.”

“No, one can’t,” Angel agreed.

“So, then, what other options lie before us?” Alastor asked. “I presume you were given an ultimatum.”

“Yeah. Take care of it or they would.” Angel sighed. “Only other way they told me a connection could be severed was heartbreak.”

It felt strange, saying that out loud here. It had seemed so ridiculous when Vox had said it, but now, it felt weirdly… heavy. Angel didn’t like the way it made him nauseous, either, and he took a drink to give himself something else unpleasant to concentrate on. The worst part, however, was Alastor’s reaction… or lack thereof. He seemed to be processing Angel’s words, but what part he was stuck on, Angel couldn’t imagine.

“That implies we are in love, doesn’t it,” Alastor said thoughtfully. He didn’t sound like he felt any particular way about the statement.

“It does.”

“But we aren’t.”

“I’m aware of that, Alastor,” Angel said, tossing a small pillow at the Radio Demon. It vanished before it touched him and dropped out of the ceiling, landing on Angel’s face. “Hey!”

“So, then, how does one go about breaking a heart that is not invested in the first place?” Alastor asked, as though nothing had happened. “Seems that it would be much more simple if the connection realized I didn’t care and severed itself.”

“Nothin’ is simple in Hell.” Angel let the bottle rest on the ground, staring at the ceiling. “Look, I don’t got any more idea about this shit than you. I never had any intention of findin’ my soulmate. I don’t do relationships.”

The static in the air was the distinctive sound Alastor made when he was attempting to process information that went against whatever he had learned about normal human behavior. “…but you are quite promiscuous.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Is that not a relationship?”

Angel snorted. “No. Fuckin’ is fuckin’, Al. A relationship is like… they had the concept of dates and goin’ steady in whatever outer dimension you were raised in, didn’t they?”

“Ah, of course,” Alastor said. “So you disconnect the idea of physical intimacy and emotional intimacy.”

“…yeah,” Angel said, squinting at Alastor, who looked genuinely fascinated. “What, did you really think I had some kinda deep emotional connection with everybody I bang?”

“Admittedly, I know very little about this subject by choice, but I suppose that made sense at the time. I didn’t think much about it.”

Angel shook his head, laughing a little. “Fuck’s sake, Smiles. You’re ridiculous.” Alastor squinted, the radio noises growing a little perplexed. Angel didn’t let him ask. “I ain’t never been in a relationship. It ain’t my bag. I’m guessing you ain’t either.”

“Of course not,” Alastor said, like it was obvious and Angel was an idiot for even asking. “I dislike casual physical contact and can’t fathom the point of seeking out more. I have never once found myself interested in any person in such a capacity.”

Angel thought about that for a second, then sat up on his elbows. “Wait, you’re ace?”

“There’s that word again,” Alastor muttered to himself. “I have no idea what that means, my good man!”

“Ace,” Angel said. “Like… asexual.”

Alastor stared at him. “…I don’t think I can reproduce on my own, no.” He then laughed. “Heaven help the other sinners if I ever discover I can undergo mitosis! An entire hoard of Radio Demons. Our benevolent king will be positively beside himself.”

“No no no,” Angel said, laughing too. “Asexual means, like… you ain’t got no interest in sex.”

“Oh, is there a word for it?” Alastor seemed interested once again. “How fascinating.”

“Huh.” Angel moved enough to settle himself against the arm of the couch. “That explains… so much. Okay, so, how d’ya wanna do this?”

“Do what?” Alastor asked, and it looked like he was returning to the conversation from a completely disconnected train of thought. “Oh! Yes, the soul mark issue. I do believe I have an idea, if you would be willing to entertain it. Are you free tomorrow?”

“Uh… yeah,” Angel said suspiciously. “Why?”

“Well, then, you and I shall have an outing tomorrow. There is a very dear friend of mine who knows just about everything there is to know about matters of romance. If anyone would know what would sever a connection, it would be her.”

Angel stared at Alastor. He looked so damn proud of his idea, and… Angel almost thought he looked excited about the idea of going out somewhere with someone else. It was almost— Angel mentally stabbed the word ‘cute’ before it could attach itself to Alastor of all fucking people. “Okay,” he said, after a moment. “Tomorrow, then. What, uh, what should I wear?”

“Oh, anything you have that would be considered stylish will do,” Alastor said. “She has a great love of fashion, something you two seem to have in common. She does love her tea, so shall we convene in the lobby at, say, half past three?”

Angel shrugged. “Sure. Sounds great, Smiles.”

“It’s a date, then,” Alastor said. He was suddenly on his feet, and Angel wasn’t sure when that had happened. “Sleep well. You will need the rest.” And, with that ominous warning and a widening smile, Alastor vanished into the shadows.

Angel watched him go, then finished the bottle of liquor all at once. This felt like a mistake, and he didn’t want to know what part of it he was going to regret.

#I’m making this up as I go #it’s probably obvious #I have no idea what’s gonna happen #hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin #hazbin angel dust #alastor the radio demon #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #my writing #hazbin vox #hazbin valentino

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burnt-to-cynders · 1 year ago

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Alright, time to actually make one of these for real, since this is looooong overdue. Hi! I'm Cynthia! I'm...a lot of things, and I struggle to describe them without it feeling inadequate! I play games, I write software for a living, I write non-software things for fun occasionally, I'm wildly horny, neurodivergent, a massive nerd who constantly wishes she knew more about everything.

Property of: @synthbang and @stalesweetrolls

Let's start with some ID stuff, I'm a pre-HRT(for now!!!) transfem, I go by she/they/it pronouns. My friends call me any fun variation of my name they can come up with, like Cyn, Cyndy, Cyndicate, etc. If we're mutuals, we're friends :3. I'm white, American(New England), poly, t4t, atheist, wildly sapphic, and physically, but not visibly, disabled.

As for interests, I've got literal dozens. Gaming, anime, manga, movies, writing, reading, music, pole dancing, ttrgps, game design, hiking, conservation, activism, fashion, just to name a few, each of which splinters into dozens of little sub-interests. Ask me a dragonball question, I dare you.

Actually, ask me any kind of question. Asks are open all the time and so are anons. Go wild ya horny fools

FOLKS WHO ARE NOT WELCOME (DNIs)

Minors

Seriously, minors, this blog is very horny

Ageless blogs

Sissy kink blogs

Race and ageplayers

SIDEBLOGS

I have two sideblogs atm, although in actuality there's just one that's even remotely active.

@den-of-cyn is where I used to do my hornyposting. The big thing that's there now is the pinned post with a list of my kinks, for those of you interested in the horny side of the Cynner. The account got flagged as NSFT and I haven't been able to get that revoked yet, and moreover I decided to stop worrying about it and just started posting horny on main anyway. There's quite a few good ones on there that I haven't reblogged to here, and a few pics I haven't reposted, so if you somehow don't get enough horny nonsense on this page, you can always go there to see some vintage Cyn >:3

@thebookofcyn is my writing sideblog. It's where all my original stuff will one day live, when I get the spoons to put all my old stuff on it. It is SFT FOR NOW, IT WILL NOT BE IN THE FUTURE! Soon there will be a pinned post there explaining my tags and how to find stories. I'm hoping to post more there as time goes on and I actually embrace this hobby more.

TAGS

I layer my tags and usually don't do content tags, and I don't tag reblogs except to do responses. The tags that mean things on this blog are as follows:

#cynposting - Any post by me that has text outside of tags, including reblog replies. Searching this tag will get you everything I've written in text on this blog.

#cynful thoughts - Any post I think is horny. You can filter for this post if you want to see me being a degenerage, or filter it out if you'd rather not.

#pics of the cynner - Any picture of myself, pretty self explanatory. Most are accompanied by #cynful thoughts

#Cyn fits - pics of myself taken specifically to show off an outfit and explain why I chose it for that day.

#I asked - Reblog of an ask that I sent someone

#ask and ye shall receive - Tag for when I answer an ask

#get tagged idiot - Tag for when the only content of a post is me @ -ing someone in the reblog.

#pinned post - Last one, tag for the previous pinned posts I've made. This should be the last one. In theory.

And that's it!!!! For now. Probably. I'm a wordy bitch, so I expect this'll get longer and longer.

#cynposting #cynful thoughts #pics of the cynner #i asked #ask and ye shall receive #get tagged idiot #pinned post

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emeraldoo · 1 year ago

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HEY! HEY!! LOOK AT ME!!

LE MEH!!!

hi, my name is bastion!! i have lots of other names im ok with tho, like bb, b, 8, shiver, weird, etc! im not ok with the nickname EM or EMERALD!

i am a zombie, autism creature, maned wolf kin and fict kin Shiver from spl3 <3 i am also NOT a minor!!!!!! 19 yrs :•)) im also a rogue of mind!! (homestuck hoe.)

i am a trans male! i use he/xe/it prns! currently questioning my romantic attraction (pretty sure im bi-gay), but i am asexual!

i am the host in the zipties system, a did system!! some of the head mates have their own blogs, which ill tag :•)

i am audhd, gad, ocd, and a general cluster b pd haver!! i also have some delusions from ~an unkown disorder~ so! working thru some stuff still!

MY INTERESTS!!!!!!!

SPLATOON AUGHHHHH most of my blog is splatoon....

i freaking LOVE nnsg :•3333 the anime of ALL TIME!!

SCIENCE!!!!!!! i plan on majoring in microbiology and synthetic biology but i luv ALL science!!

MUSIC/BAND!! i play euphonium and play in marching band and concert ensembles <3

i luvvv itsv and atsv and all of the spiderverse stuf!!!!!! my fave spider in spider man india btw.!

GUILD WARS 2 AIUGHHJJJHHH THE BEST EVER ACTUWLLY. PLAY IT PLAY IT RNNNN

ALTERS!!

not all of our alters choose to make profiles, and we arent going to force them to make them. if you need to know them, just send a DM or ask

* = written by alter

BASTION (☘️): DAS ME BITCH! im the host and core of the system >:•D i am the main guy in this blog soooo ya. (he/him, xe/xem, it/its)

EM/@riddlekid (🧪): the rat. horrible terrible (/hj... i guess..!) obsessed with horrible ppl sooo. erm yeah. he is also a prosecutor.!! also second most freq fronter :•P (it/its, he/him)

JON/@just-dr (🎃): jon!! he is a protector and a fictive of jonathan crane.. he is nice :•)) he doesnt associate much with his source tho so shrugsies (he/him, they/them)

MILES (👤): i actually dont know much abt them... they do their job rlly good tho! protector n stuff.. cool! (they/them)

CORNELIUS/PICKLES (🩸): (updated 11/22/23) cornelius stirk (batman unburied) and pickle inspector splitroject.. wears the skin of both of them and tends to switch based on mood. but they are the same guy! (they/it/he)

JADE (🌐): cutey patootie wolf thing! fictive of jade from homestuck andddd yeah!! cool (she/they)

KARKAT/@karkat-cornbread (🔥): fictive of karkat homestuck guy. gets very angry very fast. idk role but yeah. the amgry one ig (he/they)

* DAVE/@karkat-cornbread (🕶️): yea. is this bitch predictable or what lmfao (he/any)

* HAL/9K/@timothy-timeaus (🛑): Beep boop. Coolest splinter of Dirk. I'm also cool with the name Odyssey or 9k. (They/Them)

* EQUIUS/@runningfromred (🐎): Yes hello I am Equius I am more active on the cohost but might still use this platform (he/they)

* TIM/ @timothy-timaeus (🔗): I'm my own subsystem of splinters. I'm just a ye ol Dirk splinter. (he/him)

* CALUM/@timothy-timaeus (🧢): bro strider splinter and a real goof. heeheeee (she/her)

* JAKE (🦎): Your caretaker and funny guy! im from meat timeline and have alot of pseudos, sorry if im hesitant to interact with sourcemates :B (he/him)

MY TAGGING SYSTEM!! (wip 8[)

#emeraldo slay posting: all of my posts! that i leave words on are tagged with 8)

DNI :•(

its not rlly. much? the only stuff i rlly care abt is jerks.. if ur a jerkkk (terf, racist, zionist, ableist, antikin, sysmed, transmed, antikink, whatever girl u git the gist....)

i don't have especially strong opinions on most discourse... slurcourse, syscourse, flagcourse, shipcourse... its kinda silly.! so um. whatever.

* (Hal writing.) Our take on pro/antiship is "It doesn't fucking matter". We aren't proship, we aren't antiship, we are just kind of shipping whatever the fuck we want. If you think it's problematic, we most likely won't care. Unless there's a genuine reason to be concerned, don't bother.

exclusionists!!!! i don't like you!!!!!!!!!!!! aphones, panphobes, biphobes, mspec gay/lesbian haters, antixenogender, anti neoprns, whatever! i do not like you at all >:•{

hp fans... you know why :•) please find a better media ..

BYE BYE!!

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weirdlet · 1 year ago

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Whoa nelly, that was a *battle*. But we carried it off with aplomb, because we ARE badasses.

So we set up the ruined keep, waiting for upwards of 25 battle-hardened zealots with the fury of Bane in their hearts and the false light of Helm blinding their eyes. Pit trap in the breach, oil on the drawbridge, the secret door has been locked forever, and our stalwart barbarian is holding the gates shut against war-bulls and all.

In the calm before battle, some of us pray. Glory asks Maeve, a paladin of Ilmater, how one would address a prayer to the Lord Upon The Rack. The consensus is supplication or blood, so in addition to a stick of incense to Selune ('-a care for all the little fishes caught in your net') there is this spoken to the Broken God, in a quiet corner-

'let him know- I go into danger and to doubt, but to aid your cause- to lessen the suffering under those who would crush hope.' As we finish preparing, suddenly there's something to see in the back room of the keep, the base of the ruined tower- there has sprung up a series of symbols, as if carved out of the earth! In one corner, the closed fist of Bane. In the other, the mailed gauntlet of Helm. In the middle, a set of scales. Alain says, in his spooky revenant voice- the gods are watching the outcome of this battle.

No pressure.

Soon the battle is joined- we get three rounds of potshots over the battlements as the wall of shining, steel-clad zealots approaches. Their massive warbulls are snorting and lowing, thundering towards the bridge. The fireball takes them by surprise. As does the fact that the bridge stays on fire, creaking and groaning under the weight of confused, bellowing, fully-armored war-cows.

