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starryevermore · 2 years ago

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the road to the altar: the big day ✧ ari levinson

let’s ride ✧ a biker!ari levinson series | pinterest board | ao3

pairing: biker!ari levinson x single mom!reader

summary: you and ari say “i do”.

word count: 2,338

warnings?: tooth-rotting fluff, pet name (sweetpea)

Countdown to the Big Day: Zero Days

If you thought you were nervous at your final dress fitting, it had nothing on what you were experiencing at this very moment. Everything was a flurry around you as the makeup artist swiped eyeshadow across your lids, the hair stylist fixing your hair. Somewhere behind you, Yelena was complaining about the lack of snacks in the room while Sarah tried to wrangle the Liam, AJ, and Cass, who were trying to avoid putting on their tuxes. Nat was off somewhere, telling one of the photographers all the things you and Ari wanted to get shots of before people started arriving and messing with the decorations. Another photographer was in the room, capturing the moments of you getting ready.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, almost startled by the change. You wore makeup regularly, sure, but bridal makeup? The woman who stared back in the mirror looked like you, but different. Almost regal. Some sort of ethereal quality about her.

“You must got some sort of magic in that eyeshadow palette,” you told the makeup artist.

“Don’t need magic when the subject is so beautiful already,” she said, grabbing the bottle of setting spray and uncapping it. “Shut your eyes for a second, okay?”

You obliged, feeling the mist of the spray coating your face. When you opened your eyes, she passed you a fan so you could dry your face while she grabbed the mascara. She’d said she liked to put the mascara on after the setting spray, something about it sticking better to people’s lashes. Plus, you were less likely to have to fix up runny mascara that way.

“Alright,” the hair stylist said, “does it look how you want?”

You looked back to the mirror, turning your head slightly to look at the different angles. “Could you pin down this section here? It looks like I’m going to get some flyaways at the first gust of wind.”

“Of course,” she said, grabbing a couple of bobby pins and securing the hair you were talking about.

“Oh my god! You look stunning!” Yelena said, finally abandoning her pursuit of snacks and looking over at you.

“Wait til you see her in her dress,” Sarah said, re-entering the room after getting the boys to the room Ari, Sam, and Bucky were getting ready in.

“Y’all flatter me,” you said. The makeup artist started applying your mascara. “How are the guys holding up?”

“I put Bucky in charge of getting the kiddos in their tuxes,” Sarah said. “Ari looked really excited. Kept asking how you were doing.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Said he was ready to do the first look as soon as you were.”

A first look—it had been something Sarah and Bucky did at their wedding. Instead of waiting to see each other when you were walking down the aisle, the two of you would see each other before the ceremony actually started. It let you get all the emotional jitters out early, giving time to do any makeup touch-ups if you cried a little too hard. Plus the pictures you could get? Oh, it was wonderful. And you couldn’t wait to do it.

Once your makeup and hair were officially finished, you got out of the chair and Sarah brought your dress over. You shed the robe you were given, and the girls helped you into the dress. Nat laced up the back, you staring at the mirror, tears pricking at your eyes.

“You look amazing,” Nat said. “Sarah told me how pretty you looked in your dress, but nothing beats seeing it in person.”

“Ari might pass out when he sees you,” Yelena says.

You laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe pretend to pass out.”

Your dress was truly beautiful. It was a champagne color, off the shoulder with big, puffy, bubble-like sleeves. It had a low back, and a pretty corset. You pictured yourself as the subject of a Renaissance painting. One of a goddess, lounged out in nature, the kind of painting that would be the bane of students’ existence as they had to analyze it over and over and over again. The kind of painting that someone would hang a print of in their home, marveling at its beauty. The kind of painting that was loved and beloved.

“Can I see Ari now?” You looked over at Sarah. “You said he was ready when I was, right?”

“I’ll get him down to the spot you were talking about, okay? Then you come down in a few minutes.”

Sarah disappeared from the room and, as you waited, you looked out the window, seeing her and Ari out in the garden. You smiled, admiring the way the tux fit him. Even from afar, he looked so handsome. You reached down, gathering some of your dress, Nat and Yelena gathering the rest, and made your way downstairs.

Ari’s back was to you when you got outside. Both of the photographers were there, too. One was behind you to catch Ari’s face, and the other was behind Ari to catch yours. Your heart thumped in your chest as you walked up to him, Ari bouncing on the balls of his feet as he was equally nervous. You reached your spot and Nat and Yelena let go of your dress, making it look nice and pretty before taking a few steps back.

Taking a deep breath, you reached over and tapped on Ari’s shoulder. Slowly, Ari turned, his baby blue eyes immediately filling with tears, his hand flying up to cover his mouth.

“You weren’t supposed to cry so soon! Now I’m gonna cry!” you said, already wiping away the tears spilling out of your own eyes.

Ari reached out, taking your face in his big hands, his thumbs swiping over your tears. “Oh, sweetpea, you look so beautiful. My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

“You look so handsome, too,” you said, leaning into one of his hands, sniffling. “You cleaned up your beard.”

“Debated on shaving it—”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t!” you said, adding a dramatic gasp. “You know how much I love your beard. Would feel like I was marrying another man if you shaved it off.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Ari said. He leaned down, nuzzling his nose against yours. His breath fanned over your face as he asked, “Is it bad luck if I kiss you now?”

“I don’t know about bad luck, but I sure want you to kiss me now,” you said, your lips ghosting over his.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate the love between Ari Levinson and Sweetpea—” Sam coughed, sending you a wink. “—excuse me, Y/N Y/L/N, and to join these two in matrimony. Ari and Sweetpea elected to write their vows, which they will exchange now. Ari?”

Ari looked to you, his eyes shining with tears again. He took your hands in his, running his thumbs over the tops of your hands. “Sweetpea,” he said, “you have made me the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. I’ve been alone for a long, long time. I used to think I’d always be alone. I’d accepted that. But that minute I saw you—the most beautiful woman in the world with the most adorable kid, standing right next to my bike…God, I just knew I wanted to be a part of your life. Didn’t matter what the capacity it was. I just wanted to be a part of it.”

“I didn’t make it easy for you.”

The crowd laughed, and Ari did, too. “No, you didn’t. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. You were worth it. You were worth every second. Back when I thought I’d be alone forever, I was sure no one would ever love me. But being with you…Even before we started dating, I felt loved. Even before you knew it. Even when your heart was still guarded and you were scared to let me in. And I loved you, too. I always will. When you finally let your walls go down, when you let me love you and you let yourself love me…I swore I would make sure you knew that I would always be there for you. That, anything you wanted, I would provide. Because you made me the happiest man in the world, and all I ever wanted was to make you just as happy, if not happier. Sweetpea—Y/N Y/L/N, I can’t believe that this is the life that I’m now living, but I couldn’t be more grateful for it. I will always love you, through this life and whatever life comes next. I mean it.”

“Oh, Ari—”

“Ah, ah! No kissing until I say so!” Sam teased. “Sweetpea, would you like to say your vows?”

You nodded, sniffling. Behind you, Sarah handed you a tissue, which you took, wiping at your eyes. “Shoot, it’s hard to come after something as sweet as that, but I sure will try.” You looked at Ari, a smile curving across your lips. “Ari Levinson, you are the most amazing man I have ever met. Before I met you, I was sure I’d never love another man again. I didn’t really want to, if I was being honest. It had just been me and Liam for so many years. I got by with just me and him for that entire time. I was scared that if I let another man into my life that Liam or I or both would get attached, and then he would leave, and we’d both be worse off for it. I pushed out a lot of people because of it. But you…You always stayed. I gave every reason for you to run. I was cold, I was a tiny bit judgmental, it took me ages to finally let you even be a friend. But no matter how hard I pushed, you always stayed.”

“I always will.”

“I know, and I’ve never had someone love me like that. Someone who looked at me and decided that I was worth every bit of trouble I gave. And, God, that scared me even more. I was terrified that the second I let you in, you’d just decide I actually wasn’t worth all that and leave. And I really couldn’t handle that. But then you left town for a week for work, and I…hated every second you were gone. I hated being away from you. I didn’t realize how much I cared until you’d left, and I knew that I couldn’t keep doing things like that anymore. I couldn’t keep pushing you away. Not when I loved you. Letting you in was the second best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

“The first being Liam?”

“The first being Liam. And I haven’t regretted this decision—except, perhaps, that I made you wait as long as I did. Because loving you, Ari…It’s indescribable. You don’t even have to give me anything, you don’t have to do anything beyond being yourself, and I would feel like I was crowned queen of the world. I never thought I’d love a man like this, but I’m so glad I did, and I’m so glad it’s you.”

Ari started to lean in, his hand reaching up to cup your face, but Sam immediately smacked it. “Nuh uh! We exchange rings and then I say when we do the kissing!”

Ari rolled his eyes dramatically, before turning around, and kneeling down to Liam’s height. “Got the rings, bub?”

Liam nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tiny velvet bag they were being housed in. He opened the bag, and gave Ari the rings.

“Thanks, bub.”

“No problem, Dad,” Liam said, “but don’t make Mom cry like that again, okay?”

“Oh, it’s happy tears, baby!” you laughed.

“Hmm. Well, don’t make her cry that hard out of sadness.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ari rose back up and turned around, handing you his ring and holding onto yours. “Ready, Sam.”

“Alright, Ari, please place the ring on Sweetpea’s finger and repeat after me.”

