#me this past month: can i please be normal. can i please take some pills that will kill the worms in my brain please | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

uchihaharlot · 2 months

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Happy Smutty Shisui Sunday! I didn’t forget about my man.

This week I went to hell and back and back and back some more. Hardly had any Shisui or Uchiha simpy time for myself. 😩😭 Completely missed my ovulation horny thirst week!! I hope this makes up for it, to you and to me.

Ovulating or not, I’m still unbearably horny for this man.

NSFW; Shisui has been busting fat loads of his cum inside of you. In hopes that you’d end up pregnant & yes, I know Shisui’s birthday has passed. Consider this some sort of retroactive celebration on top of Shisui smutty Sundays.

WC: an ungodly amount of horny brain goes brrrr; mostly edited. My eye started to twitch so yea.

Well. Obviously after about six months he starts to think something is wrong with him or you. He wasn’t entirely shy when it came to making sure he thrusted his warm cum deep at your cervix. And even so far as to repeatedly fucking one load after another into you. You just sort of figured it was that Uchiha breeding kink and let him have his way to sate the desire. That maybe he couldn’t help it and that might be why you ended up beneath him for hours, folded like a pretzel and flipped over to be taken any which way.

Certainly the breeding was partial to it. Shisui really was and at some point admits to hoping you’d grow round with his baby. “…can we talk?”

Was there something wrong with the swim team? Last he checked; or well the yearly physical. They were in prime condition to root and grow inside your womb. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with him. And maybe he peeped your file and saw everything was in working order for you as well.

“Shisui-kun.” You sit with him at the table; the concern that spreads his face is immaculate. “What’s wrong?”

How does he say this without coming off as weird and maybe even a bit creepy. “I’ve been trying to get you pregnant for the better half of a year and …” full stop when you grab his hand and squeeze.

“Oh, Shisui.” That soft smile he loves so much stretches your lips. “It’s severely impossible at this time.”

Severely?

Well how in the nine circles to hell was that? ‘At this time?’ So it could or had been possible before. “Explain this, please?” It sounded so desperate when he didn’t mean it to. The words wrapped around his larynx and dried his throat, and barely sounded normal as they scratched their way out.

“It’s called birth control.” You try not to laugh, how was he unaware of this? You’ve mentioned it in the past. Maybe long ago.

“No, I would have seen you take the pill. I figured you had stopped since…well, since things are more serious.” How cute was Shisui when he struggled to express his doubts, second guessing if he was full of it or not. Certainly he knew there were other forms of contraception. The look on his face as you explain what an intrauterine device was had you almost in tears of laughter. Even someone like Obito was aware of this.

To think that a measly piece of plastic wrapped in copper was interfering with his family planning!? This was inconceivable—literally! He was an Uchiha for fucks sake. How could something with no substance other than metal and plastic prevent such powerful genes from taking root. This simply did not sit well, but eventually passed as Shisui went through the phases of realization. It almost felt wasteful to think how many times he’s tirelessly laid you down, had you cramped beneath him. Talking filth of spilling into you and milking himself bone dry.

Hot and sweaty; orgasm after orgasm. Even a silent prayer to the gods that he would be blessed with a next of kin. The sour look on his face before he sheepishly smiles said it all as you speak. “I am sorry this disappoints you.”

In reality, couples talked before they had children. Shisui was an entirely different breed of man. He didn’t operate on reckless abandon but to say that the shock value of your uterus not being at his disposal was not something he counted on when he was purposely trying to fuck a baby in you. He almost looks pitiful.

Shrugs it off. Patching up his wounded ego, “it’s fine.” When it didn’t really feel fine. A small part of you felt guilty seeing him so forlorn over it.

And another deplorably sick part of you revels in it, how desperate was Shisui to make your body his in more ways than one. “We can talk about it sometime? Typically…this is a group decision.” With what little words he could manage now, Shisui deliberated the ordeal wasn’t in his favor.

That stung a bit. His irrational need to pump you full of his own personal brand of Uchiha specimen completely outweighed the rational sense of procreation. It was a dual effort and Shisui, too, felt a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Yes, he was. You can see it, feel it. How adorably cute he looked with puppy dog reds. So caught in his emotions that the forehead kiss you planted took a beat for it to register. “No harm, no foul.” Your forgiveness was much appreciated. You took it far better than he anticipated in this instance.

From that day forward, a new idea populated in your mind. It was stupid as all hell, but what a better birthday gift than the very thing that tormented his ability to impregnate you. It crossed your doctor as weird when you asked if you could take it with you. Usually it was a firm no, this was a biological hazard. But having the privilege of dating one of the most influential men of all times, from the most prestigious clans the Hidden Village ever produced. The only time you would ever pull that sort of weight over your head. Shisui would surely not appreciate you using the Uchiha name to get what you wanted.

Much less to instill fear into the doctor with no recourse to back it up.

But it works in your favor. Wrapped up cute, the device rests in a small box. Of course this wasn’t a real gift, it was a gag. The real gift was some specially designed and crafted ninja tools, a subscription to that expensive ass hair care he bought throughout the year and well. Your undying love and affection of course. What better way to bring a man to his knees when he came home from a long mission than to tell him that your womb was for the taking? It was hardly romantic, how were you supposed to know this man would froth at the mouth as he entered the kitchen.

Well, you should have known. The skimpy crotchless lingerie you are wearing was a welcome surprise. Then bending over into the oven as if you hadn’t noticed he was there, I mean you did. Looking over your shoulder told you all you needed to see. That thousand yard stare as the kaleidoscope behind his eyes wound tight and instantaneously bled red. Even further widening to elicit what most would call formidable. It was a treat for you when Shisui salaciously threatened you with his Mangekyō. This was a special occasion.

There wasn’t any part of you that his eyes mapped out and took in as you approached him.

“Happy birthday.” You whisper, leaning up to pepper a soft kiss on either cheek before his eagerly opening lips nip at you. “Hungry?”

How easily she looked into the Mangekyō as if it wasn’t a loaded gun. “That’s an understatement.” His hands have been running up and down your sides already, thumbing at the lacy material that did fuck all for the imagination. It literally wrote the entire thing for him. “What’s this?”

Shisui obviously knew it was his birthday, though he hadn’t expected this display of affection. Ok; that’s a blatant lie. He did expect some sort of celebration but this was on an entirely different realm than what he considered.

The opener gag gift. That little wrapped box was easy tore through in swift fashion. Though, its contents perplexed him further. Looking to you again, red silk pearls spin wildly. “That was the baby inhibitor.”

Oh. This was the thing. “Was?” Mission lag had not been kind to Shisui, it was a rough few days. Too many stalled attempts before it was accomplished. But being a genius didn’t leave him entirely ignorant. “Oh.” Like, now it clicks. That this—this exact tiny thing was the actual thing. Which meant, “you’ve been liberated.”

It was a funny way to put it, but to Shisui it meant everything. It meant that he could actually move forward with you. Not that you hadn’t already been moving forward, but this was the sort of progression he desired most.

“…has it?” He asked again, your silence only made him reconsider, and as you held his face with both palms. You gave Shisui the most tender kiss, full-mouthed and deep, he whispered through broken kisses. “Are you truly prepared for this?”

Those words alone send a heat to pool in your lower stomach. That and Shisui’s hands gripping you tightly as they trembled at the curve of your waist. Whether it be excitement or lack of sleep. Probably lack of an actual meal too. He didn’t quite feel like eating dinner in this moment.

“The situation has been rectified.” Those simple yet effective words had more of a profound impact on Shisui. Had you not realized this was something he desperately needed? “It will take a few cycles—”

Words were futile for a man in Shisui’s position. This exact moment found you backwards walked in a series of scorching katon kisses. He nearly singed the back of your throat when he kissed you this way. Maddening him further was the soft touch to his belt as you unclamp it and untucked his cock. Searing more the same kisses your jaw, throat and chest when you stroked his flaming erection. How deliciously sweet but spicy that Uchiha katon tasted as it sat in the back of your esophagus.

Your dainty bodice was left somewhere in between the hall bathroom and the master bedroom door. You were already squirming on two fingers knuckle deep before your head hit the bed. Scoffed at the loss of his cock in your hand. That crotchless little thing had Shisui spreading your slick and tonguing at your clit before you put on whatever act you had planned.

“Your…gifts.” A hopeless mewl when you came on his mouth the first time, Shisui was far too gone.

“…fuck the gifts.” This was more precious than any gift, that you were fully capable of doing him the honors of taking his genetic material and making it into something so valuable and beautiful. “…I don’t care if you take to my seed today, tomorrow or next month. This right here is for practice.”

It wasn’t any sort of sex that you and Shisui had before. Sure, sex was sex when you looked at it from any angle. But this? This was being caged under a man who had little resolve left with his actions. By no means did he hurt or leave a mark that wasn’t planted with the utmost respect for you and your body. Red marks on either side of your neck, chest and thighs. Once Shisui determines you were properly worked out enough for him.

The twitch in his cock as he luridly strokes himself before you, wild eyed and tinted. As he divides you over his length, he shucks both your knees with his arms and full on dips the entirety of his hips into the padding of your ass. It’s almost painful when he presses into you this way.

Only then did he fuck you mercilessly. The consistent deep thrusts are the first to make your eyes roll shut. Hardly ever did he use his teeth, but when you moaned out his name like that. Needy and wanting. There wasn’t anything else he thought of than to bite every inch of skin his mouth came across. You were cramped up so snug beneath him, completely immobilized and at his mercy. The subtle touch of his testicles on a full cock length thrust every now and then. His rhythm unrelenting. Shisui attentively listens to every soft mewl and whimper out of your precious mouth when his lips and fingers don’t have it preoccupied.

But damn did he love the sound of you moaning around his fingers. Choked out on three of them, as your ‘cute little pussy’—or so he called it. Fluttered and milked another deeply buried load into you, at this point he was merely tap to release. Bottoming out into a seemingly bottomless pool of his own cum. It seeped and spilled on to the nice silk sheets you intricately place earlier today.