Behind us, their leader, Remont the Kind, descends from the heavens on his winged bull, admonishing our evils in the name of good and generally reminding us that our mothers were hamsters and our fathers smelt of elderberries, only backed up with a lot of heavy firepower. He is the law, and the law is not mocked, and shit is starting to get real.

Trinidad the tortle holds the line at the gates, preventing the bellowing cattle from breaking through and getting off the bridge. Alain Starfel and Siannoran Ravenleaf, the lovers separated by death and duty, are raining spells down from the heights. Those armsmen and knights left on the outside are spreading around and actively trying to climb the walls, but it's taking them a long time and their determination to get at us is nothing against a well-prepared siege turned inside out against them.

Maeve, our paladin, is kicking ass and taking names- while Glory dives and slashes and evades to draw aggro, she cuts Remont's mount out from under him. He falls and is briefly trapped under its dead weight, and he spits out that he believes her a blackguard, a false paladin, and that he will teach her righteousness in the only way it can be taught- the gauntleted fist.

He sure tries. But as the outside minions fall to magical death from above and the war-bulls splinter the bridge beneath them, as the sacred raven-folk peck and pester those stuck in the pit-trap and prevent them from climbing out, suddenly it's this guy against three- a powerful but corrupted divine warrior against a divebombing falcon, a brute wall of a turtle whose fury manifests in a ring of fire, and a young and worthy paladin, tender in years but assured in her holy mission. Even as some of the other warriors finally crest the walls and rush in to help their leader, he's finding that he's bitten off more than he can chew.

As Remont falls, Glory does what he does best- being a dramatic bitch- flapping up into the air and projecting in his finest bosun's voice and proclaiming; "(Maeve, back me up here-) The darkness of Bane has made a home in your hearts and blinded you to Helm's truth! In the name of light and mercy, throw down your weapons!"

He's backlit by the sun, wings spread, according to the GM some would say he looks angelic. He rolls a three. The knights start shouting about demons spouting scripture. Glory sighs and starts stabbing people again.

It's a mess of blows and magic and fireballs and whirling barbarian dervishes from there. Someone heals Remont, and he pops up to fight again, swearing vengeance on Maeve and continuing to impugn her honor as a paladin. Spurred by righteousness and in the fight of her young life, she finally spears him through, running it into the ground and leaving him pinned like an insect, the zealous gleam going out of his eyes with a wheezing sigh.

Glory turns around and tries it one more time on the remaining knights.

"I am TRYING to be a better PERSON so my BOYFRIEND will be PROUD OF ME- this is your LAST. CHANCE. Throw down your weapons, or die with your delusions."

Glory be- they break and run.

In the aftermath of the battle- we check the back room, where the stone had changed into those shapes. The hand of Bane has crumbled and shattered like overbaked clay. The gauntlet of Helm has turned to gold. The scales are gone. There is a brief discussion of '-should we? Is it a reward? Is it a trap? That's really an- awful lot of solid holy gold there-' But Helm hates thieves, and Glory loves a good shiny as much as the next magpie, but as Mad Max said- 'that's bait.'

Thankfully no one tips it into a bag of holding by accident, because as we turn around an angel of the lord, a planetar no less, appears in the doorway and speaks in unintelligible tongues, offering Alain a suit of mithril chain. It looks like we made the right decision.

We talk a bit about what to do next in the aftermath, asking Alain what his holy mission says is the next priority, even as Glory is also pushing for us to take a day at least back in the town we helped raise up, because by golly we deserve some time to breathe, and train, and shop. That's all well and good, and Alain agrees that is a good idea before going on to the next priority, that of the death-god cult that wants to turn the continent into an undead wasteland. By the time we get there, we are surprised by something else- a letter has come from Neverwinter, not only thanking us for rescuing young Lord Neverember- even if we couldn't keep him from wastreling himself- but granting us permanent council positions and minor lordships in the town. The next two months of downtime, we get to spend dealing with that!

#Glory's Travails

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ducknotinarow · 1 year ago

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For science, I had to do this xD, especially cause of a dumb thing on Twitter with Kezzie

What ABO type are you

"Eh I always knew I had Top dog Energy after all"

Mun kind of hates this result XD but also? it makes for to much sense when reading the descrption Raph in a way is always trying to prove himself to be an Alpha not liking to take orders, questioning authority mainly Leos XD and of course he is very protective of his friends and family. Raphael even himself soon falls into seeing that being his role and job to fill for his loved ones. Even if he often fears not being able to protect everyone. And though I say he is a switch he truly enjoys the top role.

and for fun why not the rest of my raphs, orginally done from phone why 12's is a screen shot but the rest I did at my computer after deciding I wanted to do my other raphs.

Alpha-Passing Omega

Congrats, you're an alpha-passing omega. Listen, we all have issues with how people perceive us. Deep down you're a soft little bitch, but you would die before admitting that to anyone who hasn't unlocked at least level 5 friendship with you. In social situations requiring someone to step up and take a leadership position, you will do so, but only if nobody else does first. Your public demeanor makes most people think that you're an alpha, but when you're around people you trust, you can admit that you need to be taken care of sometimes and be vulnerable. Just remember that it's okay to ask for help king.

"Pft whatever maybe i'm a little soft what of it?"

Considering his more laid back behavior this dose fit well. Raph when he needs to be can give of a more aggressive air when need be or when he dose get worked up. Raphael can be pretty bad about going alone on things and not often speaking up about when things upset him lole feeling he failed his detective course. That only Splinter found out he was taking. But Raphael can't even bring himself to fight a robot lool alike of his brother he's a soft bitch deep down especially when it comes to his baby girl uwu

True Alpha

Congrats, you're a True Alpha. Either you were actively trying to get this result to prove to your friends that you're not a little bottom bitch, or you're a true and proper Alpha. You're what most people would call a top, and you probably consider yourself a protective member of your friend group. You're the 'he asked for no pickles' kind of motherfucker, and I salute you for that. Thank you for your service to the bottom community.

"Course 'm an Alpha, why I take down anythin' 'hat thinks it can deal wit' me."

And then you recall this guy lies on his shell and spreads his legs for casey uwu but I agree he is fully alpha I mean look at how he's always quick to pick fights and prove him self better no matter his opponent loke Trax or even Leo. So yes he very much dose feel a need to prove he ain't a little bitch. Kind if why he tends to get aggressive sexually when Casey decides to call him princess. In a tad bit of sacrifice on his own end he dose sort of bite back on his pride it's honestly his biggest display of love uwu

True Beta

Congratulations on getting the normal wolf xenogender. When alphas and omegas are doing their intricate horny rituals, you aren't particularly bothered. You're attuned to the feelings of those around you, but you feel like your response on the social dominant/submissive spectrum is determined per situation, not per something intrinsic to you. You'll help out an omega in need as easily as you'll follow the directive of an alpha, and that swiss-army-knife kind of mentality is what we need more of in this batshit insane world. Thank you for your service king.

"I definitely like the Swiss army knife mention."

Honestly this result? I feel fits. In the SF comic and game despite the Fact he fits in with many depictions of Raph, its never him challenging Leo out a need to prove himself better because he disagrees with thie leadership. No this raph seems to have understood something Leo hasn't. They you tend to see later in most Raph's growth. Being a team. That's the only time Raphael tends to get harsh with Leo. And fits with hiw he can go either more Dom or sub with Casey he's pretty chill and relaxed either way. And well despite that whole mess they find themselves in? Raph handled things that happened pretty well for someone with a short temper.

True Alpha

"Fuck ya 'm! Ain't nothin' less mad dog of the team!"

The moment I saw Raphael go for protein powered for muscle build I knew this boy was be a pretty typical jock fill role xD and the fact he loves wrestling and joins the team even? Just tells me more I'm right hmjes rowdy and loud and all about violence he knows he's an alpha and everyone else gonna know it to he gotta use his rage!! I just see this boy ready to jump right into conflict needed or not because it's the best way to deal with anything clearly why he met his bestie and boyfriend uwu by kicking their ass. He's very aggressive in that he's not too hesitant about acting on his choices henjust gose for it.

#dash games #muse| hamato raphael

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wernher-von-brawny · 1 year ago

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Wait -- I missed where "writers deserve attention more than actors" became a thing. This is the first I've seen that said.

My understanding, and what I've seen presented in the socials, is that Writers are joined by Actors are joined by UPS drivers and maybe Autoworkers and others to come.

Frankly, when I see someone dropping a hot take about a controversy I haven't heard mention of before, my first thought is "Nice try, cop."

So I Googled the phrase.

First and only divisive return outside of this Tumblr post -- lots of meditations on the word "deserve", but these seemed to lump all greedy creatives together -- was a Twitter bro saying "Writers deserve more respect." Not the same as "more attention", but still…

Smells like cop BS to me.

Like, COINTELPRO laid out how a major tactic to undermine anti-capitalist movements is the use of moles to stir up trouble, encourage extremism and self-destructive activity, and exacerbate tension between potential comrades.

And sometimes to tell the cops and the FBI exactly which bedroom Fred Hampton was sleeping in so they could bang. bang, bang away the looming potential electoral power of the Black Panthers.

Every moment spent engaging with statements like these -- even to refute them -- is a second stolen from building solidarity. At least that's my opinion.

EVERYBODY is getting fucked by, as Comrade Burnham put it, "the pedophilic corporate elite".

So even entertaining discussion about internal heirarchies of "deservedness" is triggering to my ancient, PTSD-addled nerves.

It calls to mind how the Boomer counterculture movement, united by fear of forced conscription, "ended a war" (as they unceasingly bragged well into the 90s), and then -- lacking a unifying pain point -- splintered off into special interests (like cocaine, disco, and money -- zing!) and fragmented their collective power, just at the post-Watergate moment when they might possibly have been able to force socialized medicine or a Constitutional amendment on reproductive rights or Glob know what else past a demoralized conservative establishment.

Instead, everybody went off to do EST and "personal work", and then voted Reagan into power. (Thanks, Boomers!)

In any case, my point is when these bitter and biased old eyes of mine see stuff that could even possibly be misinterpreted as neoliberal copaganda, that only the most paranoid crank (hi there!) would suspect of being a false flag attack on left unity, my brain fires off that most sacred of incantations: "Nice try, cop!"

And so I exhort all y'all who are engaged in the struggle: don't compete over who has the deeper grievance or the greater suffering.

First, get the job done: kill the rich, un-enclose the commons, save the planet.

And after all that has been accomplished, and you are in your comfortable, UBI-subsidized, eco-socialist retirement years, you can gather on your rent and mortgage-free porches, enjoy the sunset through clean, safe air…

And THEN you can indulge in that prerogative of bitter old cranks, and bitch and moan about who had it worse.

Dinner first, my comrades. Then dessert.

"writers deserve attention more than actors" literally only 2% of actors can pay the bills with acting. For every megastar on screen there are a dozen other people in the shot who are SAG. Acting gets so glamorized but there are SO MANY people in SAG who NEED residuals to live on. Background Party Girl #4 needs her check too!!!! There are people who play recurring characters on syndicated shows who cant afford health insurance!!! Ke Huy Quan gave an oscar winning performance and LOST HIS HEALTH INSURANCE the next year.

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dear-eli · 1 year ago

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I hope you get a boyfriend someday

Sooner rather than later

Someone you really care about (more than you ever loved me)

And I hope she pulls the same manipulative controlling bullshit

I hope she tries to cut you off from him the way she succeeded in cutting you off from me

And whether or not he is able to set healthier boundaries and leave where I couldn't

I hope you are finally able to see it for what it is.

I hope he hangs a lampshade on her jealousy and insecurity and bitterness

On her possessiveness and hatefulness and spite

I hope he shines the spotlight for you to see that she's got you on her strings

And I hope for his sake that he walks away

And leaves you feeling the way I do right now

Lost and lonely and "not worth the fight."

And I hope you wake the fuck up

And realize that I WASN'T crazy

That I wasn't just making shit up or being jealous for no reason

That she really and truly did try to keep you from me

That if she couldn't have me, she wouldn't let you have me either

And I hope like hell you come crawling back

Tail between your legs and apology between your lips

Holding out the pieces of your broken heart

So that I can say, "I fucking told you so."

And decide whether or not to be benevolent with my forgiveness.

I hope it happens before I forget how to love you

But I know it never will.

Even if it did, it wouldn't matter.

You're not strong enough to leave her and you never will be.

It doesn't matter how many patients you have in similar shoes, whom you tell to leave their abusers.

It doesn't matter how many people you help to build exit plans - or how many you end up losing because they couldn't get away.

It won't even matter who else you love and lose.

You will still. Never. Leave her.

You know what? I changed my mind.

I hope she gets so fucking bored of you that she goes out and catches her a new supply and ditches you.

I hope you do find someone else.

I hope you love them very much.

And then? I hope she steals them from you.

I hope she worms her way in with them like she did with you and me

Piggybacking her relationship with them onto yours

Sneaking in like a Trojan horse

Forcing them into an unwanted throuple

Just like she did me.

And then I hope she cuts you off from them

Demands all of your time and attention

Only lets you spend time with them (or fuck them) while she's around too

And makes you feel guilty for asking for time with them on your own.

So you stop asking.

And then suddenly she's going on solo date nights with them

And staying over at their place (but probably telling you it's for work)

And leaving you home alone

A sad little afterthought - like I always was.

I hope they both string you along for a while

As the unicorn practically ghosts you to spend more and more time with her

I hope she sneaks around behind your back and you know she's fucking someone you just don't know who

Maybe the unicorn dumped both of you, on the surface, but was still with her on the downlow

Just so it will come as that much more of a shock when SHE finally leaves YOU

And you find out who she left you for.

I hope it's a sucker punch to the gut.

And I still hope you come to me for comfort and understanding (and maybe revenge)

Just so I can fucking say "I told you so."

If you ever actually admitted it - to yourself, and then to me

That it really was manipulation and abuse all along

And that on some level you knew that

But it was easier to blame me and force me out

Than to have to confront your wife and an entire decade of life choices

If you could even so much as acknowledge that, I think I could forgive you.

But it really would take another painful life lesson for it to sink in

And even then, I don't know if it would stick.

I don't want an apology badly enough to actively wish for your pain.

But I hope karma catches you one day.

And I hope that bitch breaks your heart like you broke mine.

Slowly. Painfully. Splinter by splinter.