Ari placed the ring on your left ring finger. Sam said the words first, a sentence at a time, with Ari repeating, “The fitting of this ring with its unending circle symbolizes my everlasting love for you. The placing of this on your finger is the fulfillment of my dreams to have you as my friend, my love, my wife, to live as one forever. With this ring, I give you my heart. From this day forward, you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

Sam turned to you, doing the same process as you placed the ring on Ari’s finger, you repeating, “The fitting of this ring with its unending circle symbolizes my everlasting love for you. The placing of this on your finger is the fulfillment of my dreams to have you as my friend, my love, my husband, to live as one forever. With this ring, I give you my heart. From this day forward, you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

Sam grinned, finally saying, “By the power vested in me under the laws of the great state of Louisiana, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Sam looked over at Ari, nodding his head, saying, “Alright, go on, kiss her like you mean it.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Ari said. He took you in his arms, spinning you and dipping you, kissing you hard. “I love you, sweetpea,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I love you too, lover boy,” you said.

“Think we can skip the reception and go straight to the honeymoon?”

“Are you kidding? I wanna eat the cake!”

“Fine, fine,” Ari said. “Cake, then honeymoon.”

“You’re rotten.”

“And you love me for it, Mrs. Levinson.”

“Damn right I do, Mr. Levinson.”

#let's ride: a biker!ari series #biker!ari levinson #biker ari levinson #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x fem!reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x y/n #ari levinson fic #ari levinson fanfic #ari levinson fan fic #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson fan fiction #starrywrites #starryevermore

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moodymelanist · 3 years ago

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Dropping in an ask as a reminder😁😁😁 Morning after of Gwyn having asked Azriel out when she was drunk. (A freak out and blushing included maybe??)

thank you for the reminder 😌💖

Gwyn groaned as she woke up the next morning with a massive headache. Even with the curtains drawn her bedroom was too bright, and she reached for another pillow to cover her eyes with.

Bits and pieces of last night were floating around in her brain. She remembered going out with her friends and having the time of her life. But once the Svedka had come out, everything had gotten much fuzzier.

She vaguely remembered Azriel helping her get home because they lived in the same building. She was pretty sure she cried at one point, but she can’t remember why. Maybe it had to do with the McDonald’s bag on her nightstand?

Sighing, she reached for her phone and skimmed through almost fifty messages from Nesta and Emerie. She had one from Cassian letting her know that he’d gotten everyone back safe, but the one from Azriel telling her to call when she woke up caught her attention as soon as she read it.

It was just after eleven so she knew he’d definitely be awake. He’d always been an early riser no matter how late he went to sleep. Thankfully, he even answered on the first ring.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. She pulled the phone away from her ear; even his voice was too loud with her volume settings. She made sure to lower them before putting the phone back to her ear.

“What the hell happened last night?” she asked, half-dreading his response. “Did you take me home?”

“I did,” he confirmed. “I also took off your makeup for you and helped you change into your pajamas.”

She remembered parts of that — mostly how much she’d giggled and generally been unhelpful. And how her dress had been a pain in the ass to get off. He’d truly been a saint to deal with her last night. “Right. Thank you. Did we stop at McDonald’s too?”

“We did,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “You started crying so I got you some fries. Do you have any left?”

Hot embarrassment flooded her senses; she couldn’t believe she’d cried over some fries. Or that he’d actually given in to make her stop. Sighing, she reached out for the bag and checked it, surprised to see there was still a good amount left.

“There’s some,” she said. “Anything else exciting happen?”

Azriel went quiet and Gwyn couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done this time. She’d been drunk, but hopefully not so drunk as to admit her feelings for him…

“You asked me out on a date,” he said quietly. She wanted to curl up into a ball and die — there was no way he felt the same way about her, especially after what sounded like a disaster of a night.

“Oh God,” she said, groaning. Her face was so hot she probably was the same color as a tomato. “I’m so sorry, that was probably so uncomfortable for you. This is so embarrassing.”

“I thought it was cute,” he said. She had to take a moment to process the fact that he thought her drunk behavior was cute and not wildly inappropriate. “You did bully me into saying yes, though.”

“I what?” she exclaimed. Her head throbbed and she had to take a moment for the pain to ebb away before continuing. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I never should have said that.”

“I mean, I wanted to say yes,” Azriel said. “But I told you to ask me again when you were sober.”

Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that. He actually wanted to say yes? He wanted her to ask him again to make sure she was being serious?

“Um…” she said, at a rare loss for words. “Um. Are you, um, being serious?”

“Very,” he said. He sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “I wanted to make sure you actually wanted that.”

“No, I mean about wanting to say yes,” she corrected. Her heart was beating painfully loud in her chest as she waited for him to respond, daring to hope that maybe something would work out between them after all.

“Of course,” he said after a moment. “But the real question is whether you were being serious, Berdara.”

“I was being serious,” she said softly. “So… do you have any plans next weekend?”

“This hot ginger is supposed to take me on a date,” he replied. She smiled as she realized she was that hot ginger. “I’d have to check my calendar.”

“You’re the worst,” she said, giggling. Then her head throbbed again and she was reminded just how hungover she was. “I’m going back to bed because my hangover is killing me, but it’s a date next weekend.”

“It’s a date,” he echoed. “Sweet dreams.”

#acotar #acosf #Gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #Azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth x azriel #Gwynriel prompts #drunk!gwyn #sober!azriel

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keilemlucent · 4 years ago

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pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

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

word count: ~9.4k

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

You’re his only solace.

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

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

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

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

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

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

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

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

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

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

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

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

Waste away, all alone.

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

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

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

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

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

It’s a harder descent.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

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

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

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

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

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels comfortable, warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to be called?”

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

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

His mouth is dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

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

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

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

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

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

...

The next days are long.

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

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

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

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

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

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

It feels safest with you near.

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

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

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

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

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

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

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

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

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

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

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

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

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

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

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

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

So, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you see now?”

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

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

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

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

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

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

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

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

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

“I can do it myself.”

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

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

Safety scissors would be even easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

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

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

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

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

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

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

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

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

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

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

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

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

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

“Please, please!”

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

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

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

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

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

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

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

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

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

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

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

...

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

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

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

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

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

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

At your bedside, he freezes.

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

You don’t even notice him.

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

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

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

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

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

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

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

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

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

Then, there’s silence.

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

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

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

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

As much as he can, anyways.

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

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

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

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

We just don’t talk about it.

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

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

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

Your demon was near, though.

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

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

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

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

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

There was just you.

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

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

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

It’s molten.

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

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

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you melt into him.

...

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

None of them make progress.

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

...

Endeavor visits him.

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

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

It helps you relax.

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

And so, so sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

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

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

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

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

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

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

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

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

(Maybe it is.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

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

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

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

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

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

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

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

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

Some things never change.

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

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

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

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

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

Keigo is Hawks.

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

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

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

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

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

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

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

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

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

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

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

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

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

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

But you’re not in the common room.

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

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

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

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

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

Even with the inevitably of progress.

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

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

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

But he’s insatiable that last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More, more, more.

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

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

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

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

...

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

How can he not?

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

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

All disgusting reminders.

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

And won’t ever give him again.

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

...

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

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

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

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

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

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

...

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

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

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much had you lost?

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

He had no idea.

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

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

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

And alive.

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

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

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

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

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

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

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

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

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

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

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

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

“... P-Pardon?”

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

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

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

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ramenaddicted · 3 years ago

Text

Just desserts WIP (Keigo x Reader cheating angst)

Some angst that I'm writing. @deleteddewewted

Content Warning: Cheating, angst, cursing, and implied drug use.

Again this is a WIP so it's still in the process, so the next time you see it it might be structured differently.

Love is an unyielding force, depending on the person. Some people love hard, others have what I call an inkling of love. Meaning the love is there, just not enough to make them stay or leave. Or some have no love at all; they fake their emotions just to gain a means to an end. So how do I classify the person who threw away three years of a perfectly good relationship?

Here we both stand in our (his) apartment; his eyes are downcast on the floor. He's silently begging for the floor to open up and devour him whole. My body moves on autopilot as I walk away from him, feet leading me to his den of sin. Our bedroom was once a source of comfort for us, now I'm hastily reminded of him fucking another woman on the sheets I painstakingly picked out, a nice burgundy color for fall.

As I hastily pack the essentials: clothes, toiletries, and a few comfort items, all harshly packed away in my purple suitcase. I feel the warmth of his body enveloping me; hands circled my waist, pulling me against his heaving chest. Why is he crying? Isn't this what he wanted?

He wanted an open relationship, he wanted other people, he wanted sex on his terms. None of which includes me, so I'm leaving.

"Please don't go," he begs. Funny for years I had been trying to get him to open up to me and now all because he couldn't keep his dick in his pants he wants to have a breakthrough.

I forcibly pushed him off of me, I refused to feed into his crocodile tears.

"I'll be back sometime next week for the rest of my stuff," I reply venomously.

He screams for me to wait, but I'm already at the door. Fist clenched tight around the doorknob. I take a long breath before turning back to him. He's so beautiful, a cheating bastard, but a beautiful teary-eyed bastard.

"I refuse to be a fool for you anymore."

I refused to listen to his cries and pleas as I opened my gate to freedom and closed it behind me; trapping him in his den of sin or now his gilded cage of guilt.

||||

The first three days were the hardest; when I first left the apartment I wandered aimlessly until I got hungry and hunkered down in a café. It was like God was playing a cruel joke; there were couples everywhere, being cute and loving. It makes me sick, so in between drinking my too-sweet macchiato I called Junko, my dear friend, to let me stay at her place through this whole ordeal. I didn't have to wait very long before a familiar face was decorated with comical makeup (clown core is what she calls it.) Bustled through my section of the café.