The dull pulse of another orgasm as he continued to pump so slow, but incredulously deep. As if he purposely never fully fucked his cock into you; which was a far stretch. The many times Shisui inundated the swell of your cunt with his ever throbbing need and used it as a dump was more than you could ever count. How effortlessly he coaxed three more orgasms out of you, each one spasms and threatens another deposit out of him.

This was undoubtedly breeding. No way to describe it overwise. If you hadn’t of guess it by now, the things he said to you were more than an indication of the long night ahead of you. Powerless, but pleased to no end. You didn’t think however many orgasms he worked out of you were possible. You lay almost limp and useless. Along for the ride. Not to mention how sticky and nasty your legs felt. The amount of pain this man’s testicles would bear tomorrow morning was worth while. As if continuing to thrust into you would make his cum leak out less, Shisui was operating on what you assumed was less than half a brain cell. His eyes were lost, distant. Even with the Mangekyō boring into you this way his foresight that he was thoroughly finished hadn’t caught up.

You patted his cheek lovingly. It took a real special woman such as yourself to understand a man like Shisui.

“…Shisui-kun. You can stop now.” It wasn’t a plea, more of a distraction. There hadn’t been any warmth filling you from with in. Just whatever he managed to slosh around inside of you. It caked your insides.

But your seeet voice thrummed through his ears and his heart sank, “…oh …gods.” It was that moment he regained some semblance of control. Having fucked you on autopilot. The apologies flood as the kisses peppered your cheeks.

Here you lie, plugged. Stuffed to the brim of your cunt with his cum. Whatever didn’t manage to leak out still ever present inside you. The viscosity of it only thickens as it sits. So gentle when he slips out, the massive bubbles as his cum fully empties out of you. Shisui didn’t realize the reach of his own body. Scooping you up, he plops you into the tub.

The clock reads three hours that dinner had been sitting on the counter. The warmth of the water soothes your aching legs and back. Shisui hardly used his full strength to outmaneuver you, but this time he hadn’t the slightest how far he took it.

“I’m fine.” You smile, wholly fucked and tired. “…it was just for practice right?”

Shisui ran both hands through damp curls. He had forgotten all that was said. “It won’t be anything like that again.”

But what if you had liked it? “I’m partial to it…” dipping just below the water, up to your nose and not averting your gaze from his. “It was hot.” There you said it.

Shisui smiles the width of his mouth. Hot, you thought it was hot to be fucked like a cocksleeve? “Is that so?”

“…yes.” There wasn’t any way around it. “Just maybe, we take turns?” This was something Shisui could work with.

Slipping into the tub with you, behind you. Shisui leans you against his chest. “I can manage that.” When you mentioned it was rather endearing aside from being mostly prone. He remembers, “about those gifts?”

“After you reheat dinner.” The soft white of the foamy bath water is washed over you by Shisui with a loofah.

He could do that. He would do anything you ask of him. Especially knowing that from this moment forward, he would be undoubtedly indebted to you once that beautiful body of yours was swollen for him.

#shisui uchiha #shisui headcanons #shisui smut #Shisui smutty Sundays #uchiha clan #uchiha headcanons #uchiha family #uchiha shisui

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kiss-seokjin · 1 year

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Nation’s Innocence

Thank you @caelesjjk for the banner!

Synopsis: He was the nation's bad boy and you were the nation’s innocence. Who knew you were secretly dating, and were quite intimate at that?

Pairing: idol Yoongi x idol reader

Genre/ au: smut, idolverse

Word count: 2,986

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Mostly smut, buff ginger Yoongi, swearing, reference to quarantine, reference to controlling label

Smut warnings: semi public sex, car sex, grinding, groping, ass slapping/ spanking, oral (m receiving), hair tugging, fingering, finger sucking, making out, begging, raw (wrap it before you tap it), vaginal sex, belly bulge, marking, nipple play, tit sucking, choking, creampie, big dick Yoongi, dom Yoongi, sub reader, corruption kink, slight praise kink, degradation kink (whore, slut, bitch)

We don’t gotta test drive nothin’ - Ariana Grande

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Parked in an empty parking lot outside of Seoul, you and Yoongi unbuckle your seatbelts. It is a bit past 11:30 PM, with the stars shining a bit brighter out here compared to the city. The full moon stands out against the dark sky, adding a little bit of light. Normally there may have been some others here at a small mall like this one at this hour, but due to recent regulations, most people now are at home by this hour. It was hard for you to sneak out of the dorm without getting caught, but Yoongi has taught you how to do it well. He knows a thing or two about being sneaky. He’s called the nation's bad boy for a reason. But he’s really quite sweet once you get past his cold exterior.

You both know what you're about to do. Ever since you started seeing Yoongi, you feel lucky your label forces all female idols to take the pill, because now that means you can do whatever you want with him without worries. But you also know full well dating and hooking up is also against the contract, so an eye for an eye you suppose.

This is gonna be the last time you can meet up with Yoongi before he flies off to the US for a month for a work schedule and vacation. You watch him as he slides off his hoodie, revealing hints of his muscular body under his white t-shirt and jeans. His newly dyed ginger hair looks extremely good on him, something the fans will surely lose their minds over. You’ve been eyeing him for the entire car ride, anticipating what you’ll be doing for the night.

He’s been giving you glances throughout the ride too, taking in your figure that is hidden under a hoodie and skirt. Not to mention the long socks and sneakers. Your cap and mask have been long forgotten as you fiddle with the hem of your skirt.

After putting on a special playlist for the occasion, Yoongi tunes it down to a semi low volume before turning to you.

“Are you ready to be ruined?” he asks.

“I was born ready,” you reply, smirking at him. You crawl on over, straddling him. Your skirt hitches up as you do. Placing your hands on his shoulder, you still smirk at him.

“Bold of you to take charge.”

“Not for long, baby. Let me please you.”

He puts his hands on your ass as you grind into him. You feel his member prodding against your core, slowly growing against the cloth between you. Feeling his member scraping against your core, you feel yourself starting to get wet under him. A whimper escapes your lips, causing you to bite your lower lip.

“Don’t hold it back baby,'' Yoongi says. “I want to hear it all. I want to hear you getting ruined by me.”

Releasing your lip, another whimper leaves your lip as his now hard member presses into your wet core. Yoongi’s grip tightens on your ass as you pick up your pace. He tilts his head back, jaw dropping in pleasure. You are beginning to feel more and more needy and Yoongi is too. Yoongi continues to grope your ass until suddenly, he slaps it.

“Is that all you got, bitch?” he taunts. “You gotta earn my dick.”

You pick up your pace once again, practically bouncing on him now. He slaps your ass some more, as though he is riding a horse. A long groan leaves Yoongi’s lips, his member feeling tight against his clothes.

“Yoongi,” you moan. “Please…”

“You’re such a needy whore,” he says. “For a girl nicknamed ‘Nation’s Innocence’ you surely are one big slut. Baby stop, I’ve got plans for you.”

He opens the door motioning for you to get out. You happily oblige, getting on your knees for him. The early November cold pricks at your skin, but you’re layered enough that you should be okay. Untying his belt, he sets it aside on the dashboard. Undoing his jeans, he pulls his cock out. His member is red and twitches, needing attention. The length and girth of it will be a lot to handle.

Sliding between Yoongi’s legs, you place your hands on his knees and look up at him with big eyes. He sticks his cock in front of your face.

“Suck me off like your life depends on it.” he commands.

Opening your mouth, you start to take him in. His girth makes you struggle to take him in, causing you to grunt. He places a hand at the back of your head to help you. Soon his cock reaches your throat and Yoongi thrusts in a little bit more for good measure. His fingers seep into your hair, tugging a little.

You start to bob your head on him, mouth and tongue doing work on Yoongi’s cock. He throws his head back, mouth agape as you pleasure him. You puff your cheeks before suching harshly. Yoongi sucks his breath as your tongue glides along him.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “You’re sucking me so well. You’re such a good slut.”

With a little tug from Yoongi on your hair, you start bobbing your head faster. His cock repeatedly ends up at the back of your throat again and again. Tears well up in your eyes as you try to take him the best you can.

Again you puff out your checks, sucking down more harshly on his cock this time. His cock goes deep into your throat as tears begin to roll down your face. Your knees hurt from being like this for so long and your throat hurts too. Your tongue does tricks on him as he moans about how good you are. Pleasure builds up on your panties and down your legs, your pussy throbbing for attention.

You grunt and whimper into him, causing him to finally lift his head and open his eyes. What he sees is your pretty little face sucking his cock like the good slut you are, except now tears are present.

“Stop, sucking,” he commands. Once you do, he pulls your head back, his cock leaving your lips. “What’s the problem?”

“Well…” you say, voice a bit raspy. “My throat was hurting a bit… And the ground is pretty uncomfortable… Yoongi, I really want your cock…”

“Where?”

“In my pussy.”

“What do you say?”

“Please Yoongi, please,” you say, crawling up to him. “I want you to fuck me so bad. My pussy is throbbing for your cock. Please, please, please fuck me.”

He looks down, seeing your juices dripping down your legs. All of this neediness is for him. His mouth waters at the side of your neediness dripping between your legs. How could he not give you a treat? Something he knows you’ve been wanting for a long while.

“Get on inside,” he says at last. Climbing inside, he positions you so that you're in a seated position on his lap but your upper half is over the console and front passenger seat. Kind of like doggy style. As he closes the car door, you point your ass up towards Yoongi and he flips the skirt out of the way down onto your back.

He pulls down your panties, a slick string of juices follow. Leaving the panties at your knees, Yoongi brings his digits back up, circling your clit. You whimper at his touch as his finger does tricks against your clit. Inserting a digit, Yoongi starts to gently thrust his finger into you. You sigh at its coldness against your walls. Yoongi licks his lips, watching as he thrusts his digit into you. Your walls suck him, enticing him.

Inserting another digit, he starts thrusting a bit harsher into you. You let out soft sighs as his slender fingers glide in and out of your pussy. Scissoring your walls, Yoongi strokes your ass.