And leaves you to pick up the pieces on your own

With an unsupportive family as the only net you have

Because in all her treachery, she took all your friends too.

She got to them first. Like she always does.

Made sure her perspective was the first one they heard.

Made sure to spin it just right so that they believe her and not you

That she left you BECAUSE you went back to me

Rather than you coming back to me because I'm the only friend you have left who gets it.

I doubt she ever will actually leave you, either.

Polyamory makes it entirely too convenient to keep one supply locked down and a revolving door of others at the same time.

Why would she give up her emotional meal ticket??

The one thing in her life that she has almost complete control over??

The sex would have to be really really good lmfaooo

Maybe someone who will actually submit to her? Idk.

All I know is, I hope one day you learn.

And I hope you are sorry.

And I hope I get to hear it.

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ushiromiyacestcentral · 2 years ago

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Onto the Sotsu section, It starts off with a flashback of Eva and Hachijou and their meeting about the forgeries in the past

The two debate over whether the forgeries are ethical or not with Hachijou saying that they wouldn’t have to speculate about the massacre if Eva just told the truth but Eva responds with “ I’m trying to protect the two remaining kids I have!” She leaves after seeing Tohya

Cut to current day and At her funeral Rena has Eva’s Diary in her bag, Eva gave it to Rena since she reminds her of herself when she was her age

Plus she trusts Rena to keep it away from Ange and Maria

So Rika and Maria receive a vision of Hanyuu being trapped by Eua, but Hanyuu still bestowed the looper powers onto both of them the vision ends with a horrifying vision of Hanyuu crying

Oh! The looper rules! So only three loopers have to die and the looper who is still living has 2 hours to do everything they need to do before they have to kill themselves.

Most of the time the living looper is Ange.

Back with the villain girls Satoko and Ange sneak into Takano’s clinic to borrow doses Of Hinanizawa syndrome

The two go wild with the doses and injects Keiichi and Shion with them

A week later the club is doing their usual activities but Something is off about Keiichi and Shion and when after school ends all hell breaks loose with Shion dragging Keiichi into the underground torture chamber thinking Keiichi killed Satoshi which it was actually Satoko who did it to push herself deeper into despair, Shion tortures Keiichi to death but Mion comes in and kills Shion brutally laughing her ass off, elsewhere Ange set the furude house on fire killing both Rika and Maria in the chaos of the attack, we cut to Eua laughing her ass off hysterical and eating chips watching the fragments while Hanyuu cries like a little bitch, Eua taunts Hanyuu for ever thinking her gameboard could have a happy ending

After setting the house on fire Ange goes to confront Eva holding a Winchester rifle asking her why she hid the diary from her Eva says she’s doing it for her own good but Eva says it’s to late and she’s already becoming a cruel sadistic monster like her actual parents, Ange’s eyes widen as she hears the implications and shoots Eva point blank

This is when Ange has her looper self become her witch self as it splinters from her ( Maria had already gain looper powers in the past and it created her witch Persona Frederica Gertrud) The scene cracks as Ange and her new witch persona are in the Ushiromiya’s mansion rose garden as Ange’s witch persona easily overpowers The original Ange and destroys her becoming the new ange, a calculating cold and devoted killer the kyriefication of Ushiromiya Ange

Satoko has her witch self splinter as well same as in canon.

Satoko goes up to Mion and murders her before shooting her self leaving Ange to take care of Rena.

Rena already knows what Satoko and Ange has done and finds it unacceptable so Ange and Rena duke it out ( Winchester Rifle vs Cleaver) man kids in seagulls in pseudo paradise are much more powerful then kids irl, eventually Rena kills Ange with her cleaver but Ange grins knowing that she gets the last laugh

And that’s the end of Seagulls in Pseudo Paradise’s version of Sotsu part one.

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fizzyxcustard · 3 years ago

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Covert Eyes (11)

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Stalking behaviour, anxiety, language, sexual references.

Summary: Lucas takes notice of a young woman, Amy, but his obsession and want to get to know her begin to spiral out of control.

Official soundtrack list: here

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in. The above image was located on Pinterest, with no link back to the original source.

I also wanted to stipulate, and I don’t mean to be rude, but if you ask to be on my tag list and never interact (even if just a ‘like’ on the chapters I post) then I will remove you after a few weeks. Please try and show some kind of engagement, or ask to be taken off my list if you’re no longer interested.

At six weeks into the relationship, Amy and Lucas were practically living together at her flat. Her wardrobe now housed a fair few strips of his clothes, and his toiletries were now lined up in the bathroom on her cabinet. He even had his own mug, one that he had chosen from the huge collection of Disney ones. It was a Grumpy the Dwarf mug, of which Amy had laughed at when he initially chose it.

“Come on, though. It’s the furthest thing from you,” Amy chuckled.

“Well, how come you have it? It’s hardly you either.”

“He gets such a bad rep, so I brought it because I feel bad for him.”

Lucas raised his eyebrow and chuckled at her.

“Stop mocking me,” Amy said, nudging him with her arm.

“I’m not mocking you.” Lucas caught her with his arm and pulled her to him. He looked down at her, his eyes smouldering in his want of her.

***

Two weeks had passed now since Jonathan had buzzed Amy at her flat block. And gradually she had begun to return to her normal activity, meaning that Lucas had reluctantly agreed to not meet her from work or escort her in. Amy had been adamant that she would not continue to allow Lucas to ‘baby’ her and cause potentially problems with his own work.

One Wednesday evening as Amy slipped out of work and made her way down a quiet street, she suddenly felt a presence behind her. Her heart raced and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention, pushing her to carry on at a slightly faster pace.

“Hey, bitch.”

A rod of ice splintered through Amy’s spine as she immediately recognised who the owner of that voice was. “L…leave me a….alone, Jonathan. Please.” She never turned, but instead carried on walking. “I don’t wany any bother. Please leave me alone.”

“I only want to talk,” Jonathan hissed, and then grabbed her arm, spinning her around.

Amy gasped, and felt tears begin to well in her eyes. Her whole body remained still, frozen in her heightened fight or flight response. Adrenaline was burning in her veins.

Jonathan grinned at her perversely. “Oh, come on. I won’t hurt you. I think you’re overreacting a little bit.”

“Please, just leave me alone.” Amy couldn’t even bring herself to look him in the eye; she was too terrified. Her green gaze remained locked on the pavement beneath her feet.

“Are you okay there?” a voice came from behind. A young man, who looked no older than late twenties could see plainly that Amy was very distressed. He stepped up towards the spectacle that was taking place in the street.

“Mind your own business, pal,” Jonathan growled.

“I was asking her, not you,” the stranger replied back angrily.

Amy looked up at the stranger, a tall man with dark hair and black rimmed glasses, reminding her a little of Clark Kent. Maybe he really was Superman. “Ummm.” The uncertainty in her voice was telling.

“Back off,” Jonathan growled again, standing to his full height against Clark Kent.

Amy took a deep breath and swallowed. “Leave me alone, Jon. I don’t want to talk to you. I’ve already called the police once and they’ll be called again.”

“Bitch,” Jonathan muttered, then he turned and began to walk away, sulking off up the street.

“Thank you,” Amy told the stranger. Tears fell down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” She rubbed the tears away with the back of her hand, feeling embarrassed. “I’m going to call my boyfriend and see if he can come to me.”

“Do you want me to wait with you? If not, I’d suggest going and waiting in a shop or something where there are plenty of people about, and call the police.”

It didn’t take any more than twenty minutes for Lucas to get across the city to Amy. He pulled up at the kerbside in a black BMW and jumped out. Lucas raced to Amy and took her in his arms. “I’m taking you home and staying with you.” Then he spotted the stranger waiting next to Amy. “Thank you, mate. I appreciate it. Did he touch her?”

“I saw him grab her arm when I was further back up the street. I could see she was uncomfortable.”

Lucas took Amy back to her flat, noticing how quiet she was, until she finally spoke. “I’m sorry to pull you out of work again.”

“Fuck work. Seriously, Amy, what is wrong with this guy?” Lucas hissed.

“Please go back to work. I’ll be fine on my own inside,” Amy told him.

“You know I’m not doing that.”

Inside the flat and Amy sat down on the sofa and fell into a bout of weeping. She rocked back and forth, sobbing and asking why he couldn’t leave her alone.

In a fit of rage, Lucas pulled his phone out of his back pocket and rang the number which he had been waiting to have reason to use. He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, before a man answered.

“I know where you live, Jonathan. You stay the fuck away from Amy! If you don’t then I’ll come after you,” Lucas shouted.

“Who the fuck is this?” Jonathan spat.

“You don’t need to know who this is. But I very much know who you are. Leave her the fuck alone otherwise you’ll have me coming after you, and it won’t end well.”

Lucas ended the call, threw his phone on the coffee table and sat down beside Amy, pulling her into his arms. “I’ve got you. I won’t let him hurt you, I swear,” Lucas told her, kissing her head for reassurance. “He fucking dares…”

Amy held Lucas as tight as she could. “Please make him stop.”

A short while later and Lucas lay with Amy on her bed, holding her from behind. He kept telling her that it would be okay as he listened to her sob into the pillow. It didn’t seem to matter how much he tried to reassure her, Amy still continued sobbing. And for this, Jonathan would pay.

Once Amy was asleep, having drifted off in a sea of tears, Lucas kissed her one last time on the head and shifted out of the bed. He pulled on his shoes and jacket, then snuck out of the flat, borrowing Amy’s key which she left on the kitchen table. Lucas let himself out into the mild evening air and got into the car which he still had from work, the vehicle in which his team believed he was currently deployed in. Instead, he had snuck back to Amy’s flat to be with her at her most vulnerable time.

Lucas pulled up outside another block of flats, similar to Amy’s, but three miles away. The flats looked ordinary, lived in. Jonathan lived on the second floor in a two-bedroom flat with his disabled mother. Lucas looked at his watch, just after eleven.

Up on the second floor of the block, Lucas knocked on the door which belonged to Jonathan Simmons.

There was a shuffle from inside and the bark of a dog, which was then followed by a deep voice telling the animal to shut up. The hallway light came on, illuminating through the frosted glass of the door.

“Can I help you?” Jonathan asked.

Lucas immediately felt his blood boil upon the sight of the arsehole, and grabbed his throat. “You come anywhere near her again, and I’ll kill you. Do you understand? I have ways of making it look like an accident. Touch her and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

Jonathan’s eyes were wide and his hands were gripping Lucas’, trying to get him to let go. But it was all futile. Lucas had a strong grip and a strong resolve.

Lucas kept tightening his grip, feeling the anger rage. No one would ever dare upset Amy. No one. But the realisation of his actions soon flicked on, surging forward through the anger. And he let go of Jonathan.

The man dropped backwards and coughed, holding his throat. He muttered incoherent words, which were lost as Lucas disappeared into the night.

Amy heard the familiar rattle of a key in the lock of her front door. She pulled herself up from the bed, a migraine beginning in her temples. It was thumping in time with her heartbeat and was slowly shifting to behind her eyes. As she blinked, growing accustomed to the darkness, flashing lights flickered back and forth across her vision.

Lucas entered the bedroom, her door creaking as he came inside.

“Where did you go?” Amy asked, looking up to see the dark form of Lucas enter the room. Instinct told her where he had been, but she wanted to hear him say it, and admit to it.

“It doesn’t matter where I went.”

“Yes, it does matter. You went to Jonathan’s, didn’t you?” Amy reached across and flicked on the lamp, immediately grimacing as the light caused pain to shoot through her brow and before her eyes. “Lucas, tell me the truth.”

“Yes, I went to his flat. And I told him that if he comes near you again then I’ll kill him.”

“Why did you look him up?” Amy asked. “You must have looked up his details to get his address. Why are you doing all of this?”

Lucas approached Amy and looked down at her, his face full of frustration. “If you had the resources to find the information out regarding someone who was tormenting the person you love, wouldn’t you look it up? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t, Aim.”

“Let the police do their job.”

Lucas scoffed. “They do nothing!”

“Lucas, please. Just leave it. You could get in trouble for looking stuff up like this. And I don’t want you getting in trouble at work because of me. I’m not worth that.”

Amy watched as Lucas sat down beside her and took her hand in his, then placed a gentle kiss on her lips. They kissed for a few seconds, and then Amy pulled away, sighing.

“I’d do anything for you. You know that,” Lucas began, his voice almost a whisper. His ice blue gaze was locked on her with such intensity. “Let me look after you. That’s all I want to do.”

“How much do you know about him? How deep did you look? Lucas, please just tell me. You knew what he looked like when I went out with him, so you’ve been looking at him for some time. Why? Is he linked to something you’re working on? Or is this all to do with me?”

Amy watched Lucas’ gaze slip as she asked the last question. And it was then that she knew.

“It’s me, isn’t it? You were watching Jonathan the night that I went out with him. Have you been checking up on me as well? How did you even know that I was seeing him that night?”

“Amy, please don’t.” Lucas hung his head. Shit! She was digging now. And it was enough to bury him completely.

“Why did you feel the need to do all of that?”

“To make sure you were safe. I started caring for you quite a while before anything ever happened between us. Is it so wrong to want to look out for you?”

“Spying on me is, yes. Looking at information about me that you didn’t even need to be looking at,” Amy replied. She got up from the bed and turned around to face the window. Could she really turn away from him now? After everything that they had built up to; the vetting, him telling her about his job. Judging by the fact that he hadn’t even denied any of the activities meant that she knew now with almost complete certainty that he had been watching her for some time.

Lucas stood behind her, his body touching hers. He brushed his hands down her upper arms and sighed. “I love you. I can’t be any more direct and honest than that. Everything I’ve done and the lines I crossed were only to protect you.”

Amy turned and looked at him, her heart overwhelmed in her love for this man. Rationally, she knew that he had crossed a line, and that action was wrong. But her heart would not stop yearning for him. His words only made her want him more. To be loved, desired and treasured in such a way, had always been something she dreamed of. Her eyes were filling with tears and she swallowed hard. “I know in my mind rationally that what you did was wrong, but I can’t find it in my heart to hold it against you.” Her gaze searched for his, and she placed her hand against his cheek.

“When I first met you, Aim, you were closed off to me. This was my way of opening that door, helping things along.”