"I know I'm supposed to cry with you, but this all-nighter setting spray."

I fucking died at her response, classic Junko; a fashionista to the end.

After leaving the café we went to a nearby convenience store and loaded up with everything: junk food, alcohol, and eye drops...for when we smoke "cigarettes" on the roof of her apartment building. During the walk, my phone kept vibrating in my pocket; I kept receiving calls from Keigo and ...Miruko? I was very tempted to throw my suitcase case and phone over the bridge, just a big fuck you to the birdman with Hella mommy issues.

A blood-curdling scream ripped itself from Junko's throat, startling the fuck out of me.

"From experience, if you don't scream or cry, your thoughts and emotions will cloud your mind." She said with a jovial look etched into her clownish-looking features. "I rather scream than do something stupid, like throwing a 40,000¥ phone into a river."

She's right. So for a good half an hour; I screamed into the indigo/orange mixture that was the sky over Mustafu.

"Fuck you Keigo!!!"

My back welcomed the plush bedding of Junko's guest bedroom when I fell backward on it. Back lounging on the softest and not cum stained sheets; did I allow my eyes to close. I didn't allow my mind to dawdle on birdman and all his shortcomings, instead, I thought about-

"You wanna smoke a bowl?" Junko inquired while standing in the doorway.

"You might wanna pack that bowl nice and tight." I meditated while staring at the colorless ceiling. My night ended with me and Junko smoking a bowl on the roof of her apartment building staring at the ever-changing hues of the sky,...yeah I'll be alright.

||||

I don't remember much of day one at Junko's, day two I spent most of the day hiding away and thinking. My relationship with Keigo had red flags from the beginning. His crude personality manifested when the two of us would have fought and in the end; when he got knocked down a peg, would lead him to hide or fly into the night.

Funny, he can insult me, but when I raise my voice I'm being unreasonable.

With my collection of parental issues; I swallowed my pride and apologized. Every single time I would come crawling to that mother fucker his eyes glowed darkly with amusement. Another red flag was the gifts; Keigo expressed early on that he was a gift-giver, and it never sat right with me. One day a Givenchy dress showed up on my doorstep; Keigo was adamant that I wear it to a charity function. The next gift was a necklace he quietly placed around my neck while I was distracted. Lastly and the most shocking, a forced threesome. We had talked about fantasies and whatnot; I jokingly mentioned that I wanted to have a (hypothetical) threesome with him and another Pro hero, you know as a joke.

" Keigo, what is this?"

"A gift for patching me up last week."

"Such a loving girlfriend, Yasmin.” Miruko passionately murmured. Her desire-filled crimson eyes bore holes into my frame. Yes Miruko is a beautiful and intimidating woman, but

I couldn’t stop the chill that ran through my body as I watched Pro Hero Miruko saunter over to my direction, all dressed in expensive-looking lingerie. The necklace that Keigo gifted me before, fitting comfortably around her neck. Tucking a strand of stray hair behind my ear, her lips were on my left earlobe; hot, wet, and hungry. I felt Keigo’s bare chest against my back as his tongue seriously licked my right earlobe.

My thoughts are a mess; my pulse is racing faster than a speeding bullet, my body is racked with tremors, and my throat is dry. Why would he do this? Am I not enough for him? Does he want someone else?

We got as far as kissing, Miruko could taste my uneasiness through her passionate ones while Keigo watched from his place on a chair in the bedroom.

#bnha x reader #bnha x you #hawks x y/n #hawks x reader #keigo takami #mha keigo takami #mha keigo x reader #mha angst #mha cheating angst #mha cheating #hawks cheating #hawks angst

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noodelak · 2 years ago

Note

I know you've probably gotten this a lot since you posted that comic/personal art about struggling to be an artist but I gotta say,

I relate sooo hard to that comic and it sucks :/ And you are way ahead of me in many ways so I feel even worse. Idk, I guess it just blows me away whenever I see people who I perceive to be better than me also struggling with similar insecurities.

It sucks so bad and I feel for you immensely. I’ve thought about writing another comic all about my complex feeling surrounding comparing myself with other artists. It’s such a complicated set of feelings I have struggled with trying to make anything even mildly coherent about the topic. I have friends who have industry jobs that have described feeling this exact same way, to which I also then feel blown away because from where I’m standing I want to shout, “But look at how far you have made it in your journey!!”

Since I don’t know you or how old you are or what your art looks like I don’t know how relevant this may or may not be. But I just turned 28 last week and this Fall marks 10 years since I started pursuing art as a career. I attended my first semester of art school in 2012, I hadn’t even turned 18 yet. I have a very distinct memory of sitting around with my classmates doing a homework assignment, we were drawing self portraits and my new friend showed me their work and I had this deep horrible pit in my stomach because they were so much better than me. I excused myself from the table and cried in the bathroom. I felt so embarrassed, I cried off my makeup and had to go back out to that room full of new friends and acquaintances looking like I’d just cried and making up the excuse that I had allergies and it made my eyes water. I’d never felt that inadequate in my life, it was the first time I really sincerely thought that maybe I should just give up. I’m grateful that I didn’t, and worse things happened in the years after that and I still never quit. While I’ve failed to meet my expectations of myself many times, I’ve found that with each passing year it’s a little easier to forgive myself. Shit is so hard and if you are surviving and managing to create anything you are winning half the battle already. You have time, I have time!! Hell I had a professor who told me he didn’t start drawing until his 30s, I’m guessing he was probably in his 50s early 60s when he was my teacher and his art rocked! I hope that this doesn’t come across overly preachy. I was just really struck by what you said and it really made me want to share this story. I wish you the best on your journey anon <3 here’s a picture of my dog on his blankie

#anon #asks

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auroracalisto · 4 years ago

Text

for the first time

summary: the reader finally sees her life in a new point of view, thanks to carlisle, who has helped her with her abusive husband, her baby girl luna, and her life in general.

pairing: carlisle x female! married/widowed! abused! reader

word count: 1.6k words

warnings: female reader, married and eventually widowed reader, reader is abused by her husband, reader has the surname Wolf in this bc comedic reasons, reader has a child named Luna by said husband, mentions of murder, no depictions but carlisle definitely did the stabby stab (at least if that’s what you wanna assume he did), uhhh reader got them widow benefits by the end but that’s a story for another time, ALSO for some reason i put this in the year 2005 and it goes on to 2006/2007? so this would technically be the same timeline as bella and edward meeting. so first movie. yes. i love the technicalities of everything. honestly didn’t mean for it to happen but it did so

a/n: i have no words

Carlisle first had the honor of meeting you at your then-husband’s Christmas party. It was December 20th, 2005. Your child was most definitely due by the end of January. You were quite literally glowing, and Carlisle believed you were the most beautiful thing he had seen in some time. However, most of the beauty was because of your skill with makeup. Without it, bruises galore would be revealed to the outside world, and your husband would not be too happy to find out that you showed off the newest shiner he gave to you.

Even while pregnant, he did not care for your wellbeing. Hell, he made it quite obvious that he would never care for the little girl growing in your midsection. But even if he was a terrible prick, you decided to have this child. Of course, maybe it would have been better for you to end the pregnancy early on. However, a part of you didn’t want that. A part of you wanted to have the baby and leave your husband. Whichever order it came in would be fine. But knowing now that it would be the latter made you nervous.

The second time Carlisle saw you was in the middle of a grocery store, calming down your newborn baby. Your husband had sent you out in the middle of February, just a month after giving birth. You were alone, and everything was upsetting. Your baby’s little cries caused your own tears to well up in your eyes.

When the two of you made eye contact, you finally broke. You didn’t want anyone to see you like that, and yet, here you were with your husband’s co-worker, crying in the middle of the bread aisle.

“Mrs. Wolf, please. Let me help you,” Carlisle softly said, leaving his buggy on the other side of you. He came over, looking at your baby. “I’ll get her to calm down.”

You took his word for it, allowing Carlisle to comfort your crying child. “Please. Don’t call me that. [Your name] is fine.”

He watched you with soft eyes and nodded. “And who is this?” he softly asked, looking down at the fussing infant. Her eyes were shut and she never once had actual tears—one thing that never sat right with him was how babies couldn’t form tears until they were about two months old (sometimes even longer).

“Luna,” you softly spoke, watching as your little girl started to calm down in his arms. You sniffled softly, wiping your eyes with the back of your sleeve. You should have been more careful, but you didn’t care at this point. It was getting harder and harder to do this; if someone saw a bruise, someone saw a bruise.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Carlisle spoke, looking back at you. “She is very lucky to have you as a mother.”

By the third time Carlisle had properly talked to you, your husband had died. Under mysterious circumstances, but he was gone. And you couldn’t have been happier. You had an idea of what had happened. Especially when you once opened your eyes in the middle of the night to see a flash of blond hair. But you drifted off back to sleep, not thinking anymore of it until the morning after when your husband was missing. However, you never once said anything.

Weeks after he had passed, you had hired a babysitter for the evening. Carlisle’s two girls.

And for once, you did not have to worry about the makeup covering your bruises. In fact, you wore your makeup how you liked it instead of having to wear it to protect your dead husband. You found yourself sitting in your car, in front of the hospital. Alice had informed you that her adoptive father was currently at work—that he was constantly working, and he never once took a break.