“You’re pussy looks so beautiful, Y/N,” he mutters. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like with my cock inside it, ruining you. You’re just an innocent little slut, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you whimper softly, feeling Yoongi insert a third digit into you.

“What was that?”

“Yes, Yoongi. I’m an innocent slut… Please ruin me.”

“You want to be ruined, eh? Oh I’ll make sure there’s no innocence left once I’m done fucking you.”

He slaps your ass as he starts harshly ramming his digits into you. You start moaning, feeling the fiery knot in your core build a little. Every slap on your ass brings pleasurable pain shooting through you.

“Not so innocent now, you whore,” Yoongi exclaims, spanking your ass again. “Who’s responsible for corrupting the nation's innocence?”

“You,” you moan out as he starts ramming his digits harder into you.

“What’s my name, bitch?” he asks, harshly slapping your ass.

“Yoongi!” you practically scream and moan. “Min Yoongi is responsible for ruining me! Please ruin me more!”

“Oh you aren’t ruined enough you little slut? How would you like to be ruined?”

“I want your cock! Please Yoongi, ruin me with your cock. I’ve never had good cock until you.”

“To be honest, dear, my dick is the only dick that’s ever ruined you. But you need to be a good girl to earn it. Do you know how to be a good girl for me, miss nation’s innocence?”

“Please Yoongi. Please ruin me with your cock. Please take my innocence for good like you promised. I’ll always be a good girl for you Yoongi. Please I want you so bad babe. Fuck me senseless. Please… Min Yoongi, I'm begging you. I’ve been such a good girl. I’ll always be a good girl for you.”

“You’re such a good girl, it's bad. I think you’ve earned it.”

Stopping his thrusts, he pulls his fingers out of your throbbing pussy. Helping you up, Yoongi puts his now wet fingers in front of your face.

“Suck me dry, will you?” he asks. Softly taking him by the wrist, you take his fingers to your lips. You suck them, tasting your juices.You sigh into it, eagerly sucking away. “This is only before my cock and you're already so excited. How cute.”

Removing his fingers from your mouth. He harshly placed his lips against yours. Yoongi can taste your arousal all over as he sticks his tongue inside. As you passionately kiss, articles of clothing get removed. A skirt. A pair of jeans. A hoodie. And so on. This only leaves your bare bodies exposed. Yoongi’s buff figure is something you can’t help but eye as he lowers the seat back until it is mostly flat.

Flipping you around, Yoongi ends up on top, gazing down at you with hungry eyes. Yoongi gives his cock a few pumps before he places his hands on your waist. You wrap your arms around his back and legs around his hips, pulling his hips down. His cock teases your entrance, gaining an anticipatory whimper from your lips. Yoongi softly smirks to himself.

Finally, Yoongi enters your pussy at long last. Your walls stretch as he slowly pushes himself deep into you. You can only watch in awe as his cock bulges in your pussy as he pushes deeper and deeper. The stretch hurts a little but it only brings you more pleasure. Finally his girth fills you up, with a bulge that you could only describe as jaw dropping. Yoongi looks down as well, smirking at the bulge. He smirks back at you, almost as if to say ‘I told you so’.

He lets you fully adjust to his size before pulling part way out, promptly thrusting back into you. Yoongi starts with moderate thrusts, hips sharply snapping his cock deep into your pussy. Moaning, your nails sink into his back in pleasure. As lewd noises fill the car, Yoongi peppers your skin with kisses, leaving marks as he goes. He gives extra attention to your sweet spot, tongue gliding along your skin before nibbling down. With care, his lips travel all over your neck, shoulders, and chest.

“Yoongi,” you moan out as he gets to your breasts. Yoongi trails his lips over one, gently placing his them over your tit. As he sucks, he places a hand on the other one, hands kneading it like a cat. You stare up at the ceiling as Yoongi sucks and fondles your boobs, sighing and whimpering in pleasure.

Yoongi traces his tongue over your breast, nibbling down on your erect tit. He moves his jaw slightly, giving a little twist. His thrusts remain stable throughout this, building the fire in your core. His hand kneads down, fingers doing wonders on your breast. Yoongi’s fingers find your tit and give it a little squeeze, making you whimper. He sucks on your nipple, little licks from his tongue gazing against your tit on the occasion. His other hand grasps your hip, keeping it steady against his thrusts.

Yoongi removes his lips from your breast, a slight pop filling the air. He places his hand back at your hip, lips trailing up your chest to your neck. He picks up his thrusts, snapping into you more quickly and harshly. As he rams his cock into your pussy, he sucks at your neck, grunting against you here and there. Your jaw drops in pleasure, with a slew of moans of moans and sighs leaving your lips.

Yoongi picks his head up, watching your face make beautifully lewd expressions. It is only more arousing with the slew of noises leaving your lips. It’s addictive and he can’t get enough of it.

“Y/N,” he moans. “Fuck. Look at what you do to me, baby. Seeing you turn into such a slut does so much to me. Who made you such a slut, nation's innocence?”

“Yoongi,” you moan. “I’m a slut for Min Yoongi.”

“Who else?”

“Just Min Yoongi. I’m only a slut for you.”

“Good girl,” he says, placing a hand at your neck. He places his fingers in behind your throat, gently pressing down. It is slightly restrictive but isn’t concerning. Yoongi is really the careful type, not wishing to inadvertently cause actual harm to the ones he loves for momentary pleasure.

Feeling your pulse, you start to feel a bit lightheaded from Yoongi’s gentle press. He still is looking down at your face, grunting and sighing as he rams into you. Sighing, you look up at Yoongi, face showing a mix of pleasure and lightheadedness. Yoongi cocks his head back, moaning.

“You don’t know how much you do to me,” he groans. You softly smile at him, sighing in pleasure. He removes his hand from your throat, placing it back at your hip. He picks up his pace yet again, snapping his cock into you hard and fast.

The car bounces every time he rams his cock into you. He slams into your cervix again and again, causing pleasure to shoot through you. Your legs tighten around his waist a little, with your fingers digging into his back. The lewd noises fill the car, seeming a bit louder due to the small environment.

Yoongi starts to moan and sigh, muttering your name, nicknames, and praises. His fingers dig into your hips as he rams into your pussy. His strong arms tense up as he does. The windows have long since fogged up, only aiding in your privacy.

Feeling your high around the corner, you only start to become more vocal, jaw dropping as you let out a slew of moans. Yoongi’s face is just as expressive as yours now, with him also nearing his climax. Sweat glistens on his face and muscular body, only making him look so much more sexy. He’s worked himself so much just for you.

Your pussy feels so nice wrapped around his cock. It sucks him just right as he pounds deep into it. It is driving him crazy and he can’t get enough of it. Not to mention how expressive and vocal you are because of him. Seeing the sweaty glow of sex on your beautiful face and body as your hair drapes off the seat only spurs him on. You’re like this because of him and it is so beautiful.

“Y/N, you’re too good - oh Y/N,” Yoongi moans out before sighing. He rams into your g-spot as he does, making you come at last. You moan and scream Yoongi’s name, legs tightening around his waist as you see stars. It is such a powerful climax and Yoongi fucks you through it, feeling your arms and legs tighten around him, pulling him closer.

Your pussy is so tight around him as he thrusts into it, driving him wild. Hips shuddering, Yoongi thrusts his cock deep into your pussy, cumming. As you both cum, you grind against each other, milking every drop. Your pussy is now more filled than it was before and you can feel it. Cum is already starting to drip out as your grind.

Once you both finish, Yoongi lays on top of you, exhausted. His now soft member is still inside your dripping pussy. He places soft, loving kisses on your lips.

“You're just so good to me, baby,” he mutters between kisses.

“You ruined me so well,” you softly praise. “I love you.”

“I love you too… Let’s just… Stay like this for a bit, please? I promise I’ll drive you home soon.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be than with you, babe.”

So you stay there, softly and passionately kissing in his car, with all the time in the world slipping away as you spend these final, infinite moments with the man you love; Min Yoongi. The nation's bad boy. But he’ll come running back, he always does. Because how could he ever truly leave the woman he loves, the nation’s innocence?

#btsdreamcourt #btswritingcafe #btscarnivalnet #bts #suga #yoongi #reader #x reader #yoongi x reader #idolverse #smut #y/n

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mlmmetalhead · 2 years

Text

Comes like a comet.

Mark Renton x Male reader

Lmaoo idiot simp bitch drank a shit ton of outdated orange juice

Extremely self-indulgent. Like I can't imagine it being more self-indulgent if I wanted to.

It was a rainy night, a little bit past two a.m, when Y/N heard a knock oh his door. A normal person wouldn't unlock the door, or would at least ask who it was, but Y/N already knew, as when the door opened, it revealed a completely drenched Mark. Y/N hadn't seen the man in about two months, but instead of asking where he was, or what he was doing, he silently moved out of the way, letting Renton in.

Mark stumbled in the apartment, his arms wrapped around himself, his whole body shaking. He tried to speak and to explain himself, but L/N only took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom, taking his jacket and shirt off and tossing them to the washing machine.

"Are you in the right state to bathe yourself right now?" - Y/N calmly asked, his hand gently stroking the skin on Renton's shoulder.

The other man thought for some time, before slightly shaking his head.

"I don't... I don't think I'll be able to... Y'know... I'm sorry, Really... You don't have to, we can... We can wait till morning..."

Y/N sighed and carefully helped Mark undress himself completely, all while the other man was apologizing profusely. L/N wrapped one hand around Mark's waist and placed a light, reassuring kiss on his forehead, before helping him in the bathtub. Renton smelled horrendous. It seemed as if he hasn't showered since the last time he was in his boyfriends apartment.

Mark relaxed against Y/N's hand, as warm water surrounded him, and his boyfriend started massaging his scalp with shampoo. He wanted nothing more then to just close his eyes and fall asleep right there and then, but he knew that L/N wouldn't allow him, not before he got everything checked out and was ready.

When Mark was finished with bathing, and now was sitting all cleaned up, dressed in Y/N's clothing, in his kitchen, Y/N was preparing tea near the counter.