“Because look at you, Lucas. A man like you wouldn’t normally want a woman like me, and that was why I shut myself down…”

“Stop it!” Lucas snapped. “You’re doing it again. I don’t get why you think I’m so special in the looks stake and that you don’t deserve love in your life. Adam fucked you up emotionally and I don’t want to keep being blamed. He lost you, and now that I have you, I want to treat you in the way you should be treated. But you won’t let me.”

“I know I’m fucked up,” Amy sobbed. “I know that. Maybe that was why I didn’t want to get close to you in the first place, so then you’d have to see this.”

“And I’m not fucked up? The one who keeps waking up in a cold sweat in the dead of night? You still have this idea in your head that I’m somehow out of reach. Aim, I’m right here. I’m standing eye to eye with you.”

“Even though you’re considerably taller than me?” Amy giggled.

“Oh well, that aside. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Lucas took Amy into his arms again and held her, the two of them silent.

I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you. Lucas’ mind told him. I’ve never been able to hold on to anything, but I promise that I will with you.

***

Follow Forever tag list: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @xxbyimm @middleearthpixie @knitastically @linasofia @guardianofrivendell @meganlpie @sketch-and-write-lover @msjava1972 @lilacpulse @spidergirla5 @asgardianhobbit98 @rachel1959

Richard Armitage tag list: @cryptichobbit @eunoiaastralwings

#Lucas North #Spooks #Lucas North x OC #Fanfiction #Richard Armitage

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nesting-dreams · 1 year ago

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Oh that might be it. I got disorders and I see Donatello as extremely emotional. I’m confused how others see him as emotionless. Sure he has resting bitch face, I didn’t realise this until your post, but now I realise that I see things differently than others I guess, so I can just read him. From my own experience in dealing with adhd people, adhd people don’t really get called emotionless, maybe to their face they do, but behind their back, they are classed as being too happy all the time or like can’t be taken seriously, but that is just their bouncy energy and does not mean they are happy. Michelangelo has canon adhd in rise according to creators and he is seen by the fandom as this adorable, happy , with zero agency but he does feel a wide variety of emotions and has his own agency. It is an issue of people taking the characters words at face value, like people’s reading comprehension has gone to crap. I don’t know much about star trek, but Data and Donnie are just super introverts and emotions just don’t usually come across as a result of that to most people sadly. (Happens in real life too). For in universe stuff, Donnie is not paid attention too by Leo, Raphael and Splinter. He does things in a logical way while being expressive or emotional about it and Leo falls asleep when he does that, so he does not see that Donnie feels things and I noticed he even acts surprised when Donnie starts showing emotion in episodes. Raphael also zones out. Donnie kept a calender date of the last time Splinter hung with him and it was half a year since they’ve talk. Splinter is surprised by Donnie’s heartbreak when he outbursts that his dad doesn’t love him possibly and everything was a lie and that he only wanted to hang out for his tank and not for their quality time, Splinter realised Donnie does have emotions during that same episode and decided from that point on he’d give his son the proper attention he deserves. Michelangelo, our adhd, fellow is the only one who actively talks to Donnie about his emotions and I think he’s the only one who truly understands him. Donnie lets Mikey hug him the most out of everybody and he is soft on Mikey.

There's a thing I've noticed with characters that get described as "emotionless" either by themselves or by other characters but the actual characterization completely condradicts that. My main examples are Data and Rise!Donnie, Data explaining multiple times that he has no emotions because he's not built to have them and Donnie describes himself as an "aloof badboy". Both are described as lacking emotions by other characters, Donnie's "emotionless passion" from Leo in the first episode, and more times than I can recall specifically for Data. But both of them are visibly and demonstrably full of emotions! Data actively shows how much he cares about his crewmates, his care instructions for spot include telling him what a pretty kitty he is (something spot has no way of understanding because he's a cat and has no bearing on his well-being), he yearns to be more human (yearning is an emotion!), etc. Donnie is just as expressive as all the other ROTTMNT characters, he makes up a rap for the library directions and gets so into it he gets nabbed for being too loud, his glee about Jupiter Jim's weapons cabinet, getting mad at Splinter hiding from them after stealing the Turtle Tank, I could keep going on!

But a lot of fans for both shows tend to completely buy in that these characters really have little to no emotions! Idk if it's just me with my adhd brain and how I process my emotions that makes it obvious how much these characters feel, or if it should be obvious to other people and they're just taking the spoken descriptions at face value for some reason?

It feels a lot like when autistic people and adhd people are called emotionless when it's clear they/we just process and show our emotions differently than neurotypical folks.

Idk there's just something that always rubs me the wrong way about this stuff. I know there's tons of other characters this applies to as well, hell Star Trek as a franchise is full of them, and I'm kind of curious if others have noticed this with their blorbos?

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hizashis-lil-bunbun · 3 years ago

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No Rest for the Wicked- HardDom!Dabi X Fem! Brat Reader

Prompt: Dabi just wants to take a nap but everything goes wrong

I asked a friend in one of my discord groups for a random writing prompt when I was up late. Something about this one activated my inner ✨brat✨

Enjoy!

Word Count: 3.3k

Kinks/Warnings: brat taming, degradation, pain play, spanking, belting, mild dacryphilia, bondage, edging and denial, hints of dubcon

Banner made by the always lovely @ladyshinigami!

••••••••••••••

Exhausted.

That was the best way to sum up Dabi’s mood as he trudged through the bar fronting the League’s headquarters. Shigaraki had sent him out on a mission with orders to “stake out and take out” a small band of up-and-coming heroes. It had been easy enough to find them (newbies can never resist being flashy), but making sure they were all disposed of was another matter. A matter only made more complicated by a few rogue civilians that happened to spot him. It had taken him two full days to track everyone down, leaving him covered in blood, soot, and burns. In short, Dabi needed a break.

“Well, well, well.” Came the nasally voice of their fearless leader, “The prodigal son returns! Took you long enough, Dabi. Hope that means you didn’t fuck up the mission.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dabi snaps back, too tired and sore to care about his tone. Not that he’d be any kinder to Shigaraki if he wasn’t. “I did what you asked and left no witnesses. Now piss off before I turn you into a smoldering pile.”

Shigaraki didn’t rise to Dabi’s bait, opting to simply flip him the bird before going back to whatever game console he was currently obsessed with. Dabi returns the gesture in kind, glowering as he disappears behind the bar and into the League’s living quarters. Their warehouse provides more than enough space for everyone to have their own room, and the boss even allowed them to decorate and furnish them as they pleased. Wasn’t that generous? Dabi plods down the hallway to his assigned room and kicks open the door only to find it was occupied. By you.

“Dabi?” You question for a moment before your eyes light up with excitement. “Dabi! You’re back!”

As a fellow Stain devotee, you’d sought out the LOV and been initiated as a member a mere six months ago. And two months later, you’d been initiated into Dabi’s bed. You wouldn’t exactly call yourselves “lovers.” Love was few and far between in a hornet’s nest of villains. But you’d certainly become something more than the occasional lay.

He grunts as he stalks into the room, shedding his coat and boots as he went. Dabi was never big on grand displays of affection. And in his current state, that small show of acknowledgment may as well have been equivalent to a bear hug.

“I missed you.” You chirp back, undeterred by his gruff response. “How was the mission?”

“Long and shitty.” Came his terse reply as he strips off the rest of his clothes and grabs a towel from a nearby wall hook. “I need a fucking shower.”

He wraps the towel around his waist before he sets about searching for body wash and a first aid kit. Greedy eyes roam the plane of his toned torso, eager to touch the scarred and stapled flesh you’d spent many a night mapping out. Before joining the League, you’d never had an opinion one way or the other on touch or physical intimacy. You didn’t dislike it by any means; it was just something people did, fuck buddies or otherwise. But now that you’d shared a bed with Dabi, your perspective had changed. His rough touch was your drug of choice, intoxicating in all the best ways. And with him being gone for almost 72 hours? It was safe to say you were jonesing for a hit.

“Oooh, sounds like fun.” You purr, sprawling out on the mattress in a catlike stretch. “Want me to join you? I think we could use a little… quality time together.”

He snorts derisively at that, straightening up once he’d found his supplies and fixing you with a deep scowl. So pretty even when he’s pissed. You bat your eyelashes in return.

“Don’t get cute, dollface. Once I get cleaned up I’m passing out for the next century.”

Before you can shoot off another coquettish remark, he turns on his heel and marches out the door in the direction of the communal showers. You huff and clamber out of bed to follow him, determined that he wouldn’t get away so easily.

“C’mon Dabi!” You whine, trotting along behind him as he stalks down the hallway. “I haven’t seen you in days! Are you really just gonna give me the cold shoulder?”

“Yup.” He snaps back, shooting you a harsh glare over said shoulder before barging through the bathroom door. From the other side you can hear his bark of “Move it, psycho!” followed by an indignant squeak from whom you can only assume to be Toga. You huff and stamp your foot like a petulant child, turning on your heel to flounce off in the direction of the League’s bar front.

“Bastard.” You seethe under your breath, “Who does he think he is, ignoring me like that? It’s his fault I’m so pent up. If I tried ignoring him when he was all hot and bothered–!”

You pause for a moment as a lightbulb goes off in your head. A single impish thought flashes through your mind and it causes your lips to curl into a Cheshire grin. He wants to play games? You’ll give him games.

You continue your trek into the dimly-lit, woodpandeled speakeasy, a renewed vigor in your stride as you make a beeline for the bar top. Kurogiri is standing behind it as per usual, wiping out a pint glass like the faithful bartender he pretends to be. You sidle up to the bar and place both hands on the oaken surface, adopting a sweet, too-innocent lilt to your voice.

“Kuro-baby.” You purr, the cutesy pet name causing the misty specter to look up from his task. “Can I have a glass of water, please? With lots of ice, if you don’t mind.”

Wordlessly, Kurogiri sets down the glass and picks up a shorter one, using it to scoop up a generous portion of ice from the freezer below before filling it nearly to the brim from the tap. If he has any suspicion of you, he’s very good at hiding it. The same can’t be said for Shigaraki, sitting a few stools down from you and still tapping away at the buttons of his console.

“Fucking with Staples again?” He questions disinterestedly, followed by a hiss of annoyance when the game lets out a series of gunshots. He must have gotten himself killed again.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shoot back airily, swiping the glass from Kurogiri’s outstretched hand and hopping off your own barstool.

“It’s your funeral!” He calls after you, waving you off with one hand. You snicker as you march back into the living quarters, one hand wrapped around the chilled glass and the other flattened over the top to ensure you won’t spill a drop along the way. Soon you find yourself back in front of the bathroom door and, suppressing the urge to giggle, you slowly push through it and into the steamy room beyond. In spite of the hideout’s outward appearance, the place is surprisingly clean and well-kempt (all thanks to den mother Kurogiri). Two sinks stand against the left-hand side of the wall, with two doors opposite them leading to the toilets. Next to the sinks are the showers: three open-faced, tile cubes barely covered by flimsy plastic curtains. Toga is standing in front of the nearest sink, wearing a skimpy pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and washing the blood and goop from her latest transformation out of her navy, pleated skirt. She looks up at you when you enter and you quickly put one finger to your lips, smirking as you point between the glass and the running shower beyond. Toga lets loose a sadistic giggle of her own before hastily shushing herself when you hear Dabi’s bark of “Pipe down out there!”

As you move past her, you can see her mouth the words, “You’re so dead, big sis.”

You can feel a jolt of adrenaline course through your veins as you sneak up to the edge of the tiled wall separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom, the glass in your hand shaking briefly. A small amount of water sloshes over the rim and spatters onto the floor, the sound barely overshadowed by the shower.

“Doll?”

His low, rumbling voice coming from the other side of the curtain sends another shiver down your spine.

“What are you up to out there?” He growls dangerously, as if he has a sixth sense when it comes to you and your shenanigans. For just a moment, the rational part of your brain takes over and makes you question your actions. Dabi’s already in a foul mood, and getting worse by the second by the sound of it. Maybe if you hold off and behave like a good girl–

Your body seems to move of its own accord. The next thing you know, the contents of the glass are sailing through the air, arching high over the plastic curtain rod and landing with a messy splat onto your unwitting victim on the other side.

“What the fu–!” Dabi’s curse is cut off by yours and Toga’s mad giggling as you sprint out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Passing by a very confused-looking Spinner, you dart inside Dabi’s room and slam the door, locking it for good measure. Seconds later, he’s pounding on it, using enough force that you’re convinced it might splinter and break off its hinges.

“Open this door right now and make this easier on yourself!” He roars, furiously jiggling the handle.

You let him pound away for a few more seconds, in part to allow yourself time to catch your breath but mostly to delay the unenviable punishment. With a deep, steadying breath, you plaster on a mildly amused expression, undo the lock, and pull open the door. Dabi is visibly seething, water dripping from his hair and cascading in rivulets down his toned chest onto the towel slung low on his hips. His brows are knitted together in rage, turquoise eyes flashing dangerously while one hand is still raised in a fist.

“Oh hey, babe. Done with the shower al–?”

His hands are around your throat before you can blink, your sassy remark devolving into a high-pitched squeak.

“You little bitch.” He spits at you, forcibly backing you further into the room as he advances. “Was that your idea of a joke?”

“N-no.” You gasp in response, voice slightly raspy from the pressure on your jugular. “I just thought–“

“Thought what exactly?” Dabi growls, kicking the door shut behind him with one foot before giving your shoulders a hard shove and pushing you onto the bed. You land with a slight bounce, the momentum giving you just enough time to prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Well?” He hisses, venom dripping from the word as he glares down at you.

“I was worried.” You start slowly, tone almost loving as you gaze up at him with big, doe eyes. “You seemed so tense when you got back. And don’t think I didn’t notice those new burns on your arms. So I thought, since the mission was so hard on you…”

Your face suddenly splits into a shit-eating grin.

“I thought you might need to cool down for a minute.”

Dabi blinks for a second, seemingly struck dumb by your remark. And then his hands are back on you in an instant, roughly flipping you over to lie chest-down with your legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Of all the stupid–“

Your shirt is ripped over your head from behind.

“Immature–“

There goes the bra, clasps and straps lost to a wildfire of blue flames as it falls away from your body in a charred heap.

“Bratty little schemes.”