Maybe you should have just turned around. Maybe you should have just left Washington, altogether. But your legs started moving before you could stop them. And once you saw Carlisle, you knew that you had to speak with him.

You didn’t even have to say hello to him for the man to walk in your direction. He smiled kindly at you, and you wanted to say something. You desperately wanted to thank him for saving you, even if he never admitted it.

But the words never found your tongue. Your arms wrapped around the doctor, your face buried deep in his blue dress shirt and his white lab coat. Carlisle had never been more grateful for not carrying his clipboard around. He wrapped his arms around your body, holding you close.

Although the two of you never said anything, one thing was clear; you were both grateful for each other’s existence. Even if you lived vicariously through passing glances and thoughtful actions.

Luna was nearly one by the time you decided enough was enough. You were a widow, now. You did not have to worry about what your husband would say. And one thing was certain; the blond-haired doctor had your heart in more ways than one.

He was so kind to you, always offering help and joyful smiles. His conversations carried you through your long days and kept you awake at night as you thought of how you could tell him how you truly felt.

But now, you knew enough was enough—you knew that you were not getting any younger, and neither was Carlisle (of course, because he was human—of course, you wouldn’t learn that until later). You needed to talk to him. You needed to take a course of action.

You grabbed your keys, walking to your door. Luna was babbling in her car seat. You sat it down to get the door open, nearly jumping out of your skin when you saw Carlisle standing there, prepared to knock.

He had a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand and a rather awkward smile.

“My apologies... are you going somewhere?”

Your cheeks began to burn. You sat your keys on the table beside your door, shaking your head. “I was going to see you, actually.”

Luna giggled up at the man when he came into her line of vision. She adored Carlisle.

“Oh, that makes this easier then,” he let out a soft laugh, hesitantly holding out the flowers to you. “These are for you. I... I had asked Alice what your favorites were. I hope you don’t mind.”

You smiled. “No... No, I don’t,” you said, clearing your throat. You moved out of the doorway so that he could come into your house. “I was hoping that.. well, I am hoping this now. I’ve needed to talk to you. For a while now. I really, really need to just get this off my chest, you know? I just—”

“—could I be of any assistance?” he chuckled softly. “Perhaps I can find the words that you are searching for.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to keep your smile from forming. “Carlisle, I’ve... loved you since before my husband died. I know that for a fact, now. And I... hope that you feel the same way. About myself. And Luna. We’re a package deal, you know.”

He chuckled softly and nodded. “I know that you are a package deal. I... am very glad you feel that way, too.”

“Too?”

“Yes,” Carlisle smiled at you. “I have loved you since the first time I have set eyes on you.”

You snorted out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. “That long, huh?”

He just smiled, watching you with kind, golden eyes. “There are many things I need to tell you, [Your name],” he said, finally shutting the front door behind of him. He looked down at Luna and got her out of the carrier, especially when she happily reached for the man. “Perhaps we can take this evening to talk?”

You smiled, nodding. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but yeah. I’d like that.”

All of you made Carlisle’s beatless heart skip. He could only hope that it was the opposite for you (he could definitely hear how fast your heart began to beat the closer he got to you). Luna entertained herself with the buttons on Carlisle’s shirt while the two of you talked until she fell asleep against him.

Perhaps it was that moment that you truly knew that you were in love with Carlisle. No—that action only fortified your love for the man. You knew you had loved him just as long as he had claimed to love you. And for once, you were not afraid of what love could do.

Because you believed you loved your deceased husband, you married him. You slowly watched him become a horrible person. And then you had Luna with him. Of course, that was the one good thing that came out of him. Perhaps the chance of meeting Carlisle as well.

But you knew that now, the love you felt for Carlisle was as real as the infant in Carlisle’s arms. And it would never burn like your last loveless love.

For the first time, it felt like you were seeing yourself in a new light. You were seeing everything from a different perspective. And Carlisle allowed that. Carlisle helped you find that.

Even if he hadn’t have been there, you would have still found it. However, you knew that he made it so much easier than it would have been.

For the first time, you knew real love. With Luna, and now with Carlisle.

Despite everything that had happened to you, it seemed as though the universe was finally connecting the dots. And you couldn’t wait to see what she was going to give you, next.

#carlisle cullen #carlisle x reader #carlisle cullen x reader #twilight #twilight x reader #twilight renaissance #twilight reader insert #female reader #pregnant reader #reader has a child #reader insert #x reader #twilight one shot #one shot #carlisle cullen twilight #carlisle cullen one shot #carlisle one shot

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eatyourdamnpears · 2 years ago

Text

all the things that happened on my birthday, in no particular order:

went out to lunch with my mom and enjoyed it

cried 3+ times today over issues ranging from body image to abandonment issues

got a sick ass leather jacket from Burlington Coat Factory—it was my first time there, too—that reminds me of my old one I really liked, and seems like the feminine version of Lee Stewart’s, so that’s fun to imagine while wearing it

got a pretty shirt, too, that I can potentially wear to my disability hearing at the end of the month, but I’ll have to buy some pants to match it since none of my clothes fit me anymore with this recent weight gain, not even most of my pajamas that I live in, never mind fancy clothes

saw Logan—my nephew— for an hour or two, which was nice, because he was really good while he was here and we played a lot and snuggled a bit and I didn’t have to focus on caring for him or helping him through big emotions set off by trying to redirect him constantly

took a long nap, because after all this I was very tired

put on makeup!! I haven’t been able to do that a whole lot anymore, and 90% of it is expired at this point, but I really wanna get back into it because it makes me feel pretty and I enjoy putting it on

FaceTimed my dad and grandma, which was draining, but I love them and I’m glad they called early in the day, before I got too tired to mask. even then, my grandma kept asking why I looked so sad and kept telling me to smile

got a text from my older nephew, Ethan, who I haven’t heard from since January after his parents cut contact with us. he didn’t end up responding to mine, and there’s a chance that his parents sent me it to save face, but considering my sister—his mom—didn’t send me anything today, means that his other parents potentially gave him back his electronics briefly to send me a message for my birthday. I really hope I get to see him soon, but we’re not on good terms with his parents anymore, and he can’t be trusted to be responsible with electronics, so there’s almost no way to see or stay in contact with him

my church family gave over unexpectedly and we had cake and ice cream with them that my mom picked up after her meeting

had an allergic reaction to a Cerave foaming cleanser I used for the first time

in other words, it was a pretty okay birthday

#now #I don’t know about you #…but I’m feeling twenty-two #I don’t care if that was lame or unoriginal I’ve been waiting over a year to make that joke

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punkcupcakestyles · 4 years ago

Text

Just One More Time

A story about enemies, neighbors and one night stands that are left in the past...

“Fuuuuuck!!!!!”

It is never nice to see a lady yell such a bad word with such passion and rage, but given the chain of shitty events of the day, you considered to have a pass, thank you fucking much.

The heel of your very expensive shoe laid on the floor broken, mocking you under the little ray of moonlight that sneaked through the high window in the hallway. The only thing you could see besides your closed door.

Rain clattered against the windows and every new thunder made you jump a little. You knew very well that there was no one else on the hallways with you, but your heart was still jumping in your chest, and if you focused hard enough, you could see creepy figures running across the walls.

So, you closed your eyes and rushed a little prayer as you continued to look for your stupid keys in your tiny purse as if there was any chance for them to get lost in such a reduced space.

The cold of the night had sipped up to your body, and your drenched clothes and wet hair certainly didn’t help the matter. By now, all of the effort you had put into your hair and makeup was surely gone, and your mascara was probably building up under your eyes. A drowned, harassed rat, the lyrics to the iconic and underrated Let’s Have a Kiki, sadly fit you.

A self-pitying sigh left your glossy lips and you decided that you might as well lean on the door and press your forehead to it, giving up to the pathetic reality that was that night. How much would a locksmith ask to come to your apartment in the middle of the night during a blackout? And, more importantly, would they take your liver as payment? Those were the important questions.

“Are you ok?” Your neighbor’s voice rang in the air, as he opened the door to his apartment to look at you.

Of course, he would come out then, when the wet ends of your hair stuck to your skin, and you were barefoot in front of your locked apartment. Could he have come out earlier in the night when you were looking like a goddess ready to conquer the world? No, he could not.

“Fuck off, Harry,” you muttered, not bothering to look at him. You already knew how he looked, it was always present in your mind.

“Heeeey, I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

“You know I can be really good when I want to.”

You knew it well. You still remembered the feeling of his body on top of yours, his hips rolling onto yours, as he fucked you deep and hard.

“I wouldn’t know,” you gulped, refusing to give in even if your red face told another story.

But he knew. Sometimes, when he was all alone, all he could think about was that night and the way your back arched as he had his fingers deep in your pussy.

****

The day you and Harry fucked each other brainless, Ms. Rose’s cat died. You remembered well because it was also the third day and fifth hour of your heartbreak when you heard your sweet old neighbor’s cries and you rushed to her help, coming out of your sad little bubble for the woman that baked you cookies and knitted you a purple scarf and a pair of gloves for the winter.

When you arrived at Ms. Rose’s apartment, Harry was already there, sitting on the battered pink couch and holding her hand as she cried timidly into a handkerchief with embroidered blue flowers. She had long quit trying to come up with words, cause every time she opened her mouth, she would just blabber and sob inconsolably, so she accepted Harry’s help to explain what had happened.