"What did you take?"

Renton didn't answer. The question wasn't a rude, or an angry, not even a concerned one. His boyfriends voice was completely calm, and understanding. And that just added to why Mark was feeling guilty. His partner has gotten so used to him coming like this, he didn't even react like it was something out of the ordinary.

"I asked, what did you take, Mark?"

"Morphine..."

Y/N once again sighed, not turning around, obviously trying to be quiet, so Mark wouldn't hear, but he did. And it made him feel worse.

"How long ago did you take it?"

"About five hours... Or longer... What time is it?"

L/N turned around with a cup of tea, and some pills, handing them to Renton. He looked up with grateful eyes and started drinking, letting the warmth carefully spread within his lanky body. He felt awful. He was mad at himself, his whole body felt like it was freezing and on fire at the same time. Y/N noticed the troubled expression on his face, and calmly said:

"It's alright, love. I promise. It's not a problem. Please, finish your tea and take some meds, so you can go to sleep."

Smiling, he stretched out his hand, taking Renton's skinny palm in his. The other man smiled, drinking a little more. He did feel a little better, and safer now.

When he finally got to the bed, Y/N tucked him in, climbing under the blanket himself afterwards. They were both quiet for some time, listening to the rain pouring outside, their minds filing with calmness and love. Mark closed his eyes, staying in the moment, feeling a pair of stronger hands wrapping around his figure. He silently asked:

"You wouldn't want this to end, right?"

His eyes met Y/N's.

"No. I want this to last. I want us to be together. Forever, if you're not scared of that word" - he chuckled.

"Even with... All of this? With me being a mess, forcing you to help me, to..."

"Well, that's not true. You're not forcing me. No one's forcing me at all. I'm helping you for one simple reason..."

Mark smiled, coming closer to Y/N' face.

"And I love you, too."

The kiss was gentle, full of patience, peace, and unconditional love. When Mark moved away, he stayed still in his lovers arms, closing his eyes, slowly falling asleep, surrounded by Y/N's warmth.

#x male reader #x reader #mark renton x reader #trainspotting #trainspotting x reader #mark renton x male reader #ewan mcgregor #🍷 mlmmetalhead

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kennieswrld · 9 months

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I Always Want To Die (Sometimes)

TW! Talks of suicidal ideations, graphic details of abortion and an overarching reference to the 1975.

Three days ago I planned to end my life. I was going to take all of my sleeping pills at once as well as my mood stabilizers. Life felt (and still kinda does) worthless and undeserving of my time or energy. I just wanted to end the numb and dull void that had began growing in my chest since my breasts began to develop.

Most will say that being "emo" is "just a phase" and that "most people grow out of it". I never realized until today that I am not one of those "most people". At first it was a fun and world bending way for me to express myself and take in- (never finished this sentence and I have no idea what I was going to say nor how I was going to finish this paragraph. Maybe it's my love for loving the unknown but I wanted to keep this thought here for a sentiment to the emotions I was going through while writing this at the time. Like where was this going? What was I even trying to say?)

Waking up everyday in absolute depression because you didn't choke on your own spit in your sleep? Yeah buddy, that's not normal. Isolating yourself from the world and pretending that the people on TV understand you better than yourself? That isn't normal. Planning your own death and writing out your own will and eulogy? Not. Normal.

That introduction was an attempted post I began writing around 3 months ago from when I'm writing this now. Boy oh boy do I feel like hiding behind my shadow to see my raw emotions in writing. It's weird how in the 3 months since things and feelings have changed drastically. Yet that small voice in the back of my thoughts can still be heard some days.

It's kinda funny revisiting this draft of a post every now and then because I know what prompted me to start writing it in the first place. I was stood up on a date. As humiliatingly dramatic this reaction is to read now, it opened a lot of doors for me.

I still want to disappear sometimes. It comes and goes, it's a packaged deal with living with bipolar. But staying alive 3 months longer is insanely insane (double insane because wow is it a whirlwind of emotions). Over the past few months I've lived my life in a way I have never lived before. I overcame my fear of being happy.

I put myself out of my comfort of my room with my cat. I actually tried continuously communicating with people I enjoyed spending time with instead of listening to my inner selves doubts and anxieties. I let myself become vulnerable to another person who wasn't my closest friend for the first time in ages. And I had an abortion.

It's funny to think that most of my life ending thoughts and intense emotional ranges weren't from my bipolar, but rather my body preparing herself to create a tinier body within itself. It's a comedic blessing in disguise that he stood me up that day. Who knows if I would've even found out about my condition as fast as I did if I were more focused on another person than my own self? I think of that often.

Would I have not payed more mind to the uncomfortable abdominal cramps I was having? Would I have become someone's mother? Would I have become someone's reason for creation that they would've never had the chance to meet in person? Would I have gone through with the loud sobs going through my mind every day during those tumultuous 3 weeks?

I guess it's better to not know. Well, obviously it is since I don't have to live in any of those realities that I often catch myself thinking of. But, the idea of ending my life feels so beyond me now that I've made a life decision to keep my life the way it is rather than inviting a new one in (Totally not saying that the bloody golf ball that fell out of me was a 'life', it's more of a metaphor. For me at least. Please for the love of God support people's choices on what they want to do with their lives and not your opinion on what they should do). I find myself about it a few times every other week if I wallow in myself long enough, but not nearly as much as I did then.

Living with my bipolar and discerning how intertwined it is with who I am has been a rollercoaster to say the least. I have my up's and I definitely have my down's, but since the day I went to the doctor to receive that life altering pill I've felt different. I'm not guilty nor am I depressed over the decision I made that day, but I feel like it was the loudest alarm I've ever woken up to. I needed to climb out of the casket I was allowing it to bury me in.

I overcame my fear of never fitting in and became close friends with people I never thought I would've met during that time in my life. I met a girl who unknowingly to her aided me in visualizing how far deep in my head I was renting for the price of my mental health. For the first time in the 20 years I've been alive, I felt normal and as if I belonged somewhere. I still don't know what I'm doing with my life or where my future will take me, but it's less of a dead end feeling as it used to be. It is what it is. I can't worry about things I have no control over. But, I can enjoy every second I have in this disgusting yet beautiful planet.

I let myself experience loving another person and allowing them to love me back in the most intense way possible. But unlike my past attempts with romantic relationships, I learned how to truly empathize and absorb the differences my partners come with and what it takes and means to love someone properly and honestly. Not for the sake of just doing it just to feel less lonely than when alone. They met me after the ceasing the growth of the could've been big eyed parasite that tried growing in me. As cheesy as it sounds, I felt like it was the end of my story but they helped me start a new chapter. They helped me stare my self-made misery in the eye, and punch it's ugly face in the nose. To trust someone else's words and apply them in my day to day has brightened my days for the better. I thank every deity that could exist for the time spent with that person. Without their presence in my life I don't know how I could have processed that experience alone.

It's funny that this has sounded as if I'm super optimistic everyday but I know if depression drives into my life again my tone will shift from how it sounds now. But maybe it's good that I'm vocalizing the stability and happiness I've curated for myself in the past three months, maybe it will give me hope to live to see the future. Hence the title of this post. I want to learn more on how to bolden the 'sometimes' and strike out the always.

I'm not writing this for your pity, I'm writing this to give myself hope. And maybe anyone who reads this...mostly for myself though because I know I need to see myself saying what I'm thankful to be alive for when my illness tries to stuff me back in that cold and dark casket. It feels isolating living with this illness most days, but I'm not the first nor am I the only person dealing with this. Fuck, even people without bipolar feel this way sometimes. It's nice to know that your sadness isn't permanent, you're just afraid of not being sad because it's all you know. I'm so glad I got that abortion, I'm even happier I didn't let that tiny voice win. I have a cat to feed, and he needs me more than any dark thought that voice tries to convince me with.

tldr: putting my hand on the burning stove really made me change.

#journal #living with bipolar #dear diary #just girly thoughts #bipolar #writing

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thebestpersonherelovesbucky · 2 years

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Just venting

I’m not doing so well. I sort of feel like I’ve suddenly plunged back into an emotional downward spiral. I haven’t felt like this in months. but I think I know what’s really behind it.

My obgyn (she’s not the culprit lol) put me on the pill. Every time I’ve tried using it in the past, it’s sent my emotions into chaotic turmoil. This particular one, my doc said, isn’t known to having much of an effect on moods and also won’t interfere with my current med-cocktail. The reason I’m taking it in the first place is because I won’t stop bleeding, even after having surgery to fix the problem.

After about three weeks of not bleeding (after continuously bleeding for at least three weeks, and HEAVY) I started bleeding a week and a half ago in a relatively normal way (other than it continuing for more than a week). Made me think it was the first sorta typical period I’ve had in over a year. Then Sunday, it was like the elevator scene in The Shining. This past week alone, I’ve gone through two boxes of overnight pads. Cramps are horrendous. Not to mention how tired and weak and unfocused and achy (more achy than usual) I feel all the time.

This actually started in early 2021 (and, yes, I did speak to my old doctor then and we thought we fixed it but...)

And now I’m so depressed and down and gloomy. On the verge of tears all the time. Unable to concentrate. Bleeding and bleeding and bleeding, worrying that I might start leaking while out in public (which has happened) or stain the carpet, couch, bed.

And then I made the mistake of looking at reviews of my books, and even though there’re plenty of good things said about them, there’s those that aren’t and we all know how the negative sticks a lot more than the positives.

I’m trying extremely hard to not only remember that I can’t please everyone but also how this could be a way to improve. While commentary such as “total waste of money” and “I wanted to throw it across the room I hated it so much” and “it feels like fourteen-year-old girls wrote this” (which is pretty offensive, actually) don’t help in the slightest, other critiques might. Things like “this was repeated so often that it was annoying” or “there’s too much telling and not enough showing” can be very helpful. Like, oh, okay, I can see why you didn’t like it because of that, I’ll keep that in the back of my mind and hopefully do better next time.