Your leggings and panties are harshly yanked down, slipped off, and discarded into some unknown corner of the room. You feel cool air hit your legs and backside, moments before a harsh slap lands on your right cheek. With a yelp, you cast a wide-eyed glance over your shoulder at the menacing presence behind you; a pillar of rage and sadistic urges looming over your naked form.

“You wanted my attention that badly, dollface? Well I’m sorry to say you’ve got it now.”

Before you can react beyond a pained, needy whimper, Dabi hooks his right arm under your thighs to haul you up and onto the bed. He lays his full weight across your back and reaches around and underneath the farthest edge of the bed to produce a simple, black cuff, attached to the nylon spreader running along the underside of the mattress. Giving it a few cursory tugs, he grabs ahold of your right wrist and yanks it towards the corresponding corner, attaching the device with practiced speed and precision. You continue to writhe and pant below him, muttering a litany of curses and “no’s” as he does the same to the opposite side. You’re now bound by both wrists, unable to do more than thrash wildly on the mattress in a humiliating, spread eagle position.

“Seems like you need a reminder of who’s in charge around here.” He snarls in your ear, pushing himself off of you and marching over to his discarded pile of clothing. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric, followed by the telltale clink of metal on metal that makes your eyes go wide.

“Y-you wouldn’t dare…” You start breathlessly, just before the first blinding sting of leather greets your exposed skin, right at the juncture where the soft swell of your ass meets the tender flesh of your thighs.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Dabi says mockingly, his tone dripping with false pity and saccharine sweetness as he takes his place at the edge of the bed once more. “I don’t have any problems dealing with a mouthy… little… brat like you.”

His words are punctuated by three more vicious blows, this time striking the meatiest part of your ass and sending the pliant flesh jiggling. The metal rivets in his belt only add to the pain, biting into your rapidly heating flesh and causing tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in a futile attempt to get away from Dabi and his newfound torture device, you roll partly onto your side and look over at him with watery, pleading eyes.

“S-sir… Dabi, please!” You sputter out, voice already wavering as your resolve crumbles beneath the stinging sensation. But Dabi’s not in the mood for bargaining. Instead, he growls as he wraps an arm around your waist and shoves his left knee underneath your belly, hiking your ass further into the air.

“Hold still!” He barks at you, another crack of his belt sending a fresh wave of searing pain along your already raw skin. You scream in agony, unable to do more than wriggle and squirm against his hold.

“Start counting, brat.” He demands huskily, your only warning before the next punishing spank meets your burning flesh.

“One!” You gasp out, “I’m sorry! Please–!”

Another blow lands, somehow harder than all the others, revisiting the spot where ass and thigh meet and causing you to wail in pain.

“Too late for apologies, dollface. The only thing I wanna hear from that slutty little mouth is counting. Understand me?”

The arm looped around your waist tightens in warning, and you hiccup before sputtering out a shaky, “T-two.”

“That’s more like it.”

He continues spanking you at a steady pace, the only respite coming when he pauses to hear you choke out the next number. By ten strokes, you’re bawling. By fifteen, you’re practically brain dead, unable to quell the sobs that wrack through your body or think beyond the next count. He mercifully stops at twenty, dropping the belt and loosening his own grip on you. All you can focus on is the burning pain radiating out from your tanned backside, sobbing as you bury your face into the pillow below you for comfort. Dabi’s own breathing is heavy and ragged, and he takes a few deep, measured breaths to steady himself. After a few moments, that hand that once held his belt is carefully laid on the curve of your ass, and you gasp both at the gentle touch and the shock of prickly pain it brings. Judging by the way he strokes the heated flesh, you’re sure the silver eyelets have left a series of bruises behind.

“S-s-sir.” You blubber, “I’m... I…”

“Shhhh, quiet down.” He says softly, voice uncharacteristically tender as he runs his hand along the width of your heated cheeks. “It’s over now. You did so well.”

The unexpected praise makes you whimper beneath his affections, devolving into a quiet moan as his hand travels even lower, fingers coming to rest at the entrance to your heated core. He begins to gently massage at your folds, middle finger slipping inside to find you impossibly wet and clenching around the digit.

“You filthy little thing…” He breathes out on a chuckle, “Are you really that turned on by me beating the hell out of your cute little ass?”

His finger delves deeper, pussy eagerly sucking him in as you keen below him. His free hand begins to lightly scratch up and down your back, goosebumps rising in the wake of each careful caress. Without thinking, you shift further onto your knees, fighting through the pain to push against his hand.

“Please, Sir.” You moan wantonly, “More. Please.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi slips a second finger inside of you and begins to languidly pump them in and out. Pain and pleasure meld together in a sinful symphony, pants and whimpers coming from you as you rock your abused body against his own scarred flesh. He adjusts the angle and crooks his fingers downwards, curling them just shy of that sensitive bundle of nerves you know would have you seeing stars. Your back arches as you hungrily push against him, dignity forgotten in the face of pure, carnal desire.

“Getting impatient, are we?” He growls teasingly, fingers suddenly slipping out from your sopping core and wrenching a high-pitched whine from the back of your throat. He moves off the bed entirely, ordering you to stay put as he walks over to the nearby dresser and opens up the top drawer. Like the cuffs would allow you to do anything otherwise.

“Ah, here we go.” He says after a few seconds of rummaging, striding back over to the bed and taking up residence behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight seconds before his hands find your hips, roughly hauling them upwards and forcing your face further into the pillows. You shriek as he grabs ahold of your left cheek and squeezes harshly, pain shooting up your spine like a bolt of summer lightning. Something hard and cool prods at your quivering entrance, briefly brushing against your clit before being plunged inside of you. The sudden stretch feels at once too much and deeply satiating, sending burning, pleasurable heat licking across your oversensitized nerves. Once the toy is sunk to the hilt, Dabi gives a short grunt of satisfaction before sliding off the bed and circling around to lean over your quivering form. You turn your head to face him and he smirks at the sight of your fucked out expression: eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked with half-dried tears, lips swollen from the bluntness of your own teeth.

“Aren’t you a sight?” He hums lowly, brushing away an errant strand of hair to plant a condescending kiss to your temple. “Such a needy little slut for me.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi pats your cheek, straightens up, and turns towards the door.

“Wait!” You squeak out, squirming against your restraints as you watch his retreating back. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

“That’s the plan, dollface.” He shoots back, casting you a wicked grin over his left shoulder as he pulls the door open. “At least until I finish my shower.”

#bnha #bnha x reader #dabi x reader #Dabi #mha smut #mha x reader #tw: noncon #tw: pain play

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dashielldeveron · 4 years ago

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and i’ve gotta crow | takami keigo

hawks x pro-hero! reader. quirk unspecified.

summary: “You’re suffering from amnesia,” says Hawks to you, in your hospital bed.

No, you are not.

“We’re engaged to be married.”

No, you are not.

After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?

fluff/trickery??? completely avoidable angst, bc reader is a little shit. hawks is a scumbag bully at first. reader is honestly kind of violent. dealing with acne in a scene.

When the first things you saw after groggily blinking your eyes open were multiple IVs in the back of your hand, you flipped over and snuggled farther into your hospital bed to deal with it later, but against your will you were forced to lie flat on your back to stare into the hospital fluorescents.

When the nurse fiddling with your IVs came into focus, he said, “You need to lie on your back. You have deep gashes on your lower abdomen, and tossing about too much could open the stitches.”

That sounded like bullshit, but you were too out of it to care. “Yeah, okay,” you said through a croak, “Oh, fuck.” You wrestled a hand to your throat, massaging it. “Am I waking up from a coma? Don’t let anyone see me until I’ve done my eyebrows.”

The nurse laughed through his nose. “No, don’t worry. You’ve barely been—” He cut himself off and frowned. “The news should probably be broken to you when you have emotional support. I’ll be back soon.”

He left.

Emotional support? Wouldn’t that fucking gash on your stomach be—ooh, ouch, don’t move.

Where’s your phone? Where’s your goddamn phone; where’s any of your personal belongings? If they got crushed, you’re killing Hawks on sight.

Hawks, oh, my God. Where is he? He’s dead. If he still has the audacity to bully you professionally—fuck.

He’d cornered you on patrol earlier—whenever that was—and cut into you in that casually, negging-type way that wasn’t enough to report but enough to make you stay up late and freak out about being good enough. It hurt your chest whenever you thought about it.

But this was the first time he’d gotten seriously physical.

He’d alit on the top of the warehouse next to you, landing what would have been haphazardly for anyone else (the arch of his feet against the edge, his toes barely touching roof) and had crouched next to you, his scarlet wings completely blowing your cover as they stretched and shuddered.

“What’s a little girl like you doing in this part of town?” Hawks had propped his chin on both his fists. “Thought shoplifters were more your calibre.”

“Hawks, this is actually really important to me, so please, please leave,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on the group you could barely make out through the skylight. They’d already been partially concealed by crates, so they were hard to see.

“Someone else give you a tip for their location?” He’d tapped your opposite shoulder with the end of his wing, but you hadn’t even flinched.

“Bruh, you know I’ve been on this for weeks,” you’d said, shifting away from him, “I even shared intel at your last briefing.”

“Is that what you were talking about?” Hawks had scratched his chin. “I zoned out. Usually the little cases female heroes present aren’t in my circle, and I like to unwind when brain power isn’t needed.”

You’d planned to rip his wings out feather by feather while you’d gritted your teeth. “You can’t talk to me like that, Hawks.”

He’d laughed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “C’mon, babygirl, have a slice of chill, won’t you? I thought you were one of the cool girls. Relax. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Leave me alone, Hawks. You’re not gonna bully me into joining your agency. You’re not gonna bully me into quitting being a hero,” you’d said, inwardly screaming, “I’d tell you to go talk to someone who’d fall for your shit, but then, she’d have to suffer, too. So, fuck off into a sewer, jackass.”

“Oof,” Hawks had said, placing a hand over his heart and shaking his head, “You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart. I’m only looking for my better half. Didn’t think it could be you, but I’d thought I’d give you a chance to prove me wrong. Don’t take yourself too seriously; just be along for the ride like the rest of us.”

“Huh,” you had said, and you’d stood and strode to the edge of the warehouse to your harness and rope, and you rappelled down the side of it as stealthily as you came up.

“I’ve been watching you all these years, sweetness, and I know you by now; I know how you really feel,” Hawks had said a bit too loudly while he flew downwards at your speed (braggart). “Strip away all of your busy work, your so-called hero trappings, and we’d mesh together just fine. We may be rough around the edges, but we clean up really nicely, don’t we?”

You’d unclipped your carabiner and stepped out of your harness, stashing it in your pack. “Fuck off.”

You’d moved towards the back entrance, but Hawks had slammed a hand against the concrete wall in front of you. You’d ducked under it and carried on, and he’d grabbed the back of your shirt.

“C’mon, if we didn’t know each other, and our eyes met from across the room at some hero gala, you’d be all over me, wouldn’t you?”

You had swiped his hand away. “I’d be putting a lid on my drink.”

His arms behind his back, Hawks had followed you through the door and behind the exposed pipes and closer to your targets. “Saw you coming onto Todoroki at the last one. You looked fine in his colours, but you would’ve looked better in mine.”

Don’t grace him with an answer; don’t grace him with an ans— “I wasn’t coming onto Shoto,” you’d said, pulling yourself up a couple of pipes for a better view—and you’d hit him when he flapped his wings to hover the few feet you’d ascended, because the noise might alert them.

“Yeah, you just simp for him, right? Then you didn’t step outside your comfortable ice queen act?” Hawks had gripped onto a pipe just underneath your ass. “You’re too much of a natural tease for that.”

How can you report him when he’s the head of his own agency? You guess the commission might listen, but what can they do besides slap his wrist? There’s really no one who can stop him, is there?

You hadn’t replied but instead crawled onto the iron catwalk. If you could position yourself about three-quarters of the way across, you’d be able to effectively activate your quirk and get this over with—wait, why would you think like that? You’d been waiting for this for ages.

A hand spreading across the small of your back had reminded you.

You’d flipped over with fire in your eyes and kicked him away as quietly as you could, but all he’d done was sit back on his knees to grin down at you, army-crawling your way through a dirty warehouse.

Would he take credit for your work again?

You’d shaken yourself. Eat my entire ass, Hawks. And with that, you’d continued inching towards your targets. When you’d gotten into position to watch them, Hawks had merely watched you.

You had scowled. “I’m gonna tear you a—”

“You had a hard childhood, didn’t you?”

A chill had unfurled up your spine, simple as that. Hawks now not only had the annoying air of an arrogant pick-up artist but also gave you an intense sense of danger. You’d moved away from him, regrettably away from your target, but Hawks had followed you, getting closer until his body heat had seeped into yours, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his dumb face.

“I could take suuuuch good care of you, little girl,” he’d said under his breath, “if only you’d let me. No one else is crazy enough to call me out or want more than the bare minimum.” His wings had folded in on his back, making themselves as small as possible to get closer to you. “If you give in, tell me yes, say please, you wouldn’t have to let any worries cross your pretty little mind. All you have to do is let me in.”

“Yikes,” you had said, sucking in through your teeth, “God, you’re a creep.”

Hawks had slammed you down onto the catwalk, iron reverberating through the warehouse as it struck your head, and your targets had looked up by the time the catwalk hinges had loosened and had come crashing down in the midst of their meeting.

You’re really not supposed to shoot guns inside. Don’t they know that’ll ruin their ears? No matter, really. You had fought them anyway, amidst crates splintering open from whatever they were shooting at you—fuck, that was a big hole. What’s oozing out of that? Gross, don’t step in it.

One with a normal revolver—his arm had given a woody crack when you’d bent it backwards—God, that was nice. Good sounds. If you could sample them into a rap track, you would.

You’d been planning a collab with a popular rapper while you’d hurled yourself at another villain, sawdust flying—just to keep your mind busy, really, but fucking—fucking Hawks had bested whoever he’d half-assed to the ground and had shouted your way.

“C’mere, you little shit—”

He’d scooped you up while you’d been taking care of it by yourself, and he had pinned you down behind a stack of crates that reached the remains of the catwalk, straddling you but keeping most of his weight off, his wings outstretched yet still hidden from the cloud of sawdust rising with deep gurgling on the far side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he’d said over the chaos, spit flying, “You can’t handle this; you’re gonna get fucking killed. I can’t babysit you all the time.”