Your brain gathered very few details of what was being said, choosing to focus instead on the boy sitting next to Ms. Rose. Harry was wearing a graphic t-shirt with light blue jeans and his hair was still wet from his shower, a stubborn curl falling over his forehead. You didn’t know why you would notice things like that in moments like this, but you did, you always did. Especially in the morning when he would come back from his early run, and he would take off his sweaty shirt right by his door, revealing his broad shoulders and his lean body, the tautness of his chest, and the ink that spilled across his tan skin. You would always roll your eyes at him and scurry down the stairs to get as far away from him as you possibly could, pretending you wouldn’t look at him.

So, you stood by the door because it was the safest place you could be, it was Harry-free. The air felt electric whenever you got too close to him.

“Do you fancy some tea, Miss Rosie?” Harry asked and the richness of his accent echoed down your body. Your eyes met as he got up, and you held your breath, as Harry got unnecessarily closer to you on his way to the kitchen. You could’ve sworn he had done so on purpose, the same reason why he had brushed his knuckles over yours, the light touch of his knuckles making you shiver and look at him as he walked away.

You needed to stay away from him, indeed.

“It’ll be alright, Ms. Rose,” you whispered to your old neighbor as you took Harry’s place on the couch, but as the words left your lips, you had to wonder if that was true. Would everything be alright? The world seemed a little bleaker now. Boyfriends cheated. Cats died. There was no one to trust left.

Ms. Rose reluctantly ate the cookies Harry set up for her and drank the ginger tea he had made. He sat by her other side and rubbed her back as she calmed herself down. If she didn’t, one of you might have to sleep on that couch, and you were praying it wasn’t you, cause your black dress would not do well with cat hair all over it.

But two hours later, Ms. Rose was soundly asleep and you left her apartment as carefully as you could, walking on your tiptoes so you wouldn’t wake her up. There was no elevator in your old building, which you had grown used to and usually liked, except when you had to walk up the stairs with someone else, because you never knew what to say, and today, as you walked a step ahead of Harry, it wasn’t any different.

“I didn’t know you had a heart,” You said, just as you turned to go up the last trench of stairs.

“I like Ms. Rose, and my mom always says that some tea and biscuits can fix anything,” Harry replied, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could imagine him shrugging his shoulders as a smirk started to tug up the corner of his lips. He liked Ms. Rose, he would come to her aid if she needed him. It was just that...

“So, you wouldn’t come if I was the one crying?” You turned suddenly, almost making him lose his balance and fall back down the stairs.

“Would you do it if it were me?” He asked you instead, looking up to you. He was closer than you had expected, and you suddenly felt the need to step back, so you wouldn’t feel the warmth of his body, or could smell the citric perfume on his skin.

“Of course not...” Your door was right behind you, so all you had to do was turn around and walk a few more steps. “You probably did something to deserve it,” you smirked, just as you resumed your way to your door.

“I would consider it,” Harry said, and you scoffed in disbelief, turning around to look at him only to notice he was standing behind you, his broad shoulder blocking the little bit of sun that came through the window. Winter was coming, so the sun was starting to fuck around his day job.

“Would you?”

“I’ve been thinking about knocking on your door these last few days, ask if you were ok,” Harry admitted.

There was a new feeling in the air. Any other day, you would have bitten back with some snarky remark, but it didn’t feel right. Harry stood too close to you and your body had become too aware of his presence. So you kept quiet, leaning back to your door with your hands tucked behind your back as you looked at him.

All Harry had to do was say goodbye and walk a few steps to his door, but he didn’t feel like it. He could feel the air shift as well, and the electric pull that tugged him from his belly to yours.

“So, do you want some tea and biscuits?” He offered, even though he wasn’t too sure what he was doing, or where he was going. His voice was soft, and his body leaned into the very same door you were using as support.

What if you said yes? He wasn’t even sure he had any cookies left.

The crumbly taste of ginger and vanilla lingered in Harry’s tongue, and you sighed at the prickly lemon on his lips. You had imagined how it would be to kiss him a couple of times before when your mind would drift away from your control, but even you had to admit that kissing him in real life was better.

Against every expectation, he was slow with his kiss, exploring your mouth as if he had all the time in the world. You had expected a hungrier kiss you, for him to bite you and make you jump in his arms so he could carry you into your apartment, throw you to your bed and fuck you.

Instead, he was taking over every one of your senses. He smelled sweet and citric, and the cotton of his shirt felt soft under your fingertips, as you made your way underneath it. You smiled as he inhaled a sharp breath, and the kiss broke when he smiled, the muscles of his tummy tensing up at your touch. When he kissed you again, it was a little more urgent, his tongue sweeping up across your bottom lip to part them and play with your own as he kissed you deeply, the weight of his body pinning you against the door as you blindly tried to open it. His kiss was maddening, demanding, and soft at the same time, and his leg slid between your tights, spreading them apart so you could feel him everywhere.

“What about your boyfriend?” Harry asked, grazing his words over your lips, as you managed to open the door. Your tummy fluttered at the feeling, and you opened your eyes to look at him, his swollen lips and his dark eyes. Nothing else was on your mind.

“Do you really care?”

“I have my morals...Especially if I’m gonna see him around.”

“We broke up,” you replied, already looking for his lips again, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him once more. But Harry was quicker, and he tilted his head back and smiled mischievously at you as you pouted.

“You’re always breaking up,” he said, which was true.

“How would you know?”

“These walls are fucking paper-thin.”

“Really? No wonder I always hear when you fuck.”

“Yeah?” His grin grew wider and the need that had settled between your legs throbbed tightly as he tilted his head down, until his breath fanned over your skin and you could feel each one of his words drawing on your skin. “You like listening, babe?”

It reverberated down to your tummy and raised havoc in your brain. Did you like listening to him as he fucked other girls? Of course, you didn’t. But sometimes, you had to wonder...

“Where do you get them? They’re all so loud.”

“You should try it.”

“Scream?”

“Letting me fuck you. The screams are a bonus.”

“I bet they do it out of pity.”

“Wanna find out?”

You didn’t allow yourself to think things through, because if you did, the answer would’ve been a resounding no. Fuck, no. Of course not. Keep dreaming, Styles.

Your fingers tangled in Harry’s hair as you pressed your lips to his one more time and his hands went to the hem of your dress, playing with it between his fingers as you both stumbled into your apartment. You didn’t stop kissing, not even as he kicked the door shut, and Harry took the opportunity to let his hands wander down your body, pushing the fabric of your dress over your hips and spreading his fingers across your bum to dig them on your flesh, pressing you closer to him. He could imagine the red marks of his fingers on your skin, he had dreamed of it a couple of times before, picturing you laying on his lap, with your ass sticking up and your legs rubbing together every time he spanked you. He didn’t even know why, he wasn’t a spanker. But he could do just that if you were into it.

What had been a slow kiss was turning hungrier and demanding, your rough breathing fanning over each other skin and your nose bumping clumsily as you made your way to your couch. It almost felt like you were high. The world was blurry and unimportant, and all that mattered was the lemony taste of his lips.

Harry sat on the couch, and you looked down at him as you stood between his strong legs, your heart racing so fast, you could hear it drumming in your ears. He helped you take off your dress, revealing your red lace panties and your black bra, which made him smile and look at you with eyes filled with lust. It was a good thing you were running out of clothes, and that you had to resort to your sexy underwear.

“Do you wear this to hang around your house? I might visit more,” he teased.

His hands were on the back of your thighs, and he pulled you close to him until you got no more option but to climb on the couch and sit on his lap and feel the effect of your makeout session on his growing bulge.

“Just to make myself clear,” you said. “This is not happening ever again.”

Harry didn’t care, just once was enough to satisfy his curiosity.

As you kissed him again, you understood just how freeing a slow kiss can be. It gave you a chance to explore and remember the taste, the fire, the sweetness out of your mouths. If it was going to be a one-time-only thing, you might as well enjoy it.

“Oh…” The little moan escaped your lips before you could even mold out a thought in your brain, and your mouth formed a perfect circle, hanging open as you looked down at Harry, who seemed fascinated, drinking up your reaction. You leaned back, to allow him to brush his fingertip down your slit, as his other hand was looped around your waist, helping you steady yourself up, as his thumb met your clit and he drew a lazy circle on it, the light pressure sending an electric current up to your spine.

Sex was never like this.

You couldn’t stop looking at him, not as he pushed the fabric of your side to the side and started to draw smaller and tighter circles on your clit, and as he pressed soft kisses from your collarbones down to the valley of your breast, making you take a deep breath as you took your bra off. It was the only thing you could control because everything else had been taken over by Harry. He was making sure you could feel him all over your body, raising goosebumps on your skin and making you arch your back as he trapped your nipple between his lips and continued to massage your clit in fast and steady circles, only slowing down when he felt you throb for him. He didn’t want you to cum, not yet, no, he wanted to feel you lose control around his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry moaned and a triumphant smile tugged up the corner of your lips. He couldn’t be the only one to have fun, not when the pressure of his hard cock against your ass was driving you crazy with curiosity. So, you rocked your hips on him, tightening the grip of his legs around him so he could feel you better. Every time you pushed your hips forward, your center would meet the tip of his fingers, making your walls burn for him.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Your words were urgent and breathless because by now, a fiery need had settled in the pit of your stomach, burning down every bit of common sense that it could find. All there was left was the feeling of Harry’s fingers thrusting in your pussy, as you both ground your bodies against the other, and Harry tasted the creamy skin of your chest.