On top of that, I’ve been having so much trouble actually writing and seeing that certainly didn’t help because now I feel like I shouldn’t even bother when rationally I know that’s stupid and it doesn’t matter if some people don’t like it and i think a lot of this reaction comes from the change in my moods bc i’m on the pill and it’s not even working.

It’s not even working.

Which means the next step might be a hysterectomy, and even though there’s barely even the slightest chance that we might have another baby, I still want to so badly. So badly that it hurts. I often dream about having another child. My dreams are usually all sorts of crazy, these dreams are perfectly normal. Like freaking WandaVision without the magic. Just a little world of my own while I sleep and when I wake all I want to do is cry. For ten years people kept saying “Oh, you have plenty of time, don’t worry!” when I’d talk about this (only with my husband, sisters, mom, and therapist) and here I am. Out of time.

And I know this all sounds incredibly selfish. I have two beautiful children and I feel so blessed that I do and they mean the world to me. It’s just that three was the number always in my head. The day after my youngest was born I was already talking about planning for another. Now there’s this ache burrowed deep in my chest that just won’t go away.

Anyway. I’m just venting to the void.

#my stuff #personal #negative #stfubucks #no one cares #god i'm just so sad #and i miss writing so badly #it's like there's a part of me missing #i'm so sick of being SICK all the time #ugh idek #just ignore me #menstruation #blood mention #long post

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theutiarchives · 2 years

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13. NINE MONTHS

❦ I have reached the 9th month mark and my bladder is ok. I’m back to taking about 60% of the supplements and herbs I was consuming prior and after fulguration (although I switched some) after ~ 3 weeks break. I still take them, and will for a long time, as I don’t trust this to be over until 1 year after my last infection, which means Christmas. Some of them are antibacterial but also anti viral, and since I am fighting high risk HPV, all the better. I owe myself this effort so I can feel like I’ve done *everything* I could, if I eventually do have an infection in the future /next months. Which honestly I really hope I don’t. 11 years is enough. If intercourse or anything remotely related to that subject triggers you (and I understand as I’ve been there), please skip the next slide/paragraph.

In terms of post coital care, besides my daily herbs (in all their shapes and forms) and supplements, I rely on powdered dmannose (a lot of it, for 48h) and so far I actually think that for a couple of times, at least, if it weren’t for it, I would have had an infection. I felt a slight pressure and irritation when peeing a few hours after, and for a few hours. You know when you’re simply walking and the bottom part of the bladder almost tickles? Or makes you want to go pee even though you just did? And the general awareness feel. And then it goes away, insisting with the dmannose. So I think now it’s actually doing something for me (one of my bugs is e.coli). Unfortunately my cervix still hurts if pushed - and this will only stop once I beat HPV/the chronic cervicitis starts to calm down. So, it’s been a mixed feeling, as if I’m now able to have intercourse “freely” like a normal person (I still don’t have words for this) but at the same time now it’s a painful experience if I’m not super careful, keep it short and especially, slow, not that frequent and no deep penetration. Sorry if TMI, but this is the real side of these things.

On the bladder front I’m clearly working on prevention now, but I’m slowing shifting some of the things I’m taking towards anti viral action due to 3 high risk HPV strains and cervical lesions. And if this brings any sort of comfort to anyone (and being sarcastic): if I wanted to rely on conventional therapies for this, I wouldn’t get any support - I got as many answers for HPV /chronic cervicitis as I had for my bladder for 11 years. Worse actually, as for HPV there are no prescription pills even. “Because there’s no cure”. They prefer to wait and then cut a piece of your cervix out if your body doesn’t clear the lesions all by itself and they progress.. (and still this guarantees nothing). But there is always support! So, it’s not just urologists, for sure.

As for gut it’s still an ongoing project but better. When I went on vacations I did my best to keep eating the right stuff for me - with a couple of exceptions. I’m no monk. But it didn’t matter, just after 24h out of my kitchen, my gut got rebellious. Took me 1,5 months to get it back to shape (and I was only abroad for a week). Things are sensitive after 11 years of antibiotics. And as I’ve always said here, probiotics are far from the holy grail answer to healing the digestive system (plus, I don’t tolerate them, just the spore based ones). I will be doing a full gut test analysis just to rule out a few issues and as for the rest I’m doing what I did with my bladder: tons of specific herbs, a ton of bitters, plant extracts too, etc etc - and of course the right food for me. That’s the very basic foundation actually. Sometimes my gut flares horribly with the most ridiculous thing like white beans but not brown or black, so who knows what happens there. I’ll be patient and I have to recognize it will take a lot to go over issues induced 11 years of antibiotics including too many cephalosporins in the past. No more gut bleeding for many months now, which is amazing.

Trying to keep this sort of short (although it’s not). I’ll write the next update probably when I hit one year post op. A huge hug to everyone who struggles. Recurrent or chronic.

(as an European non-English native please feel free to correct me) Take care 🌿

#recurrent uti #UTI #bladder problems #bladderfulguration #interstitial cystitis #chronicuti

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bettyfrancis · 3 years

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"What was it you always said...?"

The National, "The Pull Of You" / HANNIBAL 3x02

#brain rot disease #hannibal #hannibal nbc #will graham #hannibal lecter #hugh dancy #the national #hannigram #the pull of you #me all quarantine: i wish i had a hyperfixation im so bored #me this past month: can i please be normal. can i please take some pills that will kill the worms in my brain please #homegrown gif

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keilemlucent · 3 years

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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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anyoneseenadam · 3 years

Note

You write fenrys so well 🥺

Can I request something for him falling in love with a lady who works in a library and is friends with aelin and he keeps finding excuses to visit the library and one day they realize they’re mates ? Can you plz include alot of longing looks & touched and his friends noticing ?

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: drinking, small argument, mainly fluff

a/n: kay so it's been a hot MINUTE since I've posted and I am sorry my loves, also I comepletely modified this but I hope you still like it, comment and shiz pls it really helps with writers block lol <33

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You had met Aelin sometime after the war. She had been wandering around town a couple days after the coronation, smiling at children and waving at the elderly, observing the way the town was slowly filling again, people returning home now it was safe. There weren’t many people about however, it just being seven in the morning.

She had walked past a shop then. It was small and rickety, the door barely on its hinges as a girl fought with it, swearing like a sailor.

“Do you need some help?” she asked, moving to stand beside the girl. You screamed instantly, jumping out of your skin at her sudden appearance, having not heard anyone coming due to how absorbed you were in your job. Aelin screamed when you screamed, and it left the two of you staring at each other with wide eyes before you fell apart in fits of laughter.

You stood from where you had bent to clutch your stomach, wiping tears from your eyes as you calmed down.

“Jeez you fucking gave me a heart attack,” you laughed as she apologised, still giggling behind her hand. You then turned, hands on your hips as you glared at the door of your shop.

“Rude men should be put down,” you muttered and Aelin was laughing again.

“That I can get behind,” she said as you opened it, giving up on fixing it completely, Aelin gasping when she saw the inside.

“You have a bookshop!” she exclaimed, and you laughed.

“Had, now I just have dusty books and a broken door. It was my mother’s before…” you trailed off and Aelin put a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and you shrugged.

“It’s fine, it was ages ago anyway,” you stepped further into the shop, going to the large window up front and tugging of the white sheet that obscured it from light. “However, this shop isn’t dead yet so might as well get it done.”

Aelin looked around the shop, the paper on the walls was peeling, the paint on the shelves cracked and the books covered in a fine layer of dust. “Damn, where do we start?” she asked, rolling up her sleeves and grinning at you when you whirled around, frowning at her.

“Doesn’t the queen have better things to do?” you asked, and she shrugged, laughing at your bewildered expression.

“I’m sure my husband will cope.” You gave her an unsure look at that, and she laughed, “He’s competent.”

“If you say so.”

“If you knew I was queen you really have no fear of authority do you?” she asked as you started pulling books down and pilling them onto the sheet you just pulled off the window.

“Respect is earned, plus you’re the one who made me shit myself.” She laughed again, smiling widely, and helping you take down more books as she realised this was the most she had laughed since the war ended.

The worked all day. First removing the books and putting them upstairs in the rundown apartment you lived in, filled with plants, blankets, and somehow even more books. Next the repainted the shelves, setting them outside to dry while they re-wallpapered the walls and cleaned the floor until it was shining.

When the sky got darker you swore as you realised neither of you had eaten all day, going up to your new friend and asking her what she wanted for dinner.

“I make really good pasta,” you had suggested, and she had nodded enthusiastically as you went upstairs to your apartment, drinking wine as you cooked together. As you ate on the floor, drinking yet another bottle of wine, this time straight from the bottle Aelin asked about your past.

You assured her it was relatively normal, asides from the whole ‘evil tyrant thing’ as you put it. You talked together for hours, going back downstairs, and bringing the now dry, sage green shelves back in and putting all the books away, setting them in categories.

Hours later Aelin decided to go home, not wanting to worry so much and she opened the still broken door, the both of you laughing as you realised you had forgotten a pretty integral part.

“Hey, you could just name the shop, ‘the broken door’,” she suggested, and you smiled.

“That would work.”

When Aelin got home she was met with a concerned Rowan, asking where she had been all day.

She smiled at him, pausing before answering, “I think I have a new best friend.”

Rowan frowned at that, “And what brings you to that conclusion?”

“Today was the first time I’ve laughed since…” she trailed off as silence fell at the thought of their past few months, Rowan then bringing her in for a hug.

“You know this means I have to meet her too then,”

“Nope my best friend get your own.” She shoved him playfully, falling asleep next to him that night with a smile on her face.

They went to see you the next morning and Aelin laughed when she saw your dishevelled state.

“Did you sleep?” she asked when she walked into the shop and found signs put up and plants dotted around the room as you sat on the floor, drinking a coffee that smelt so strong she almost gagged, much preferring sweeter tastes.

“Sleep is for the weak!” you said, half-heartedly raising your hand.

“And what’s with all the plants?” Rowan asked, frowning as he almost walked into another and you sat up straighter, glaring at him.