“Get fucked; I’m the number fourteen hero,” you’d said, deadly still, but twitching in fury, “I can handle anyth—”

“Aww, fourteen. And one day babygirl might reach the single digits.” Hawks had sneered in your face. “If she manages to fuck her way through them.”

Your jaw had dropped, and you pretended to cough on sawdust and kicked him off in the confusion. Hawks had grabbed a hold of your calf, grappling for your thigh, while you’d scrambled to climb over crates to the gurgling mess on the other side; you could handle it, and you would.

You’d slapped his hands away, wrestled out of his grasp again and again, and you’d launched yourself into the dust—

Yeah.

While the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, you picked at a hangnail. You hadn’t braced yourself for the explosion, so, you guessed you deserved whatever was wrong with you now. Big-ass gashes on your stomach. Probably broken ribs. Something felt off in your left leg, besides—oh, ho, what had the doctors thought when they’d seen Hawks’s scratches?

What an idiot.

When the door creaked open, the nurse returned with a mug of water for you, but—what? Who’s that bitch following him?

You blinked, twice. With his hands in his pockets and his nasty little wings tucked in behind him, Hawks meandered to your bedside, his gaze on your throat as you swallowed down water.

God, you’re too tired to deal with him. Let’s get this over with.

The nurse glanced over his clipboard. “I’ve already told your partner this, but I thought you would want him here.”

Maybe if you ignore Hawks, he’ll leave.

“You were very brave today,” said the nurse, “Your work as a hero is greatly appreciated. You’re on temporary leave to heal, though. Like I said, you’ve got three, major gashes on your stomach, and your leg’s broken—the fibula split, if you want to know. You’ll be on crutches for a while. You have four broken ribs, and—” The nurse bit his lip and softened his voice. “You hit your head pretty hard. Nothing’s broken, but you should have amnesia, with the trauma you’ve endured.”

Should have? They don’t know? You sure as hell don’t fucking have amnesia. It barely happens in real life, and it definitely hasn’t happened to you. You remembered every fucking infuriating thing Hawks did to ruin your mission, and if he doesn’t square up—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” said Hawks, grabbing your hand. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, and then he took his glove off to hold you skin-to-skin. “You remember who I am?”

You just stared at him.

“Your fiancé’s been a real presence in the waiting room,” said the nurse, “He hardly stopped pacing the entire time you were in surgery. He wouldn’t even talk to fans.”

Oh, my God.

Holy fucking shit.

“Oops, sorry,” said the nurse, covering his mouth, “I know you were keeping it a secret. Don’t blame him, please; he only told me to be able to see you immediately.”

Shutting your eyes, you took a deep, deep breath. You have been handed a golden opportunity on a fucking Hawks-shaped platter, holy fuck, and by God are you going to take advantage of it. Imagine how much you can fucking humiliate him, how far you can take it. How much you can make him pay for how he treated you, and now, if he says he’s your fiancé, then he’s gonna fucking worship you. You’re going to mould him into your little bitch, and he’s going to thank you for it. And you’ll get endless dirt on him just by seeing his place.

Don’t fuck this up.

Exhaling, you opened your eyes, blinking a bit. You curled your lips into your mouth, biting the lower one. “I remember you’re Hawks,” you said in a nervous voice, “and I remember, uh.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” Hawks squeezed your hand, his tone kind. “It’ll come back in time.”

You clutched Hawks’s hand while the nurse rattled off instructions and gave you your crutches, and Hawks squeezed your hand back, softly smiling at you.

When the nurse left, you turned to Hawks and said, “I’m so, so sorry, but I—I feel like there’s something big missing that I can’t remember.” You scratched your forehead with your free hand, dragging the IVs with you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawks tilted his head, still gazing decidedly down at you.

“Oh, God,” you said, “Oh, fuck. I don’t know. Um.” Take it back. Take it way back. That way he’ll dig himself into a deeper hole. The more lies he has to create, the funnier it’ll be. “Let’s see, I, hm.” You already weren’t speaking like yourself, but you looked upward as you faked combing through memories. “I don’t know how things work chronologically, but the most recent memory I have of you is—it’s after a press conference, and I’ve never been in the building before,” you said slowly, “And I can’t find the bathroom, but some press keeps following me, and I—I faceplant in between your shoulder blades, right between your wings. You—” You lowered your voice, shrinking a little in the hospital bed, “You got rid of them so easily, with just a gesture, and you put your arm around me. You were—” You shook your head, staring at both of your hands. “—so warm.”

Was that too thick? That was too thick, wasn’t it?

His free hand shot to his mouth, and he bit his knuckle. “But sweetheart, that’s,” said Hawks, his eyes watering, “That’s only around the third time we met.”

You know.

“Shit,” you said, widening your eyes, “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Hawks squeezed your hand and kept the pressure longer than was necessary. “Three fucking years. You don’t remember anything past that?”

You pretended to be scared to look at him. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, you don’t have to be,” said Hawks, and he leant towards you to lift your chin, rubbing his thumb against it, “It’s not your fault.”

You had to hand it to him: Hawks was a good actor.

But so were you.

***

Hawks disappeared for a while after that, but he manifested the day you were loosed from the hospital, more than giddy to carry all of your shit all the way to your flat. He was probably getting some sick pleasure from watching you hobble on your crutches.

“I can help you, if you lean on me,” said Hawks, giving you an easy grin, “I don’t want you to be in any more pain than you have to.”

“This is something I should do myself,” you said in what was hopefully a tough-it-out voice, “I’d like to be able to walk without depending on anyone.”

“I honestly think you ought to be in a wheelchair.” His wings bristled. “But what do I know? I could fly us to your place, if you like.”

“I don’t like. I’ve gotta concentrate on limping. Stop talking, Hawks.”

You got to your flat, and Hawks had guessed which key opened the door on the first try. Drat! He was already doing a good job of acting like he’d been here before, like he’s not surprised that the number fourteen hero lives in a pretty shitty apartment (you started living here as a student and got too damn comfortable for your own good—plus, you didn’t want your cat to endure the trauma of moving).

Hawks plopped your keys in the bowl by the door with a clatter, and he shut the front door behind you, flipping one of the locks.

He set your stuff neatly on the kitchen table—your purse, your tactical pack, your ropes—and lay your dry-cleaned hero suit over the back of a kitchen chair, and his hands were on you the next moment to guide you to your tacky, sunflower couch. Removing one crutch, he put your arm over his shoulder instead, one hand planted on your lower back above your bandages, and he eased you down onto the cushions.

Hawks then stepped over your legs to sit on your opposite side, and he brought your legs to rest in his lap, his hand gripping your non-casted leg. “Gotta keep it elevated, chickadee.”

You let yourself giggle. Time to get this shitshow started. “Thank you so much for helping me, Hawks; I know I’ve been a real hassle these past few days, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of stress. You’re already under so much. I don’t understand how the commission would let you date anyone, let alone propose.”

“Oh, I know,” said Hawks, spreading himself out on the couch. He shifted himself to face you in addition to accommodate his wings—he was now positioned so that they’d drape over the arm of the couch instead of being squished against the back cushions. That bitch, he probably wasn’t used to couches that weren’t custom made to his special body requirements. Spoiled fuck.

“The commission was really pissed when they found out. Do you remember how, sweetness? Right, I’ll tell you,” said Hawks, running an ungloved hand through his hair before shaking it loose. “You remember up to the press conference with the faceplant. Short version is that you hated me for a good year before something clicked. You started acting awkward whenever I was around, avoiding me, and stuff. Sometimes getting red. I thought it was cute.”

You ducked your head. Flustered. He probably likes easily flustered women.

Wait. That’s not who you are. And he’d like you for who you are, if you’re engaged.

But at the same time, if you’re (gag) in love with him, wouldn’t you be flustered by some of the things he says?

Easy, baby. Take it as it comes. Pick your battles. Go with your gut.

And gut says make Hawks eat shit.

“You think I’m cute?”

“I know you’re cute.”

You’re going to stuff his own feathers down his throat.

“We got together at that dinner Endeavor’s agency sponsored. Do you remember that at all? That place with the purple lights. You’d gotten nervous from the crowd and had gone to take some of your anxiety meds. I caught you in the hall back from the bathroom and talked you down before going back out there.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to say I’m the one who kissed you, but you took initiative before I had the guts.”

Funny. Hilarious, in fact. That was the night Hawks had solidified himself as the Biggest Dick in the World, because yeah, he’d caught you in the purple-lit hallway, but he’d caught you on the way to take your meds, not on the way back. You were talking yourself down from a panic attack and couldn’t argue him away, so he’d followed you into the bathroom, running his mouth and acting like it was an accident when the tip of his wing had knocked your two capsules down the sink.

He’d told you that if you’re a big girl, you’d be able to handle the rest of the night. Or you could leave at any time with him, and he’d make excuses that everyone would have to accept.

Honestly, you’d love to let his fake memory be true, because then, you’d be able to wear purple again without feeling queasy.

Cocking your head, you smiled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

Hawks let out a light laugh, craning his neck to rest his head on the back of the sofa. “That’s what you said that night, too. About how it felt out of character.”

“Was I good?”

Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow at you: probably the first genuine emotion he’s shown you the whole time he’s been here. “Hm?”

“When I kissed you. Was it good,” you asked flatly.

“Oh,” Hawks said, his wings puffing out just barely, “Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Groundbreaking. Show-stopping.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he shifted underneath your legs, leaning slightly towards you but holding eye contact before carrying on.

You shook your head. “I don’t have the energy to give you the makeout session you deserve,” you said, envisioning drowning him in the bathtub, “I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”

“Always,” said Hawks, “Want me to keep going?”

“You can hardly eat me out when we haven’t kissed yet.”

“I meant,” said Hawks, pausing to visibly swallow (was it real?), “about our relationship, but if you wanna eat—”

“Nah, keep going. So, I started the relationship? I must be crazy. Neither of us have fucking time to sleep, let alone be in a relationship.”

Hawks never shut up about how he was taking time out of his endlessly packed days to spend time with you, how time was precious to him, and if he’s spending time with you, why, then, you’d better pay up, bitch (always accompanied with his hands on his belt, subtly pointing his thumbs towards his cock).

Hawks shrugged with his wings instead of his shoulders. Interesting. Has he ever done that before? “The commission said that, but after I insisted we’d make time, they relented. Eventually,” said Hawks, jerking his head to the side, “Our quirks don’t exactly fit well, so we haven’t worked with each other professionally too often, and, of course, we’ve had to hide our relationship so that we can’t be a public weak spot to each other. Plus, we’re more marketable as eligible, young heroes.”

“Fuck the market,” you said, slumping into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” said Hawks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth, “There’s her spark. I know, baby. I feel the same way, but being made into libidinous body pillows pays the bills, y’know?”

Nodding, you brought one of the couch pillows around for you to hug, and you smushed your chin into it. “Hawks,” you said, so quietly you almost couldn’t be heard over the A/C kicking on, “How long have we been engaged?”

“Four months,” he said, his grin unconsciously fading until he was essentially baring his teeth, “Since the twentieth.”

Taking a moment, you said, “I can’t remember anything at all.”

“That’s okay. It’ll come back.”

“No, I can’t—” You slid your hands through your hair, pulling at it, and you heaved a sigh. “Goddammit, Hawks. I wish I could—fuck. I’m missing something huge. I know I am.” Make him nervous. Make him lie awake at night. “I’m sorry, Hawks. It’s probably something really important, and I—”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, it’s all right,” said Hawks, and he stood to lean over you, his hands rising to cup your face, and holy shit, his hands cover so much of your skin; is that legal? He’s got hands. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ve had a big day. Turn your brain off. I’ll take care of you.”

Red flag! Big, red flag! Creep! He’s a creep!

Your gaze fell to his jacket pockets. Does he carry date rape drugs on his person?

“Hawks, I don’t wanna inconvenience you any more than I have.”

“I’m your fiancé,” said Hawks, actually looking you straight in the eyes and not breaking, “I want to take care of you.”

“Sure, in the way the mob takes care of people.”

Hawks’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

Cover it up. “I’m not sorry. I don’t trust your cooking. You’ll poison my spaghetti!” You made a dumb gesture, pinching your fingers together. “Have you seen The Godfather? There’s actually a pretty legit spaghetti recipe in it; it’s not too bad, but it’s kind of watery—”

Hawks brought your hand to his mouth to kiss your knuckles and let his lips linger. “Watch it with me?”

You shook your head. “I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”

“No,” you said, “My bed’s not made with your wings in mind.” Fuck off to your own little sex next, Hawks. Get out of here. “If they got hurt, it’d be my fault. Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Go home. Get mugged on the way.

Hawks sighed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “If you insist. But you’ve gotta reach out to me for anything you have trouble with, yeah? Memories, opening jars, orgasms, you know.”

“I’m leaving,” you said, reaching for your crutches, “Ten minutes ago.”

***

“You didn’t tell me how you proposed.”

Hawks froze mid-bite of his ramen, but after a quick beat, he slurped the rest of the noodle up. “I was hoping you’d recall that on your own, baby. Get your own feelings about it, instead of me telling you how to feel.”

If you weren’t faking amnesia, you’d fucking break his nose for that. Bastard.

“I imagine once you tell me, the feelings will rush in,” you said, clicking your chopsticks twice for emphasis, “I want to remember everything, and if I don’t, well, I want to fall in love with you again.”

Hawks’s gaze glazed over for an infinitesimal moment. Score.

“It’ll sound goofy once I describe it.” With his wings cramped against the back of the booth, Hawks scratched the back of his neck—a classic move for pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m not exactly known for being romantic.”

Yeah, he’s known for fooling around with anyone who’s glittery, like a goddamn crow. If you’re paying attention.

“Aw, but Hawks, you’ve been nothing but so effortlessly romantic to me since I’ve been convalescing,” you said, rolling up the paper wrapper of your straw and soaking it in the ring your cup left on the table.

“Right, well. I flew us out to the countryside, to this overlook halfway up a mountain. You liked going rappelling there a lot. To practise for missions.” Hawks had some of your habits down, at least. Bet he gets the location wrong, though. “We watched the sunrise. We shared a thermos of tea. I asked you once the sun had risen, but you didn’t say yes right away,” said Hawks, “You jumped off the overlook without your gear, and I caught you. You were furious about it—you didn’t want me to see you overwhelmed. But you said yes.”