“I was thinking about taking it easy,” he said and your eyes snapped open in surprise, looking at him as he offered you a lazy grin. But it didn’t last much more than a couple of seconds, because Harry’s thumb found its way back to your clit, toying with it as his fingers slowly pumped inside of you. He was right, you had to bite your bottom lip to not let out a loud moan at the feeling. “I know you need a good fuck.”

He was right, good fucks are very recommended for your overall health. Make you happier as well.

“Please,” you begged, cause you could feel yourself starting to drip down your legs and all over his fingers, to ache for something more. You wanted to see him completely naked as you rode him. You wanted to hear his low grunts in your ear. You wanted to fuck him and regret it later, cause it was a fucking bad idea.

With his arm around you, Harry easily lifted you from his lap and you gasped, giggling in surprise as he lowered you down on the couch. He was fast and rough when he pushed your panties up your raised legs and threw them to the floor next to you. His eyes were on you, looking at you as you spread your legs open, and you let your fingertips brush down your tummy and make your way between your legs until you reached your center, warm and wet for him, and already sensitive.

You rubbed your fingers faster on your clit as he took his shirt off, and revealed the taut muscles on his chest, and the myriad of tattoos that covered his wonderful body. Then came his pants and his underwear and you couldn’t tear your eyes off of him, watching in fascination as his hard cock sprung to his belly, thick and large in all of his glory. His tip was pink and swollen, and your mouth watered just looking at it. You craved the nice stretch of your walls and the way it would hit you in all the right places.

“Don’t stop,” Harry commanded as he saw you pulling your hand away, and you gulped, letting him look as you continued to touch yourself as he looked at you. There was a knot in your tummy, a fire that was pulsing and demanding, added by the fact that Harry was there, brushing his fingers down your thighs just as your walls clenched.

Slowly, Harry laid down on the couch and settled between your legs, and you arched your back one more at the cool feeling of the air he was blowing against your warm center.

“You like this?” Harry asked, even when you both knew the answer to his question. So, you didn’t even try replying, you just moaned, enjoying the feeling of his tongue sweeping and tasting up and down your slit. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and he pulled your hand away before the tip of his tongue drew a circle around your clit and lapped on it to suck it between his lips.

The feeling of one of his fingers pushing into you almost drew you over the edge, and Harry pumped it slowly, releasing your clit only to flick his tongue over it. His fingertip massaged your walls, just in the right spot to make your whole body tingle, and your tummy quiver at the touch.

Sex was nothing like this. No, it wasn’t.

Your tummy quivered just as your legs started shaking. "Reality" was nothing more than a foreign word, and so were "control" and "restrain", because you whimpered and cried, and moaned Harry’s name as you got closer to your high. Your walls clenched around his fingers and Harry smiled in satisfaction. His name sounded fucking good coming out of your lips.

“C’mere.”

Harry stopped, just seconds before a wave of bliss took over every thought of yours, and you almost grunted in annoyance. You felt robbed.

But that feeling didn’t last long.

You could feel him in your tummy. Fuck, you could feel him everywhere. You sat on his cock and he pushed his hips into yours, thrusting his cock into you easily, you were soaked.

“Fuck,” you both moaned. Yours was more of a cry, while you adjusted around his thick, veiny cock. His was forceful and his grip around your waist became tighter, and his forehead pressed to your shoulder, just as you started to move your hips, sliding your wet pussy up and down his cock.

“You’re so big,” you whispered desperately. Your nails dug on his shoulders and you leaned back to allow Harry to suck and bite on your nipples, while you rode him.

Harry wasn’t soft or slow. You two were looking for your releases, and with his hands on your ass, Harry got to dictate your pace, and how fast you bounced on his cock. He was delirious, but so were you, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and leaned down to kiss him fully on his mouth, as he continued to fill you with his throbbing cock.

“You like my cock? Like getting yourself off on it?” Harry whispered to your ear and you moaned, riding faster as you felt his finger brushing over your tight little hole. “You have a vibrator, babe?”

“No,” you said, licking your lips as you looked at him. His eyes were almost black and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead while red splotches turned his cheeks pink. “Why?”

“So I can fuck your ass with it while you ride my cock.”

“I’ve never done that,” you admitted. Now it was all you were going to think about.

“Too bad it’s just one time, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

It wasn’t much longer before you were reaching your high, and colorful spots covered your eyes. You slacked over Harry’s body and kissed him lazily and sloppily as he fucked you. When he came, you felt warm inside, his juices dripping down your legs while Harry slumped back on the couch, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes closed as he tried to recover his breath.

You were pretty fucking sure you had imagined the whole thing. Sex was definitely nothing like that.

****

“Wanna come in?” Harry asked you, still standing by his door and looking at you as leaned back against the door.

“No, thank you, I would rather sleep on the floor.”

“Whatever you want, babe,” Harry shrugged and began to close the door to go back to his apartment. Was he actually going to leave you to leave out in the middle of a blackout on a cold night?

“Harry!!” You called for him and the door slammed open, revealing him and his shit-eating grin.

“What? I’m respecting your wishes!”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

You have never been into his apartment before, but you called this an extenuating situation. Electricity might come back in a couple of minutes, or it might take hours, it had never happened before so you didn’t know what to expect. But it was impressively and surprisingly clean and tiny and it smelled like coffee. You could make out a guitar leaning against a window, and the shadow of a large couch against one of the walls.

Flashes of that night kept flooding your mind, which you found incredibly inconvenient and rude of your brain. But as Harry stood by your side, your skin covered in goosebumps and you found yourself taking a step back and away from him. Just in case.

“You ok, babe?” He asked and you nodded in response, trailing behind him so you wouldn’t against anything in the darkness of the room. “I’ll take the couch, you can take the bed. There’s clothes in my room, so you can change into anything you want.”

His room smelled just like him, and it was certainly a shame that couldn’t snoop around, or even see the colors he had chosen for his bedsheets. You changed out of your clothes as soon as you could, and put on a shirt that you hoped was clean before you went under the sheets.

There was just one problem: No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t keep yourself warm enough to fall asleep. Your teeth clattered and your feet were so cold you could barely feel the rest of your body. It didn’t make you feel any less ridiculous, though, as you made your way to the living room, where Harry was playing with his phone while laying on the couch.

“Harry?” You called for him and he slowly turned around to look at you, the light coming from the screen of his phone allowing you to see his face. “It’s too cold.”

“So, what do you suggest we do?” He smiled, and you wanted to swat the phone out of his hand just to spite him

“Well, I was thinking you should give me your blankets, but I guess that’s too much to ask.”

“It is.”

“So, maybe, we can just...sleep together…like, share the bed.”

“Well, if you wanted to sleep with me again, you just have to say it.”

****

Read Part 2 here!

Hi! If you got this far, I just wanted to say thank you! You make me very happy! Any type of feedback, would be greatly appreciated, but if you don’t feel like it, it’s ok, I get it! Have a nice, lovely day!!!

#harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #hs #writing #harry styles fanfiction

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seawater-aurelia-writing · 4 years ago

Note

Could I please request a yandere Vil with a female darling? Maybe they knew each other when they were kids, but darling wasn’t very pretty, so Vil used to make fun of her. But now many years have passed, she’s turned out to be beautiful and Vil can’t just let anyone have her

Absolutely!! I love this prompt too! I still think Vil has a lot of traits which make him fit both a yandere AND a bully! Since you said reader ‘wasn’t very pretty’, i’m going to go based on standard social media beauty standards (ew), which I think Vil was exposed to early on due to being a child star and all.

Pairing: Yandere!Vil Schoenheit x Female!Model!Darling

TW: Body Shaming, Yandere Behavior(s), Past Bullying

His gaze was as unnerving as it was harsh, never turning from her for the duration of their shoot. Even when he was called from the set to allow her to take solo shots, Vil did not remove his gaze from Y/N’s body.

“What’s the matter with you? You look so terrified!” Her manager asked as Y/N sat down to have her makeup changed. “It’s going to ruin the pictures!”

Y/N hummed apologetically but tuned them out as her mind wandered back to Vil. It was a surprise seeing him again after all that he had done to her years prior, back when they were only children.

When she was so happy about her brand new outfit, the one that her parents had made for her as a gift, Vil bullied her for her 'rags'. He didn't let up even when she cried.

When she was allowed to do her hair the way she wished, and she picked a new style, Vil sneered at her, telling her how much it made her forehead look large or drew attention to her nose.

He found so much joy in tormenting her, when she had done nothing cruel to him. Vil simply couldn't go one day without insulting 'Little Miss Ugly Duckling'.

She thought all of her prayers were answered when she was able to move away to the Rose Kingdom and attend private lessons. In the solitude of her home, she found confidence in herself, in the style that she enjoyed most and it showed.

Becoming a model had not been in her plans but with her mother's gentle encouragement to give it one try - she didn't see any harm in at least trying it.

Y/N had been so glad that she decided to try it; While the competitions were often too much for her, the fun that she had outweighed the stress. She was able to travel for photo shoots, meet people that she never thought she could meet- but that also meant- "Ah! Mr. Schoenheit! Hello!" The sudden shrillness of her manager's voice drew her from her thoughts, but when her eyes met Vil's - her blood ran cold. "How can we help you?"

"Please give me a moment to speak to my colleague about the coming shoot. The poses that are being requested may be...difficult for a beginner." Vil explained, his voice sounding as serene and beautiful as everyone said it was; But that hardly mattered to Y/N.