“What you too good for plants?” you asked your hands moving over-exaggeratedly as you got to your feet. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just a stinky man,” you whispered to the plants and Aelin laughed at her husbands offended face.

You stood and started walking upstairs, your feet dragging as you went to get breakfast. You heard them follow you and you pushed open the door to your flat.

You had even more plants up here and Rowan rolled his eyes as you moved to open the large windows, letting in fresh air, you then moved about making pancakes, mixing enough for the three of you and adding blueberries when you were finished.

You cooked them up while chatting idly with Aelin and Rowan, only receiving a small amount of judgement when Aelin discovered you didn’t actually have a bed and instead just a mattress on the floor with a sheet for warmth and some soft pillows. Your house was newly decorated, art hung on the walls, plants and candles decorating every surface.

“Tea, coffee, water, vodka?” you offered them drinks and Aelin whined.

“No vodka, we had too much wine last night,” you laughed at that as you served up coffee and pancakes.

“Yeah we’ll have to go properly drinking some night,” you muttered, Rowan chuckling under his breath and nodding in agreement.

The three of you ate the rest of your food, laughing and joking together and Rowan really noticed the difference in Aelin’s manner. She hadn’t been truly comfortable or at ease in months, always looking over her shoulder, but now she sat laughing with her friend and Rowan wanted to thank you a million times over for bringing her back out of her shell.

Since you first met Aelin you were meeting up almost every day, discussing books over tea and hanging out at your shop, or drinking from expensive glasses in her castle while trying on elaborate dresses. Soon you were practically apart of the family, but that didn’t stop the confusion Fenrys felt when he walked into the castle and found a young girl sleeping on Aelins’ bed, a book opened but abandoned on her chest.

He tentatively walked forward so he could see her more clearly and felt his heart clench when his eyes fall upon her peaceful face, her eyes closed, and hair spread around her head like a halo. He was about to reach a hand out to brush a strand of hair from her soft hair when he heard the door open, turning to see Aelin run in, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“Fenrys I didn’t know you were back,” she said when she pulled back, bouncing on the soles of her feet excitedly and he laughed.

“Are you going to explain why there’s a girl in your bed, or do I need to break some news to Rowan,” he joked and she shoved his shoulder before moving to the bed and shaking the girl awake.

“It’s just (y/n),” she explained as the girl huffed and rolled away from Aelin.

“Ah of course this person who I definitely knew existed,” Aelin stuck her finger up at him as he laughed, unable to stop his eyes from trailing back to her.

He watched as she breathed in deeply, her eyes opening slowly as she took him in, before she pulled her covers up to over her chin and frowned at him and Aelin with a small pout.

“I was having the best dream every asshole,” she complained and Fenrys smiled as she sat up on her elbows and reached a hand out to him to shake, introducing herself. He brushed the shake of and instead brought her hand to his mouth pressing a kiss to the back of it as sparks show through her skin at the sensation.

“I’m Fenrys, ambassador of Terrasen,” he smiled cheekily as she shrunk away slightly, nerves taking over her, “hope to see you around more.”

He left, pressing a quick kiss to Aelin’s temple, and winking at you as Aelin moved over to you with wide eyes.

“Aelin…” you started as she squealed.

“He was totally flirting with you! You would be such a cute couple, please, please ask him out I need you two to get married and have to worlds prettiest babies!” she was bouncing in hr seat as you moved to shut her up.

“Okay ONE, I just met him. And TWO, he was far too pretty for me,” you said and Aelin frowned.

“Nope, nope you are incorrect, and he is going to fall in love with you,” she demanded, and you laughed, kicking her with your foot.

“Mhm sure.”

The next few days, Fenrys was coming to your shop every day. He would bring chocolates and flowers some days, or coffee and pastries other days. Always dropping them off with a smile, before lounging in the plush, green chair in the corner of the shop and talking to you for hours. He has also started coming to your and Aelin’s weekly cocktail night, wrapping his arm around your shoulder’s and laughing drunkenly into your neck as you told stories.

However, through all this you remained ‘friends’. He would press kisses to your cheek and hands, keep an arm slung around your waist when men came to speak at you at bars and primarily referred to you using pet names and rarely ever your actual name. And it was getting frustrating.

You were having to start putting genuine effort to not kiss him every time you had a drink and he sat extra close to you. Or when you were invited to parties, and he moved smoothly through the countless questions asking if you were dating.

And while you revelled in the attention it was tearing at your heart slightly as insecurities told you that he would never actually be interested in you. You wanted to scream at him every time he kissed you but wanted to melt into him every time he hugged you, your brain constantly at battle with itself when he was near.

You knew you were due to explode any time soon. So when you were out one night and he was holding you extra close, you pulled away, muttering an excuse about getting another drink.

Standing at the bar as you waited you rested you head in your hands for a second before you saw a man begin to approach you. He was attractive, not like Fenrys, but honestly you would take anything to get your mind of him at the moment, so you smiled at him, tilting your head.

“What’s a doll like you doing all alone?” he asked, his voice rough and gravelly, unlike the smooth, deep timbre you were used to, but you just laughed.

“Waiting for a man to not dehumanise me,” you bit back, and he raised his hands sheepishly.

“Sorry about that, what would you prefer?” he flirted, sidling up closer to you as you turned to face him.

“Can’t go wrong with ma’am,” you joked, and he laughed, looking down and shaking his head, only to look back up, his eyes going wide. You felt a familiar hand wrap around your waist and looked up to see Fenrys, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as he glared at the man in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice deep and full of authority, the man in front of you shrinking under his gaze.

“Shit sorry man, didn’t realise she had a boyfriend,” he apologised and this time you did roll your eyes.

“He’s not my-“ you began but Fenrys cut you off.

“Yeah she does, so back the fuck off.” You looked down as he spoke, shaking your head as tears of frustration built in your eyes. You harshly pulled out of his grip, leaving the bar as quickly as you could, wiping away the escaped tears as you heard Fenrys follow after you, shouting your name.

You whirled around when you got outside, your glare murderous.

“You do not get to do that!” you shouted as he moved closer to you.

“Sweetheart I’m sorry,” he began but you cut him off.

“NO! I am not your girlfriend! You have never once asked me to be so you don’t get to try scare away any guy that might have genuine interest in me!” his shoulders slumped as you spoke. Truthfully, he has been working up the courage to ask you out for months, and while he knew it was unfair how he treated you, he couldn’t help himself. He was addicted. He thought of you constantly, the texture of your skin, the smell of your hair, the way your eyes lit up and the way you moved your hands as you spoke. So when he saw you engage with the man that had the audacity to talk to you, his grip tightened on his glass so much it shattered, ignoring the worried looks from Aelin and Rowan as he stomped over to you.

“(y/n) listen, I’ve been an asshole I know,” he raised his hands, tentatively stepping towards you, “But I really care about you, and I want to be yours.”

You laughed bitterly, “You’re just saying that.”

He shook his head vehemently, stepping closer to you again and wrapping his arms around your shoulders so gently, one would think you were made of glass.

“I love you darling, please be mine,” he said into your hair, and you pulled back, looking up at him through glassy eyes before nodding slightly.

“I love you Fenrys,” he smiled down at you before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss against your mouth, pouring his heart into the action. You gasped slightly as your lips met and he smiled widely against your mouth as the bond clicked into place.

“You know this means I now have an excuse to break the nose of any man that talks to you,” he whispered against your lips, and you giggled, shoving at his shoulder gently.

“I’m still annoyed at you,” you muttered, and his eyes darkened.

“Well I’m sure I can make it up to you.”

#fenrys moonbeam x reader #fenrys moonbeam #fenrys x reader #throne of glass

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watchyourbluesturngolden · 3 years

Text

sick

taking care of Harry when he’s sick

warnings: none

word count: 1.2k

"Harry, baby, you're hot," you frowned, pressing the back of your hand against his chest. This wasn't abnormal, the man was basically a furnace. You didn't mind, it made cold winter nights much cozier for you. Right now, though, he was way too warm. You were almost sweating just from being cuddled next to him.

"Thank you?" he mumbled quietly, his voice thick with sleep and confusion.

"No," you rolled your eyes. "I mean you're hot hot."

"So are you," he rasped. "And I love you so much, but my head hurts, so... shhh," he trailed off, pressing a finger to your lips.

"Harry," you huffed. "You have a fever. Let me up so I can get you some medicine, you'll feel better."

"No," he frowned, not opening his eyes as he gripped you tighter. "No getting up. Only sleeping."

"You can keep sleeping. I'll be right back, but you need some medicine. It will make your head feel better too," you tried to convince him.

"No," he whined. "Don't get up, I'm cold."

"Yes, baby, you're cold because you have a fever," you explained again. It was like bargaining with a three year old. "If you let me get you some medicine, your fever will go down and you'll feel much better."

"Can't leave me," he mumbled, already half asleep again. "Please don't leave me."

"Harry," you sighed. You knew he would pout at you if you got up, but you also knew he would feel much better if you got him some medicine.

With this in mind, you ignored his whining as you pulled yourself away from him. You opened and closed the door quietly, not wanting to make his headache any worse.

Once you got to the kitchen, you found the Tylenol and a cool washcloth. You also grabbed a water bottle and an orange, in case he got his appetite back. When you opened the bedroom door, Harry hid his face under the blankets.

"Too bright," he whined.

"Sorry," you whispered, closing the door behind you. "Sit up, baby, you need to take some Tylenol."

He shook his head.

"Harry," you sighed again. He was not fun to take care of when he was sick. "Please? For me?"

He groaned dramatically before sticking his head out of the little cave he had made in the blankets.

You smiled, handing him one of the pills and the bottle of water. He swallowed it quickly, trying to give the water bottle back, but you shook your head.

"Take a few more drinks, you have to stay hydrated."

He sighed, dropping his head back to the pillow.

"Harry, take two drinks, or I'm not getting back in bed."

"You're so mean," he groaned, but lifted the bottle to his lips anyways.

"I know," you said with a small smile. "I'm so terrible for taking care of you when you're sick."

"Mhm," he said, his voice muffled since his face was smushed into the pillow. "There, I took two drinks, please come back here."