Ugh. That sounded about right. That sounded pretty realistic. Hawks was a fucking stalker.

“Fuck,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “That’s cute.” You stretched the skin of your cheeks before releasing, and you returned to your ramen. “Question: did we put the ring into storage, or something? I don’t have the little indent on my ring finger from wearing a ring too long, and I haven’t found anything at home.” Make him sweat. Make him stumble. Where’s the ring, Hawks?

With a flash of his eyebrows, Hawks maneuvered his straw to his mouth using only his lips, looking quite stupid, in your opinion. “Figured you’d ask that at some point. I’m so overjoyed to see you every time that I forget to bring it up. The ring’s been sent off to a high-level, government-backed, support company. I’ve pulled in a favour from the higher-ups. I wanted to turn your ring into something a little more personal and incorporate one of my feathers into it,” said Hawks, taking a moment to slurp his drink noisily, “Depending on how well it goes, I’d be able to help you if we’re separated and know where you are. At the very least—” Hawks ducked his head to give the illusion of staring up at you with wide eyes, his blond eyelashes light against his skin. “—I’d be able to feel your heartbeat. It would bring me great comfort.”

Great, so he’d have a GPS on you at all times, knowing whether or not you went somewhere he didn’t want you to. He’d be able to tell if you went somewhere your non-amnesia self would know about. Great. Phenomenal.

“Hawks, that’s very sweet,” you said, fiddling with the remnants of your straw wrapper, now fizzled out of its snake shape, “Wouldn’t the process hurt you, though? Since you can feel it.”

“Nothing more than a twinge, sweetheart,” said Hawks, holding up his hands, “And I’d bear any amount of pain for your sake.”

You fantasised about beating his head in with the back end of a rifle.

***

When you were told Hawks was waiting for you outside of the recording booth, you told the messenger that Hawks could wait until you were finished with five more takes. You could picture Hawks’s little pout at the news, his feathers bristling despite the closed space, and resigning himself to sit in one of those clangy, metal chairs out front, having to hunch forward so that he didn’t crush his wings.

The idol group adored the ingenuity of bone-crunching as percussion in a song, and along with that and some other combat foley, you were singing the bridge with the rapper of the group (the dance captain would sing your part for live shows). It’d be a good promo for the girl group and for you, and the song, “Spine,” was going to be released as a single as soon as it was polished.

Hawks perked up the moment you stepped through the secondary door to the booth, his eyes brightening and wings spreading to take up more space. “I didn’t think I’d catch you,” said Hawks, standing to take your hands (the cold leather gloves sucked the heat out of your hands), “I’ve got to fly, soon, but I wanted to tell you personally.”

“You’re not pregnant,” you said, fighting the urge to break his goggles/visor/hat thing.

His lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, baby. There’s gonna be a heroes’ gala held at the end of the month, and I wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make it a positive experience for you. Here, I’ve got this woman’s phone number,” he said, fishing a slip of paper out of his jacket, “She’ll help accommodate the venue for your leg.”

Stupid fucking bastard man. He probably wanted to pick out your clothes himself, infantilise you and dress you up like a goddamn doll. Deny you your personhood. “I’ll be out of the cast by then.” You slid the paper into your back pocket.

“I know,” Hawks said in a way that was a fucking lie, “I just don’t want there to be any accidents. I can’t have my babygirl any more hurt than she is.” Hawks placed his cold, gloved hand against your cheek, and you, shutting your eyes, made yourself lean into it. “But contact her. She’ll make it the safest place it can be for you, even when I have to leave your side.”

God, galas were great. Big events for villains to ruin. You licked your lips thinking about using a new move you’ve learnt to take a villain down (involving clamping your legs around the villain’s neck to choke him as he crumpled to the floor—your combat coach had banned you from the move after you made her pass out). “Are we announcing our engagement, then? If we’re going together?”

“I’d love to,” said Hawks, “but only if you want to. The ring could be ready by then, if I ask them to rush it—”

“Let’s do it.” If you plunged the ring into icy water, would he start to shiver? Ooh, your ring’s going to act as a fucking bay leaf in your soups for a while.

“Oh,” said Hawks, sighing lightly with his eyes fluttering shut. He pressed his forehead to yours and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetheart. You are so dear to me, and I want everyone to know it. The best damn thing in my life. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, placing your hand on his face to push him away, “Don’t you have work to do, screw boy?”

***

“Did we have a date?” you asked from the edge of the bathtub.

Hawks dipped the razor in the water, washing off the hair and shaving cream. “We’ve gone on so many, darling; you’ll have to specify.”

“No, I meant for the wedding.” Let’s once again play: Can Hawks Cover His Own Ass?

Hawks dragged the razor down your freshly exfoliated, freshly-un-casted, freshly not-broken leg, starting at your knee. “Nope!”

“No explanation?”

“You wanna get married tomorrow? A six-month engagement is rather short, don’t you think?” His nose twitched. He’d said the scent of your shaving cream irritated his nose. Good.

“I don’t. Why didn’t we have a date for the wedding?” You eyed the actual and literal pile of your dead skin on the towel. Maybe you should make Hawks snort it.

“We were too busy working; you’d said you didn’t mind having a long engagement, so long as I was yours. Then, uh, you know. The accident,” Hawks said with a shrug—with his shoulders this time, because if he moved his wings while he was crouched in your bathtub, he’d soak them, and they were a bitch to dry, apparently. Suffer, you rat bastard.

“The commission isn’t involved in that decision?”

“I thought that was implied,” said Hawks, gripping your ankle to turn your calf to the side, “They don’t want it to be a huge spectacle, so even I don’t know how much of a wedding wedding they’d let us have.”

He’s too damn good at this. If he weren’t a pro-hero, he’d fit right along in a theatre troupe.

You’re going to wring his neck.

You caught him staring at the crotch of your underwear (bone-dry, you might add) while he shaved your thighs, and he spent more time rubbing lotion into your inner thighs than anywhere else. He tossed your dead skin before you could make him eat it, and he scooped you up against your protestations about your weight and capability, humming while he carried you to your bed.

The fucker tucked you in and rounded up your cat to place in your arms (your cat disagreed with him and promptly leapt off the bed).

“Let me stay with you,” said Hawks, kissing each of your fingertips. It’s an order.

Yet you shook your head.

***

“The doctors said you shouldn’t drink,” Hawks said under his breath, taking the champagne flute gently from your grasp.

“But I want to,” you said, sticking out your lower lip, “I’m wearing goddamn heels and a fucking dress. I’ve got on makeup, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done my time; let me drink.”

“Baby, you’ve got to stay safe,” he said, and he set the glass next to some 40s-level hero’s place at the long, white tablecloth. “There’s already press paying more attention to us than usual. You wanna make a fool of yourself?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting another champagne flute from a passing gala waiter, “Who gives a shit about the press.”

Hawks laughed too loudly to be natural before lowering his voice. “Baby, you are gonna be the death of me.”

“Promise?”

***

When “Spine” was released on a cool, spring morning to an excitable audience, you were lurking in alleyways by the docks, searching for a fight. When the music video dropped, you were smashing some guy’s face into a concrete wall. While more and more citizens recognised you and your talent, your work for the community, your connections, your popularity—with your rank steadily rising—you were rappelling down a port sewer to pummel a slime villain into dust.

You wiped his blood off on your pants, hands devoid of anything that could taint. You’d left the ring at home.

***

“You tricked me,” you said, scowling as Hawks pushed you forward, “This isn’t the rock climbing park.”

Once you deliberately smashed your face into the glass door and crossed your arms, Hawks held the door open for you. “Would you have dressed up so nicely for rock climbing?”

“A meta-game challenge,” you said, “to rock-climb in a long skirt.”

You glowered about the restaurant while you and Hawks stood in the lobby, his hand low on your back, suspiciously respectfully. You made no effort to hide your distaste: it was the place with the purple lights.

Over there at the absurdly long bar, Endeavor had drunk flat whisky without so much of a growl at anyone, despite it being his event. Hexagonal tables with lilac tablecloths dotted the floor—you’d hidden in one of the few booths, up against the exposed brick wall—but your hiding place had been ruined once a violet disco ball had emerged from the ceiling. Shiny, wooden floor that had reflected your post-panic attack face right back at you and let every shoe strike it with a clatter. No silence allowed.

The whole restaurant had lavender LED lights running around the walls, swathing the place in a distorted sort of purple haze, and any candles lit on the centre tables had indigo flames—you’d focused on how those might have been made in the process of coming down from your panic attack.

God. You’re going to throw up.

The hostess escorted you and Hawks to a farther back room, this one with booths separated by small, brick walls that didn’t reach the ceiling yet concealed the booths’ occupants from each other—unless you were passing directly in front of one.

Hawks made you sit in the booth first, trapping you in as he settled. He had to be on the edge, anyway, he told you, because of his wings. You’re going to rip them off and boil them in the soup.

The two of you ordered. You don’t remember what. You can only channel so much of your nerves into jostling your leg. This is not cool. This place is not cool. You need to get out.

“Hey, let me through,” you said, nudging Hawks, “Bathroom.”

Once there, you lightly slapped your cheeks a couple of times, trying to ground yourself through physical sensation. No use. Can’t they fucking use normal lights in this place?

You didn’t have your panic meds, because you’ve never needed them rock climbing. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.

You took your time meandering back to the booth, coming to a halt at the end of the narrow hallway and ducking behind the corner.

Endeavor stood by your booth, his arms crossed over a flaming chest. You caught your breath at the sight of his orange fire, a comforting contrast to all the damn purple, but still—Endeavor. Talking to your (gag) fiancé.

Without the courage to interact with Endeavor, you listened at the corner for his departure.

“Nah, she can handle her bladder just fine. It’s her nerves,” Hawks was saying, hidden by the bricks, “She likes hiding. She doesn’t necessarily like being in the spotlight.”

“Yet she hasn’t completely withdrawn as Eraserhead has. You’ve picked a strange one to marry.”

From the angle Endeavor glared at him, Hawks must be slumping in his seat. “But that’s what so great about her. And it’s hard to process, y’know, like, she’s finally mine. You follow?”

“Regrettably,” said Endeavor, “Regardless, I offer my congratulations that your courtship finally worked out in your favour. You should have told me sooner.”

Courtship. That’s a funny way to pronounce bullying.

“Eh, I’ve gotta have some secrets, don’t I? Can’t betray my otherwise cool exterior.” Hawks laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve been allowed such happiness. The woman I’ve loved for years is gonna be waking up to me every day soon, y’know?”

Hawks has got to know you can hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying those things. Endeavor must be in on Hawks’s ruse, since Endeavor is Hawks’s closest—actually, Endeavor isn’t the type to revel in romantic shit. Endeavor straight-up isn’t the type to revel. To the best of your knowledge, Endeavor doesn’t genuinely like Hawks as so much as tolerates him; when did they get so close? It must have taken a long time—

Time.

You could feel your IQ dropping as you actually considered: had you been in a legitimate coma? Had you (fuck) genuinely had amnesia?

No, no. You don’t live in Crazytown. Your eyebrows hadn’t been overgrown when you’d woken up in the hospital. You’d only been there a day.

Of course, Hawks is a vain piece of shit and does his own eyebrows, so he might have considered that yours were a piece of pride/insecurity for you and may have done them while you were—did Hawks do his own eyebrows? That spoiled fuck probably had someone else to do them for him. If they were naturally like that, you were going to throttle his ass.

You didn’t fucking have amnesia. Hawks is and always has been a stupid, clammy birdbrain. He’s always been cruel to you. He didn’t fucking like you.

He sure as hell wasn’t in fucking love with you.

Oh, my fuck, what if your memories of Hawks have been fabricated by a coma-addled mind and that—

“Hey, there,” said—said someone, some pale-ass, sleep-deprived freak who startled you out of your head, “Are you all right? You look—I mean, do you need some water? A chair?”

You blinked, yet he wouldn’t come into focus—you were taking in details about him, ones that didn’t fucking matter (chain on his wallet, three rings all on the left hand, a button-down missing the last button, a cloud of axe body spray), but he didn’t register as a human person. He couldn’t; you hadn’t grounded yourself yet. You yourself still had a frazzled, cartoon scribble buzzing inside of your chest, and until you vomited it up, a panic attack may yet still happen.

You can’t deal with anyone new right now.

A spark of recognition crossed the new guy’s face, and he, through a smirk, asked if you were your hero name.

Oh god oh fuck not now

“Sweetheart,” came Hawks’s melodious drawl (registering first his voice, then bodily warmth, then the wingtip covering your ass), “You were taking so long that I came to check on you.” He pulled you by the waist towards him, blocking the guy from seeing your face by pressing it into his chest. “Who’s this?”

Who cares. All you could focus on (sharp and overwhelming, nothing else but) was how fucking incredible Hawks smelled, and at this point, you’d use anything to bring yourself back down to earth. A small voice in the back of your head told you that freaking out to this degree in this particular situation was leaning towards pathetic, since basically nothing happened, besides being in an uncomfortable environment and being accosted by a fan at the wrong time, but you? You did not control the rate at which your brain panicked.

And really, no rhyme or reason played into why your grabby little hands itched for human contact once safe in the booth again, why Hawks’s scent lay on your tongue more heavily than your soup, why the overwhelming sensation of being so fucking spaced out of it threw its entire weight upon your shoulders—you couldn’t find yourself. You were lost.

And in this horrible, purple place, the only thing that’s familiar was Hawks.

When you scooted as closely as you could to him in the booth, keeping your glare towards your lap while you looped your arm under his to snuggle into it, Hawks cleared his throat to say, “What’s this?”

You scowled into his jacket, both hands gripping his forearm.

He set his chopsticks down. “How can I help, darling?”

Growling, you bonked your forehead against his shoulder, dragging your hands down to his.

“Hey,” said Hawks, and he guided your face towards his and stroked your cheek with his thumb, “Did that guy bother you too much before I got there?”

Turning your mouth towards the hand cupping your cheek, you kissed his palm, bit the leather, and kissed it again before burying yourself in his shoulder again.

He rested his hand on the crown of your head. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”

“Not sure I can put it into words,” you said, “I think I wanna go home.” You bit the fabric of his jacket and gnashed it between your teeth.