"I've done these poses bef-" Y/N began, attempting to explain that his aid was unnecessary, but her manager waved her words away, all to happy to cater to Vil.

"But of course! I'll let the rest of the staff know to give you both a few minutes!"

And with that, both the manager and the makeup artist left the two models alone.

"Who would have thought," Vil stepped closer to her, his gait allowing him to quickly approach her seated form. "That you would be sitting here? Little Miss Ugly Duckling."

"Don't call me that." She turned from him, looking into the vanity mirror to gaze at herself rather than those lavender eyes.

"Well, your manners are certainly the same." Rather than sneer, as she expected him to, Vil chuckled. There was an odd mirth in his voice as he moved to stand behind her, his hands coming to rest on the sides of the chair. "But I suppose you are more of a Swan now aren't you? You're welcome."

"Excuse me?!"

"You're only where you are now because of me. So many ugly and unflattering things you used to do. You moved away to clean yourself up. It's a good look for you - dedicating yourself to fit my image." Vil smirked down at Y/N in the mirror's reflection. His eyes practically glowing in a twisted kind of delight. "Such a good little swan."

"Now you listen to me, Schoenheit. I did NOT do anythiing for you, let alone change myself for YOU. You did nothing but belittle me and put me down all those years! You're lucky I had no say in this photoshoot because the last person I want to be around is someone like y-MMH." Y/N's angered speech was cut off as Vil leaned around the chair, forcefully sealing his lips over her own.

His hands shifted, pinning her arms down to the arms of the chair with just enough force to hold her but not enough to bruise her.

Y/N whimpered, rearing back against the seat but was unable to separate from the unwanted kiss. The feel of his lips against hers, the way they glided over hers, made her feel sick.

However, as Vil forced his tongue inside of her mouth and the sweet tangy taste of apples and limes, that feeling of disgust changed to a hazy feeling of content and comfort.

Vil pulled away slowly with a soft sigh, savoring the taste of her on his lips before he opened his eyes. That crazed light returned to his eyes as he watched the angry fire die out in Y/N's eyes, leaving her softly smiling at him.

"Now, you're never leaving me again, are you? " Vil purred as he moved to fix her make up himself. " We're going to be so happy together, you and I, no one else."

#Twisted Wonderland #yandere twst #Yandere Vil Schoenheit #TWST Vil x Reader #Yandere TWST Vil #Female Reader #Anon Ask

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eideticmemory · 4 years ago

Text

TWO GHOSTS | MATTHEW G. GUBLER

It’s been 15 years. 15 years has to be long enough . . . right?

Set 15 years after the end of Ever Since New York, so give that a read first!

Word Count: 3.1k.

Warning: Usual angst, porn, and poor communication amongst characters.

SOUNDTRACK:

Maps - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Stop the World, I Wanna . . . - Artic Monkeys

Space Song - Beach House

May 16, 2002.

New York City, New York.

“[y/n] . . .” Claire whispered. “Honey, c’mon . . . just, try to sit up.”

You couldn’t. You just, couldn’t. It was as if your entire body was filled to the brink with sand — coarse, wet, heavy sand — and it was weighing you down, keeping you anchored to Claire’s bed. Your head rested in her lap, and your fist gripped, tightly, onto the fabric of her jeans — which were stained with your tears. Her hand ran along your spine, and her arm wrapped around you, protectively. She wanted to shield you, she wanted to keep you safe, happy. She wanted to distract you from your luggage laid out on the floor.

But, the pressure of her body, coddling you, God, it just hurt. Everything hurt, and you couldn’t get it to stop, and you couldn’t stop sobbing, ugly sobbing, snot running down your lips.

“Cl—Claire . . .” you whined. “I . . . I . . .” your hand flew to your mouth, muffling a loud and painful sob that echoed throughout the room.

“I know, I know . . .” she cooed, kissed the top of your head, and ran her hand over your hair. “It’s okay, don’t try to talk, just rest.”

Claire held you, all day and all night on May 16, 2002. She held you until you lost your voice, until you cried yourself to sleep, and after that, she still held you.

Because it was May 16, 2002.

And May 16, 2002 was day one without Matthew Gubler.

After crying yourself to sleep that morning, you awoke alone in Claire’s bedroom that night. You rubbed your tired and sore eyes, and sat up, surprised to see the sun had gone down. Your mouth felt dry, and your throat was sore. Claire had left you a bottle of water, and you chugged it in one gulp. You stood from the bed, slowly and groggily, stumbling your way through the boxes of clothes, and decorations that Claire hadn’t even put up yet.

You wandered aimlessly into the bathroom, and switched on the light. You didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror. Only a faint resemblance of what you looked like that morning, before the airport, before the tears.

You had dressed up. Did your makeup. And now, your clothes were wrinkled, and your face was smeared with mascara. You looked miserable, you felt miserable, you were miserable.

Claire walked in just as another tear rolled down your cheek. You looked at her reflection, and saw she was eyeing you, sadly.

“Hey,” she attempted to smile. She stepped over to you and held onto your shoulders, catching you as you fell back, dramatically, into her arms.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” she whispered. You hiccuped as you looked in the mirror, making eye contact with her. “It’s just day one . . .” she said. “It’s just . . . day one.”

And it’s true, what everyone says: one day turns into one month, and one month turns into one year.

And one year turns into one decade.

October 13, 2017.

New York City, New York.

Today, is Friday the thirteenth.

Day 5,629 without Matthew Gubler.

And somehow, someway, you feel just as stuck, and frozen, and scared shitless as you did on day one.

You haven’t felt this way in a very long time, though. And of all the days, of all the nights, to feel like this, to be stuck and frozen and scared . . . tonight is not the night.

A knock rings at the dressing room door, startling you from your thoughts. You cleared your throat, and found yourself, once again, focused on your reflection.

You know this person. You’ve spent 5,629 days growing into this person. And y’know what? She’s fucking hot.

“[y/n]!” Another knock follows.

“I’m coming!”

“When?”

“Ramona, I will fire you, and trust me, I really need an assistant!” You shout, fixing your dress in the mirror once again.

“Oh, yeah, right. Then who would make your coffee and make sure you’re on time?” she replied. “. . . You’re late!”

“Okay!” You stumbled to the door in your heels, flung it open, putting your hand on your hip.

“Wow . . .” Ramona said, nearly speechless. “You look . . . hot.”

“That is not how you speak to your boss, dude,” you laughed. “You really think I look hot?”

“Marshmallows on an open fire, smoking, kind of hot.” She winks.

You chuckle, “Thanks, I needed that. Walk with me.”

“Okay, um,” she starts, walking beside you as you strut down the hall. “Hair and makeup are gonna take care of you in no less than thirty minutes, that gives you, approximately, two minutes to get into the studio.”

“Two minutes?” You stop in your tracks. “That’s it?”

She can’t help but grin, just a little, “Told you you were late.”

You scoffed, “Okay, so are we shooting when I step into the studio?”

“Yep!”

“Great . . .” you sigh, walking over to the cosmetic chair.

“But, hey, you’re the big boss, they can’t film without you.”

“Yeah, except big boss told everyone we’re filming at seven sharp, and big boss probably won’t even be ready at seven sharp!” You ramble.

“Okay . . .” Ramona nods, slowly. “Are ever gonna tell me why you’re so nervous about tonight, or . . ?”

“Uh, why am I nervous about a major, televised, celebrity event that I not only put together myself, but choreographed?” You rambled. “I don’t know, pick a reason!”

“Wow . . .” She says. “As valid as all those reasons are, I think something else is going on and I will find out, so you might as well spill.”

“Can’t talk!” You pip. “Getting my makeup done! Tell them I’ll be in at seven.”

You exhaled deeply the minute Ramona stepped away, closing your eyes. Not opening them until your hair was done perfectly, and the makeup artist added her final touches.

You, once again, came face to face with your reflection.

“[y/n]!”

But you didn’t have time to process it.

“[y/n], cameras are rolling, thirty seconds to seven.”

Of all the days, of all the nights, you tell yourself, looking into the mirror, to feel like this, to be stuck and frozen and scared . . . tonight is not the night.

“[y/n]!”

Because you are the big boss now.

Your purple dress — perfectly matched to the NYU logo — hugs your body tightly as you walk across the floor, the hem splayed over feet, which are covered in tall, silver heels. The clack of your shoes silences everyone as you walk by. Everyone, except for Ramona, who steps in before you can enter the studio.

She clips an NYU pin to your dress, “For good luck,” she smiles.

“3, 2, 1 . . . rolling.”

You enter the studio, and the room fills with a flood of “oooooh!” from each and every one of your students. The camera pans over their faces as you walk across the hardwood floor, smiling at them, laughing at their expressions. Their jaws are dropped, hands clutched over their chests.

“[y/n]! Holy shit!”

“Hey!” You laugh. “Language! We’re rolling!”

“You look great!”

“Thank you, how are you all?” You ask.

“Nervous, thanks for asking.” They all laugh.

“You guys will be fine, I’m an excellent teacher,” you giggle.

“Damn right, but are you sure you can’t hold our hands while we’re on stage? Just for a little bit?”

“Big babies!” You shake your head. “You’re ready. Signals from off camera indicated a time crunch, and you quickly brought the group together for a big hug.

It’s been a long time coming. Tonight. Or, as printed on all invitations and promotional materials:

New York University’s 2017 Celebrity Alumni Event: In Support of the Ballet class of 2017.