You took the bottle from his outstretched hand, setting it on the nightstand. "Do you want the cold washcloth?"

He shook his head. "Just want to hold you, please?"

"Of course, baby," you pulled back the blankets, shushing him softly when he whined at the cold air.

You settled against him, smiling when he rested his head on your chest. You brought your hand up to run your fingers through his hair as he wrapped his arms tightly around you.

"Feels nice," he murmured.

You hummed softly, continuing the gentle movements as his soft breaths hit your skin. Before long, his breathing evened out and he was completely relaxed against you. Once you were sure he was sleeping soundly, you shuffled around to find a more comfortable position, still cuddled closely against him. You figured a few more hours of sleep would be good for you, since taking care of sick Harry was a full time job. You didn't mind, though. It wasn't often he needed you to take care of him, and it was nice that he got so cuddly when he didn't feel well.

-----

You woke suddenly to the sound of a door slamming. You sat up, your bleary eyes searching for Harry. He wasn't in the bed, and the door leading to the bathroom was closed.

You made your way over, but stopped when you heard Harry being sick. You knocked softly on the door.

"Harry? Are you ok?"

"Don't come in," came his quiet voice. "Just let me die in peace."

You tried not to roll your eyes. He was so dramatic when he was sick. Instead, you tried the doorknob. Seeing how it was unlocked, you opened the door slowly to see Harry sitting next to the toilet, leaned against the wall.

He tipped his head back to rest on the surface, looking up at you with tired eyes. "I'm fine, you don't have to be here."

"I'm taking care of you," you reminded him, stepping further into the room. "I'm not just going to leave you alone when you're sick. What kind of girlfriend would I be?"

"A normal one," he replied, looking down at his hands. "It's really fine, and anyways, I don't want you to get sick."

"We've been together every day for the past three months, Harry. If I get sick, I get sick. Now come on, let's get you cleaned up."

He nodded slowly, bracing himself against the wall to stand up. You handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth before he grabbed his toothbrush.

Once he was done, he looked at you tiredly.

"I think I'm going back to bed," he said, his eyes drooping.

"Okay," you nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Really?" He seemed surprised. "You don't have to, it's the middle of the day."

"I don't mind," you said. "Haven't any of your girlfriends ever taken care of you when you were sick?"

"Not really," he admitted with a small blush. "Usually they thought it was gross- because it kind of is- so I just... slept it off by myself."

"Well, that's terrible," you pouted slightly. "This is what they're supposed to do. They're supposed to cuddle you and bring you medicine and force you to stay hydrated even when you don't want to. And I don't think it's gross. It's normal. Everybody gets sick, right?"

He hummed in agreement, pulling you back to your room. "Well, I really appreciate it," he said, flopping down on the bed.

"Of course," you smiled. "Get some sleep, you'll feel better when you wake up." He sighed softly at the feeling of your fingers brushing through his hair again.

"I love you so much," he murmured against you. "More than anything. Anything in the whole world, you're my favorite. And... you're so soft. And warm. I just... love." He was barely coherent at this point, but the general message got through.

"I love you too," you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. And you stayed like that for the rest of the day. That is, until Harry started whining about being cold again. Then the whole process started over.

#harry styles #harry fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x you fanfiction #harry styles x reader fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles/you #harry styles/reader #harry styles/reader fanfiction #harry styles/you fanfiction #one direction #one direction fanfiction #fanfiction #sick fic #sick!harry

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ghosthunterbuck · 3 years

Text

like it means something

buddie (2.8k) (read it on ao3)

Evan. His own name won’t stop rattling around in his head. Evan.

He brings Eddie home from the hospital and everything’s - not okay, Eddie still got hurt and Buck still had to watch it and Bobby’s still hurt too, but - they’re getting there. No one died, and that’s a hell of a lot better than it could’ve been. No one died.

Evan.

Eddie kisses Chris’s forehead and Buck grins wide, because yeah, of course he would take care of him if the worst happened, but this is what Christopher deserves. His family, alive and whole and well.

Taylor’s there. Of course she is, Buck’s mind supplies, you asked her to be. She’s your friend. More than a friend? Buck doesn’t know. There’s a lot to unpack there, and with everything else that’s happened, they haven’t had the time. It’s a conversation for another day.

Abuela, Pepa and Carla each take their turn fussing over Eddie and then, to Buck’s surprise, him too. He doesn’t understand why. Eddie got shot, not him. Eddie’s the one who hasn’t been home in a week, not him. Eddie -

Evan.

Buck’s at a loss. It’s a party of sorts, but Eddie’s exhausted and so is he. Buck feels completely wrung out, and he can see the tension in Eddie’s expression that says he does too. He wants to tell everyone else to leave, but it isn’t his place. Still, though, Taylor seems to get the hint first. She pulls him aside with a gentle hand to his shoulder.

“I’m going to head out. Is there anything you need?” she asks.

Buck shakes his head mutely.

“Just... get some rest, okay? I know you want to take care of him, but you’re not the only one who can.” She presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then heads over to where Eddie and Ana are seated at the dining room table to make her excuses.

Taylor is half right and half wrong. There are other people that can take care of Eddie, but Buck won’t be able to rest unless he’s nearby.

Evan.

Abuela and Pepa leave next, citing the sinking sun and the growing weariness in Eddie’s movements. They each kiss him on the cheek and go with the promise to return in the morning. Abuela’s left behind enough food to feed an army for a week, stacked in the fridge in carefully labeled Tupperware.

Then Carla goes and it’s just Eddie, Ana, Buck and Chris.

Evan.

Buck should probably go, he knows, but he can’t quite bring himself to. He knows Eddie’s okay, has the living proof sitting right in front of him, but the second he looks away all the tension of the week returns, the fear and anxiety mixing sickeningly in his stomach.

Christopher has fallen asleep in Eddie’s lap, head tucked into his good shoulder. Eddie himself is fighting yawns. It’s been a long day.

Finally, it’s Ana who breaks the silence, standing and pressing a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “Get some rest,” she says. “And text me if you need anything.”

It’s virtually the same thing Taylor said to him, and it strikes Buck as odd. They’ve been together, what, six months now? She should be saying more. Maybe she’s not because he’s here. Buck still can’t bring himself to leave.

Evan.

Neither of them has moved in the minutes since Ana left, but Eddie’s eyes are starting to drift and Buck knows he needs to sleep.

“Let me take Chris,” he says softly.

The grateful nod Eddie gives him is a testament to just how tired he really is.

Buck picks him up carefully and carries him to bed. He tucks him in and presses a kiss into his forehead. Once upon a time, he might’ve wondered if that was his place. Not now, though, not after everything Eddie said. He loves this kid like his own; he’s not going to pretend it’s anything less.

Evan.

He flicks the light out and makes sure Chris’s night light is on before gently shutting the door. Wordlessly, he returns to Eddie’s side.

There’s a grimace of pain on Eddie’s face that hadn’t been there before, and a quick glance at the clock tells Buck that he’s way past due for another round of medication. He grabs the pills and a bottle of water from the kitchen.

“The doctor said I can give you ibuprofen, too, if this isn’t enough.”

Eddie shakes his head minutely. “No, this is okay.” He swallows the pills Buck offers him dry, then washes them down with a swig of water.

“You need to sleep,” Buck says. “I should-“

“Stay, please?” Eddie interrupts him.

And how could Buck say no to that?

Evan.

Buck’s barely asleep when he hears Eddie cry out. He’s on his feet in a second and by Eddie’s side in less.

Eddie’s asleep still, but his face is scrunched and he’s curled in on himself like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Buck places a hand on his leg and shakes him gently.

Eddie shoots up, hissing in pain and clutching his shoulder. His eyes dart wildly around the room, unseeing.

“Hey, hey, just a dream, you’re okay,” Buck says.

Eddie’s eyes are wide with fear as they meet Buck’s. He sucks in a ragged, shuddering breath, then sags.

“I- you. You were- fuck,” Eddie stutters, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Buck repeats. He pulls Eddie to his chest. “You’re okay.”

Buck rocks them back and forth gently as his shirt slowly grows wet with Eddie’s tears.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Eddie gasps against him. Buck just holds him tighter.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Eddie pulls back, wiping his eyes with his good hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Buck asks after a moment.

Eddie shakes his head but begins to speak anyway. “It was- I saw you, covered in blood and I couldn’t... couldn’t move, or, or help you. And- and then you were coughing up blood, just like at the party, and I tried, Buck I tried but it was like I was stuck in quicksand and I couldn’t-“ Eddie’s breathing has gone ragged again, so Buck grabs his hand.

“Me?” he can’t help but ask.

“Evan,” Eddie says, so tenderly it hurts.

Evan.

They fall asleep curled together, Eddie’s hand resting over Buck’s heart. It’s the first decent sleep Buck’s had since the shooting.

They don’t talk about it the next day, mostly because Buck doesn’t know what to say. He suspects Eddie doesn’t either.

Instead, much to Christopher’s delight, Buck makes pancakes. The three of them eat together on the couch, watching some cartoon that Chris seems interested in and Buck’s never seen before. It’s so painfully normal. Buck was terrified he’d never get to have this again, and now that he does he can’t shake the feeling that the other shoe is going to drop.

Evan.

That night, Eddie wordlessly pulls Buck into his bedroom. They lay facing each other in the dark. Buck wants nothing more than to bridge the gap between them, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.

There’s not much light in the room, just the ambient glow of the city filtering in through the cracks in the blinds. It’s enough to see Eddie’s face by, but it doesn’t help Buck read his inscrutable expression. He eventually gives up trying and closes his eyes.

He’s stiff, and sleep evades him. If Eddie’s shifting is any indication, he’s still awake too. Finally, Eddie heaves a sigh and, to Buck’s surprise, wraps a hand around Buck’s wrist and pulls. Buck opens his eyes and sees the silent question in Eddie’s.

Is this okay?

Buck presses himself into Eddie’s space without hesitation.

Evan.