“I can handle that,” said Hawks, “Gimme a moment to get takeaway boxes, yeah? Then we’ll leave, and you’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

Unfortunately, you were still clutching onto his arm by the time he unlocked his darkened penthouse (because you’re not gonna hold his hand. God), but you slapped his hand away from the light switches.

“Turning them on would be too much stimulation,” you said, “Please don’t.”

Hawks hummed against the top of your head, placing keys and both of your phones on the kitchen counter. “Bed or couch?”

“Window,” you said.

“Window?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got one.”

“I do,” said Hawks, guiding you through his dark apartment, probably past scarily expensive, posh shit. He led you to what was most likely his living room, with the cool, dim light of the night sky through a vast, single-frame, wall-to-floor window illuminating furniture custom built for his wings, but he eased you down onto the carpet, tugging your shirt upwards so that the window would be touching your bare skin on the small of your back.

Hawks yanked his boots off, late, instead of at the door, and he tossed them over his shoulder. He took yours off, too, and once he’d set them aside, he sat next to you against the window, a hand on your thigh.

“Better?”

“Probably,” you said, staring at the triangle of light beige carpet between your crossed legs.

“Need me to talk? You need to talk?”

“Not right now.”

Hawks was a dumbass. He’s such a fucking dumbass. But he’s a dumbass who’s here right now, and he’s interested (?) in you, interested in helping you. And good golly, you have to be touched. Hawks’s offering warmth, freely, potentially lovingly, and all you had to do was reach out to take it, even if you didn’t reciprocate whatever sentiment was motivating him yourself.

Do you really want to take what you have no feelings for?

Hawks lies a lot to Endeavor. To everyone. He might not have been lying earlier. What reason had he to lie?

Guess it didn’t matter, because you were lying.

But good God, you haven’t been kissed in a long time. Haven’t felt safe or loved. You could…you could indulge for a few hours in order to calm down. You could pretend.

The last ten months had proved that.

“Hey,” you said idly, reaching out to grab the inner fleece lining of his jacket to rub it between your fingers, “Hawks, I’m gonna—I’m gonna put my mouth on your mouth. Okay?”

Hawks’s wings ruffled and constricted themselves so that he could move closer to you, and his hand has migrated from your thigh to grip your hip—how could anyone’s hands encompass that much of you? Your fucking hands couldn’t, not in the way his does.

(Bird man big and safe.)

([No, fuck you, don’t think that.])

(BIRD MAN SAFE—)

Shoved is how you’d describe the first few seconds of the kiss, followed closely by wet and you’d think his teeth would be sharper. Your lips didn’t line up with his completely until he adjusted your chin with two of his fingers, guiding it open just barely, as well, so that his tongue could graze your teeth—it took you a moment of processing before parting them, with a final don’t think! shouted to your neocortex.

Birds have a higher body temperature than other animals, on average having a body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). The colour of their feathers, of course, affects how much light and heat they absorb, with the lighter coloured feathers—say, red—reflecting more, rejecting outside heat sources.

Yet Hawks gripped you like he’d fucking freeze if he weren’t clutching you, if he weren’t straddling your legs, one palm flat against the cool of the window by your head. The other snaked around you, his forearm lying almost vertically up your back to press down between your shoulder blades, keeping you as near to his chest (he probably didn’t realise it, but his fingers ran across the curve of your shoulder blades where his wings were on his own body.

For some reason, the thought crossed your mind that you weren’t enough for him, because you were too dissimilar.)

Don’t think!

When he massaged your tongue with his, applying pressure sporadically, you returned the action—have you ever seen a bird tongue up close? They’re fucking nasty little things, looking more like a grub than anything else. Thank God Hawks had a normal, human tongue that performed particularly delightful, normal things, like drag across the roof of your mouth and aid in sucking phenomenal hickeys onto your jawline, licking over where he’s bitten and kissed.

Stop thinking about bird anatomy. Hawks has no discernible bird traits except for his fucking wings. He’s not a fucking bird man. He’s just some dude with wings. And not all birds have functional wings; for example, the ostrich and the penguin do not have wings to be used in flight—

Oh, my fuck. Turn your brain off.

Your stomach lurched. That had been something Hawks had told you too often, back before your accident.

It’s what he wants.

Hawks fucking whimpered when you pulled the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, prying him away from your skin with great difficulty—he kept trying to touch you with his mouth and tongue in the process.

“Let me have more,” he said, panting, his breath heavy and just below your ear, “Please.” He pressed his lips to the spot in front of your ear in a weak kiss, having spent himself for the most part. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for so long.”

“I don’t—” You fake-stuttered, but it turned out you needed the time to put your thoughts into words. “I don’t think I’m back yet. I’m,” you said, taking as deep a breath as you could with Hawks smushed against your chest, “Something’s missing. Something big.” That’s right. Steer it back in his direction. Make the bird man sweat. “I don’t—something doesn’t feel right.”

It took a moment, but Hawks nodded fervently, shutting his eyes. “Of course. Yeah. Yeah, I get it, sweetheart. Can’t do anything when your heart’s not in it.”

Your heart’s not the problem. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hawks,” you said, untangling yourself from underneath him, “Would you just, uh, hold me for a while?”

His wings wrapped around the both of you on his enormous bed, still fluttering with each slow breath he took. Hawks almost looked genuine while he slept, and probably for the best—at least he was getting rest; at least his guard might be down.

You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing.

***

“Rank speculation is out,” you said, scrubbing the pumice stone over a patch of dry skin on Hawks’s back and scrolling through the twitter with your other hand, “Take a look.”

He opened the link you sent once he’d safely removed a dead feather that had been lodged in an odd spot in a wing. “Huh. Think I could truly take on Endeavor?”

“Well, he’s got that abusive-to-his-family thing, while you’re rocking the preparing-for-my-wedding look, and he can’t network non-aggressively to save his life.”

“Nor can you.” Hawks shot you a smirk over his shoulder.

“Zoom in on my speculated nine, baby,” you said, flicking away some dead skin with a satisfied/disgusted sneer, “And I didn’t have to sleep my way there.”

“Ah, ha, ha,” said Hawks, “Knew you could do it. Whoever’s told you that is gonna have to deal with my foot up their ass. You’re more than capable of getting there on your own.”

“Which I did. I have.” Wait. Hawks told you that. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s a commonly said, misogynistic comment towards women heroes. Hawks isn’t special. “But having your foot up someone’s ass wouldn’t be good for PR, unless you wanted to advertise that you’re a kinky son of a bitch who’s cheating on his fiancée.”

“I would never,” said Hawks, and, contorting his arm, he grabbed your hand with the pumice stone to kiss the back of it, “But my PR is solid, regardless.”

“If the public knew how much time you had to spend preening these fucking wings, they’d probably appreciate you more. Or call you conceited.”

Hawks hummed. “It’s a necessary evil,” he said, returning to his wingtip to search for dead feathers. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get to see how—Hawks, holy fuck. Do you feel that?” You ran a finger near the base of a wing.

“It’s your finger?”

“No, this,” you said, tapping the spot.

“No?”

“My God. It’s a dilated pore of a winer,” you said, already reaching for the tweezers, “Right at the base of your wing. It’s basically an enormous fucking blackhead. I’m popping it. Oh, my God. I’ve never seen one in real life.”

“You’re popping it?”

“You didn’t have a problem with my getting the ones where your costume sits.”

“No,” said Hawks, rolling back his shoulders, his wings spreading with them, “Gotcha. Get on with it.”

“Can I film it?”

“What? No,” said Hawks, “No one can see me preening, let alone dealing with acne.”

“There’s sure to be another hero out there with a wing quirk, right? I don’t know how you can’t feel it.”

“Yeah,” Hawks said slowly, “Since my feathers can feel—I suppose where the wings merge with my skin is pretty numb. I haven’t ever had to think about it.” He licked his lips. “Funny.”

He continued to scroll through his feed and tend to his feathers while you worked at his back. “Bad news: the tabloids got a hold of our grocery list from the last time we went to the shops. I must have dropped it at some point in the store.”

“Oh, so do they know what kind of ice cream we prefer? The horror.”

“No, but they’ve brought in some hack handwriting analyst. Talking about our annotations for each other on the list. Something about how you’re logical and I’m a romantic. The writer of the article is practically swooning.” Hawks pulled out a clot of feathers with his teeth and spat them aside. “With good reason, though. The trashy pictures they snapped of us are hot.”

“Describe them to me.”

“I can show you—”

“No,” you said, concentrating on your work, “I don’t want the image imprinted on my brain. Describe them in your own words.”

“All right,” said Hawks, crossing his legs and placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, “To start, the flash is on.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah. We’ve got that distantly surprised look going on. It looks like we’re near the eggs and cheese. You’re not looking at the camera, but I believe it’s in the moment I caught it.” Hawks flicked away a feather and let it fall to the carpet. “My hand’s on your waist. The other’s on the cart. You’ve scrunched your face up in concentration; it’s really cute.”

“Aw, we should get it framed,” you said, wiping away the gunk with a tissue and wadding it up so that no one will ever have to see or touch it ever again.

“Never,” said Hawks, “The first picture of us I wanna get framed should be on our wedding day.”

“It’s coming along quickly,” you said, setting aside the tweezers, “Bit more quickly than I’d thought it would.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” said Hawks with a light laugh, and you ducked to rest your head against his shoulder, straining your neck to reach him over his wing.

Hawks clicked his non-nasty, non-bird tongue. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Sighing, you said, “Turn your head this way.”

He did you one better, since he anticipated your plan. He twisted around, keeping his legs crossed as he pulled you into his lap. His wings initially bristled but wrapped around you when his arms did, and Hawks kissed your cheek, once, twice, until he arrived at your mouth, where he barely grazed your lips, rather letting his hot breath spread over your face—and he grinned up at you with half-lidded eyes (he’d left off his eyeliner today, but the natural marks below his waterline kept his eyes sharp, anyway).

“Kiss me, you fucking idiot,” you said, overriding whatever he was about to do by kissing him yourself, hard and open-mouthed, almost violent in its fervent. Yet Hawks held you lightly, delicately, but still close enough to freeze.

You ran your cold, cold hands over his bare abdomen, pressing your thumb down with considerable force to trace his muscles (he grunted at that, and that’s it; that’s right—make him squirm; make him sweat; make him yours). His finger only toyed with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, as if waiting for you, which didn’t line up with what you had garnered about Hawks at all, but c’mon, man, come on; didn’t you want this all those months ago? Almost a year, now? Years, if what he said to Endeavor is true? But when he flinched away with a shaky breath once your cold fingers circled his nipple, you knew this was where you were supposed to be: right here, in Hawks’s lap, completely destroying him with hardly anything at all. Nothing but light touches and a strategic flick of your tongue. Idiot man. He must really like you if this is doing it for him.

You slowed and opened your eyes at that thought, frowning, and you pulled away. With the back of his hand, Hawks wiped saliva off of both of your mouths, yours first.

He waited for you.

“If you can’t take all of me, then what’s the point?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to share.”

“I’m missing something.”

“I know.”

“I want to find it before we get married.” You laid your palm flat on his chest, and he grinned at the cold.

“You can find it,” he said, “I know you can.”

“I don’t know what I’m blocking out,” you said, lying—or maybe you weren’t? Fuck it. “Whatever I’m repressing is really fucking with me.”

“Take your time,” said Hawks, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m here for—”

“Hawks,” you said, faking the light of realisation in your eyes, accompanied with a sharp inhale, “I can’t remember your name.”

Hawks’s mouth snapped shut.

“You told me once. I know you did,” you said, moving to cup his cheek after tapping the mark underneath his eye, “but the memory—there’s a blur where you spoke. I—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “That, that might be it. I don’t know. Everything else about the scene is in perfect detail. I remember what fucking socks I was wearing, for Christ’s sake. But you. What you said. Maybe it’s something so personal, so intimate, that I’ve repressed it. Maybe it was too much for me to handle.” You cupped his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at you. If you hadn’t been scrutinising him for some evidence of breaking character, you wouldn’t’ve seen the minute quivering of his upper lip. Hardly there, but it was there. “It’s a part of you that I want. Even if I couldn’t handle it before, I want to try now.”

Hawks averted his gaze, even though he couldn’t move his head. And bang, you’ve got him. Hawks’s name was still strictly secret, hidden by the commission, but if he’s genuinely in this dumbass situation for the long haul, if he’s truly in it for you, then he would have told you. Even if he wanted you to continue to call him Hawks, your own fiancé would have told you his damn name.

So, this is it. The way out.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out you’ve been faking all this time. Good. Let each feather burn.

“Keigo,” he said, staring into your eyes with a newfound determination, “My name is Takami Keigo.”

Oh, shit—you clapped a hand over your heart, your eyes widening. Maybe you could play this off as memory recovery instead of absolute shock? But you hadn’t any memories to recover, probably. Holy fuck.

Where do you go from here?

You tried to say his name but ended up simply mouthing it, and after clearing your throat and coughing a bit, you managed to say it aloud. “Keigo,” you said softly, reaching for his hand, “Keigo, I fucking love you.”

You’d only been kissing him for a few moments before his wings shuddered in a muscle spasm and flung you off to the side.

***

Only a commission higher-up witnessed your wedding. She stood silently to the side the entire ceremony in the courthouse and only shook Hawks’s hand afterwards.

You and your cat essentially moved into his penthouse and adjusted. Your mostly empty apartment stayed leased under your name.

Sometimes, you’d note that you turned your brain off and instantly be hit with a lightning strike of self-loathing—but you didn’t have to consciously decide to be affectionate with Hawks. Being with him came naturally and easily. Probably for the best, since if you had to think about it, you’d screw it up.

You stayed together. Supported each other. Sneaked out to see the other on patrol. Took care, listened to each other. Defended each other. Worked it out.

And now, you stared up at the ceiling fan whirling in your darkened bedroom, Keigo lying on his stomach next to you in the bed as he slept. Your cat catloafed between his wings and nestled into them, rising and falling with each breath he took. Hawks was perfect, always saving the day, working up a routine to mesh with your fighting style and quirk, always charming and easygoing with the people he rescued, indulging you in your ferocity, and Keigo, Keigo whispered sweet and dirty things into your ear when he spotted you in public, made you laugh, worked wonders with his cock, helped you clean up before he even thought of preening himself, held you, and made you feel held. He’s got it bad.

And maybe you do, too.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out.

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