Coordinated and Choreographed by [y/n] [y/l/n], executive producer and star of the hit reality show, New York Best and Ballet.

Big boss.

The camera follows you as you exit the studio, walk down the hall, “They’re gonna kill it,” you smile into the lense. “I know it.”

All you can think about is the blatant, gross hypocrisy. The way you’re completely, beyond a shadow of doubt, confident in your students and their ability to pull this off.

And you can’t even say the same thing about yourself.

With the cameras off of you, you put your hand against the wall, and steady yourself. Ramona walks up to you, walking along your side. “Got you a water, you should stay hydrated tonight.”

You give her an appreciative look, taking the bottle of water and standing up straight, “Is it too early to start drinking?”

“I guess not, guests are starting to arrive.”

“Holy shit, already?” You gasp.

“You did plan this thing, right?”

“Ugh,” you huff, dramatically rolling your eyes.

“You’re expected in the ballroom, a margarita will be waiting for you at the bar.” Ramona grins.

You continue down the hallway, as she watches you walk away, a crew of people following behind you.

“[y/n]!” Ramona calls.

You turn to her, stopping in your steps.

“Marshmallows on an open fire, smoking, kinda hot,” she smiles.

You laugh, out loud, and give her a nod. Then, you continue on your way downstairs.

More people had already arrived than you thought. The ballroom was packed, covered by a sea of people, tables, cameras and crew meandering through the crowd to catch every ounce of footage they could. You were filmed as you walked down the steps, passing the stage and stepping onto the floor with a grand smile.

“Pretty good turn out, huh?” You chuckled, beaming at the camera as you branch out to greet your guests.

This helps.

The smiles, the laughs, the presence of people that support you and your program enough to show up, pay a lot of money, and witness the magic of NYU ballet in all its glory. The light highlights the brightness of your smile, the glow around you in your element. Your chuckle echoing around the room, as you coasted from table to table, person to person, thanking them for coming.

Reconnections were made, stories were told, and retold, and thoughts of college had you blushing on the spot. You’re so lost in the whirlwind of energy, of being the proper hostess, and managing everything in sight, you didn’t notice that an hour had passed.

Until a crew member taps you on the shoulder, and tells you it’s five minutes to show time.

“Excuse me,” you nod, removing yourself from your current conversation and heading backstage.

You blow kisses to the band of nervous students, give them two thumbs up as cameras trailed behind you. “And . . . you’re on, [y/n].”

You stand up straight, hand your margarita off to a crew member, take in a deep breath. And walk. You march up to the podium, the bright lights beating down on you as you stand in front of the large crowd.

“Hello, everybody, welcome!” You announce, bringing the room to a gentle silence. “Thank you all so much for being here. I’m [y/n] [y/l/n], director and head of the ballet department here at New York University.”

You become flustered at the wave of applause, cheering the crowd and backstage. “Thank you, thank you so much. As a NYU alumni, there is truly nothing that makes me happier than to teach this extraordinary class of students. They’re focused, they’re determined, incredibly talented, and the best of the best. So, without further ado, I present to you the NYU ballet class of 2017, presenting a remastered rendition of their first performance in 2014.”

You exited the stage, the curtain behind you shielding the students that were already positioned in place. You stood backstage, watching them on screen, with your hands bound against your chest. The curtain was drawn, the music kicked up, and they went.

They move effortlessly, dare you say it . . . perfectly. In sync, and with a wide range of motion that rolled without a hitch. The crowd watched in awe, and you were right there along with them. Cameras focus on your face as you’re entranced by the class, and so immensely proud.

“They’re incredible,” you beam. “Aren’t they amazing?”

The full set took about half an hour, and when the curtain flies down, closing dramatically, you jump up and down, and run over to the group of kids who couldn’t wait to see you. The joy can be felt through the lense of every camera trained on you.

Their energy and excitement is putting you on cloud nine. Your own adrenaline is rushing, and pumping in your ears.

You let your guard down. You hand out kisses and hugs left and right, and step back in the crowd on a high, head empty, no thoughts. No feelings except for happiness and pride.

“That was incredible, [y/n], absolutely incredible.”

“Wonderful show!”

You were saying thank you faster than you could hear the accolades, caught in a rush of people passing you by.

You turn to see your students trailing behind you, shaking hands as they’re showered in praise. You grin at them, entirely consumed with elation by their looks of satisfaction, of relief, of relaxation and accomplishment.

You let your guard down.

You got comfortable.

“[y/n]!”

You let yourself slip.

“[y/n], [y/n]!” A hand is placed on your shoulder, causing you to turn around, a smile still plastered across your face.

“You know Matthew, right?” Your co-producer asked. “You guys graduated the same year?”

You nearly collide with him. You stop on the toe of your heels, and come to a screeching halt. Your eyes connect like magnets, the pull is strong and intense. Your breath catches in your throat, you smile fading along with your breath. You instantly begin to sweat under the light of the cameras, your skin heating up, your hands shaking.

“U—u—uh,” you stutter. “Yes! Hi!”

“Hi, [y/n]!” He exclaims, happily, opening his arms to give you a hug.

“Oh!” You gasp as he pulls you into his chest.

And he smells, so good. He’s grown, and it feels different holding his tall frame in your arms. But the embrace is quick, and brief, and he holds your shoulders in his palms as he speaks to you, “The show was amazing, blew me away!”

You’re expected to talk. You’re expected to breathe. But you’re left speechless by the scruff lining his jaw, the curl atop his head, the suit shaping his body, and topped off with a jet black bow tie.

“Thank you, thank you,” you ramble. “Thanks for coming, um, let’s catch up later,” you nod, to which he politely nods back, and clears a path for you to walk on by.

You let your guard down.

And now you can’t seem to catch your breath.

Your feet were killing you by the end of the night. You didn’t get to take a proper seat — without the cameras, and the crew, and the crowd, until nearly ten o’clock at night. As you were trying to regroup, Ramona found you hiding away in your dressing room, halfway asleep.

“[y/n]?” she taps your shoulder. You groggily lift your head, and look to her, “There’s a car waiting for you out back. It can take you home or to the hotel across the street. What do you think?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Hotel. Hotel is fine.”

The Lillian Hotel had been acquired specifically for tonight’s event. A cozy room, with an even cozier bed was waiting for you, calling your name. And after tonight, after day 5,629, it’s all you can think about.

You give Ramona a quick hug, and thank her for everything before you sneak out of the building. You take the back exit, avoiding an entanglement of people and paparazzi.

The atmosphere of the elegant hotel was much calmer. You were given the key to your room, and you turned on your heels to head to the elevators. Your shoes created an echo against the tile, and the sound suddenly silenced when you saw him. Waiting for the elevator.

“Matthew?” You call, timidly. The courage comes out of nowhere, flies out of your chest before you can catch it in your throat.

He stops in his tracks, and turns to you, holding the strap of his bag. “Hey!” he grins.

You give him a shy smile, as you let out a dry laugh and step closer to him.

His eyes darken, not noticeably, but just a little. He looks down at you, and you look up at him, and all you can say is . . .

“Matthew . . .” you clear your throat. “Thank you for coming tonight, and supporting the program, and for . . . being so professional about everything, I know it . . . couldn’t have been easy, I really appreciate it.”

His eyebrows furrow, only for a second, and his face almost goes blank. He looks down at his shoes, taps his foot as his mind swirls with words to say. But all he can is chuckle. Laugh.

“I knew you were gonna do this,” he says.

You tilt your head, “Do what?”

“This . . . think . . . think that what I did today had anything to do with you.”

“I—“ you stutter. “Okay . . .”

“I came tonight to see friends, to catch up, to visit New York. And I knew I would see you, and I knew . . . I knew you’d, I don’t know, expect me to fall to my knees the second I saw you. I can’t do that . . . I, personally, see no reason to do that. I acted professional, because I am professional, not to cushion your feelings.”

And although, he’s changed, he’s grown, he’s matured, and he’s a completely different person than when you saw him last, Matthew Gubler still knows how to make a dramatic exit.

He turns away from you and continues down the hall, boarding the elevator without looking back at you. You — who’s paralyzed, stuck, scared shitless. Standing in the foyer of the hotel lobby, wondering why you’re unable to move, to breathe, to keep your eyes from misting.

And back to day zero.

You knew for sure that you’d struggle to sleep. That Matthew’s word would eat at your gut and brain like a parasite, haunting you, rattling around your head. But, the second your head hits the pillow, you were out like a light.

And you dreamt of him instead.

The way he was 15 years ago.

The way he made you feel.

Bing, bing, bing!

“Huh!” You jolt awake, spasming out of your sleep violently. Suddenly, the sun had risen again, and it was burning your eyes through the windows.

Bing, bing, bing!

“What the—“ You sit up, rub your face, and anxiously search for your phone, wondering why you were being called so early in the morning.

Ramona’s name flashed upon the screen, and you swiped to accept her call. “Hello?”

“[y/n] . . .”

“Ramona . . .” you slur.

“Have you checked twitter this morning?”

“Tw — no? No, it’s . . . seven in the morning, of course I haven’t checked Twitter.”

“Check it.”

“Ra—“

“Check it!” She shouts.

You groan, and navigate to the Twitter app. “Oh . . . oh, I’m trending . . . that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, uh-huh, check who you’re trending with . . .”

“Okay . . .”

Clicking on your name, you instantly sat forward, your eyes going wide, “NO!”

TAGLIST:

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#mine #esny #mgg #Matthew Gray Gubler #matthew gray gubler fanfiction

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