Eddie has a doctor’s appointment the next day, and Buck’s agreed to meet Taylor for coffee after dropping him off. Carla’s with Chris for the day, to help him with school, leaving Buck with a free hour on his hands for the first time in over a week.

His stomach has been in knots all morning. He’s not sure if it’s the prospect of letting Eddie out of his sight for the first time since he’s been home, or the conversation he knows he’s about to have with Taylor.

Because he’s thought about it, and the idea of being with Taylor… he’s kidding himself. Before, maybe. But now, after, with the mess of feelings he has twisting in his chest - he’s not in a place to start something new. He’s not even sure he wants it - her - anymore. Taylor’s great, but she could never fill the hole that was punched in his chest by the same bullet that tore through Eddie’s shoulder.

He’s starting to wonder if he’ll spend the rest of his life dividing things into before and after.

Taylor’s already seated when he arrives, fingers wrapped around a cardboard coffee cup that’s still steaming. Buck almost expected to change his mind when he saw her, to suddenly remember why he was interested in the first place, but mostly he’s just anxious to get back to Eddie. He doesn’t even really feel the old curl of attraction he’s used to. He sits in front of her, suppressing a sigh.

Taylor looks up at him, wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. “Buck,” she says.

Evan.

“Hey, Taylor.”

“You don’t want coffee?” She asks, inclining her cup towards him.

Buck shakes his head. “Had some this morning,” he shrugs. “Don’t want to get jittery.”

Taylor frowns slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

They sit in awkward silence for what feels like an eternity before Buck finally breaks it.

“Look, Taylor,” he sighs. “There’s a lot going on right now, and I just… whatever this thing is between us, I’m not sure I have the space to figure it out. You deserve someone who’s all in, and I just can’t be right now.”

Taylor blows out a breath. “Oh thank god,” she says.

And that’s… unexpected. Buck raises a brow.

“You’re my friend, and I care so much about you, but I- I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do with it, so I told myself it was something else.” Taylor doesn’t look him in the eye. “All this earnestness is making me nauseous,” she jokes weakly.

Buck huffs out a short laugh. The tightly wound anxiety in his gut loosens, just a bit. “Friends, then?”

Taylor finally looks at him and smiles. “Friends,” she agrees.

“How was coffee?” Eddie asks. He’s looked vaguely constipated since Buck picked him up, but insists that his appointment went fine.

“Good,” Buck replies honestly. “We’re on the same page.” He’s driving, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie’s face do something complicated.

“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” There’s a beat of silence. “So you’re… together, then?”

Buck glances at Eddie, whose eyes are fixed on the road ahead of them. His expression is carefully neutral, but tight around the edges. Buck huffs a soft breath. “Nah,” he says. “End of the day it wasn’t what either of us wanted.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Eddie’s posture. “Oh. I, uh- are you okay with that?”

Buck chuckles lightly at that. “Yeah, Eds. Pretty sure I’ve got everything I need right now.”

Evan.

Sleeping in the same bed at night becomes something of a habit, just like not talking about it does. It’s not that Buck doesn’t want to. He’s just… not sure how. What do you say when you’ve got so many feelings that you can’t even begin to decipher them, and the only thing you know for sure is that the thought of letting your best friend out of sight for more than a few minutes sends you careening towards a panic attack? There’s not exactly a greeting card for that.

This song and dance, though, it’s familiar. Comforting, in its own way. They’ve always flirted with the line between friendship and more, daring to put a toe over it, but never to take an actual step. Buck can’t help but wonder if this is a step, and they’re both just too chickenshit to admit it.

Evan.

“Where’s Ana?” Buck asks one morning, apropos of nothing. “I would’ve expected to see her around more often.”

Eddie stiffens. “We, uh, we broke up.”

Buck whirls around, nearly flinging egg against the backsplash. “When?”

“After the party.” Eddie shrugs uncomfortably.

Buck’s eyebrows raise. “I’ve been with you 24/7 since then,” he says. The question is obvious.

Eddie rubs a hand through his hair and frowns sheepishly. “I… texted her?”

Buck’s jaw drops. “You ended a 6-month relationship, a week after you got shot, over text?”

“In my defense, I was on a lot of painkillers. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Buck can’t help but laugh, throwing his head back. After a moment, Eddie joins in.

“That,” Buck says between giggles, “was not cool, man!”

“Nope,” Eddie agrees.

It’s the best either of them has felt in weeks.

The night after Buck’s first shift back at the station, Eddie has the worst nightmare he’s had since that first night. It takes Buck three tries to wake him, and the glassy look in his eyes remains far longer than he’d like.

“Please be careful,” Eddie says finally. “You have to- I can’t-“

“I promise,” Buck says, holding him tight to his chest.

Evan.

It’s Buck’s own nightmare that brings things to a head.

He’s been sleeping surprisingly peacefully since Eddie’s return home, but when the nightmares do return, they’re the worst he’s had.

He dreams he’s stuck beneath the firetruck, white-hot pain radiating up his leg, watching helplessly as Eddie bleeds out in front of him. Eddie tries to drag himself to Buck, but each pull makes the wound gush even more blood. Buck tries to yell for him to stop, but he can’t make his jaw work.

He finally wrenches it open, only to find himself sitting bolt upright in bed. His throat feels raw, like he’s been screaming, and Eddie’s hand is clutching his forearm. He knows where he is, but the panic from his dream isn’t receding. It grows louder and louder, until finally, Eddie’s voice cuts through.

“Evan!” He says sharply. “You’re okay, you’re fine. You’re in my room, with me. We’re both okay.”

Buck sags and falls back against the pillow, willing his breathing to slow. “You keep saying that,” he whispers in the dark.

“What?”

“My name. Like it means something.”

“It does,” Eddie says. “Every single piece of you matters.”

And Buck… Buck almost believes him.

Evan.

The elephant in the room grows larger every day, but still, they don’t talk about it. For all intents and purposes, Buck lives at Eddie’s. It’s been months. Eddie doesn’t physically need his help anymore, but neither is willing to let the other go. With Eddie’s return date drawing nearer, though, it’s getting harder to ignore.

Buck doesn’t want to ask, but he has to. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop since practically the first night, and he can’t take it anymore. He decides to soften the blow with pancakes.

“I should probably go back to my apartment,” he says, as casually as he can manage, as if the words don’t feel like ripping his still-beating heart out of his chest. Buck tries not to examine that feeling too closely.

“You need something?” Eddie asks, like it hasn’t even occurred to him that Buck might not come back.

“No, I-“

“Oh,” Eddie says. His expression goes carefully blank.

“I just-“ Buck tries to explain.

Eddie holds up a hand forestalling him. “I get it,” he says. “It’s fine.”

Buck swallows, ignoring the voice in his head that says definitively that it’s not.

Evan.

Buck’s out the door, duffle in hand, when Eddie stops him.

“Buck, wait,” he says, “Evan!”

Buck drops his bag in surprise and turns, only to find Eddie much closer than he expected.

“Don’t go,” Eddie says in a rush. “Stay, please. I need you here. With me.”

Buck gapes at him, as slowly the knot of emotions in his chest begins to unravel. The string that encircles the edges, that one he knows well: fear. The one beneath it: anger, at the sniper and the universe for hurting Eddie all over again. Hope and devastation intermingle, while grief lay coiled off to the side.

And the string that runs through the middle, holding it all together… that’s love.

Oh.

Buck gets it now.

He takes a step forward, closing the minuscule gap between him and Eddie. “I don’t want to go,” he whispers.

“Then don’t.”

Buck kisses him, soft and sweet. A promise, one which Eddie returns in kind.

There’re still a million things to talk about, but for once in his life, Evan Buckley is pretty sure he has all the words he needs.

#911 #9-1-1 #buddie #911 fox #abbie writes #fic #mine

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spencersscout · 3 years

Text

Candlelit

WORDCOUNT: 2k

WARNINGS: smut, fluff, angst if you squint really hard, pwp, soft dom!reader/sub!spencer, takes place w season 4 spencer, nervousness, references to past sexual conduct, my immortal style outfit descriptions?, some boobie sucking, riding, unprotected sex, creampie, implied fem reader but gendered pronouns aren’t used

“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” - William Shakespeare, Hamlet

***

February is not, by far, Spencer’s favorite month of the year. It always dredges up horrible memories, ones of looking into Tobias Hankel’s glassy cornflower blue eyes and choking on his own foamy saliva. It’s only been two years since he went into that field, all alone, abandoning protocol and all common sense. It’s only been two years, but even if he doesn’t love February, he does love you.

It’s your first valentine’s day together and Spencer is determined to make it incredible for you. He cannot afford to fall short, he must sweep you off of your feet and hopefully into his bed. He knows deep down that all he’d have to do is ask but he wants to do this romance thing properly and excite you in a way you probably haven’t been in their relationship. If you’re bothered by his inexperience, you haven’t said so and in fact, you’ve shown him over and over again that you adore teaching him how to cuddle, how to kiss, and how to make love.

You are operating under the assumption that your date is going to be low key. It will be, he knows that sparkling, dazzling restaurants with meals you can’t pronounce or pay for isn’t exactly your style. So Spencer is cooking. And it is a disaster.

Murphy’s Law states that everything that can go wrong will most definitely go wrong. So far, it has. Spencer has charred the alfredo sauce, boiled the water over onto the stove, dropped half of the pasta directly into the sink in an attempt to drain it and lightly burned his wrist for good measure. He chalks it up to his nerves. Spencer isn’t a great chef by any means, but he’s never done this badly before. Not even when you were coming over. But now it’s getting to be too late to fix it and you’re going to be here any minute and he doesn’t have any food to offer you.

As if on cue, there’s a soft knock at his front door. He stumbles through the kitchen and flings the door open, startling you where you stand on the other side. You look incredibly gorgeous, with a silky red dress draped across your figure, really emphasizing his favorite parts of you and dipping low in the front, exposing your sternum. He takes your hand and kisses the back of it gently, as if this will make up for his shortcomings on today of all days. You smile so big that your eyes crinkle and throw your arms around his neck. He brushes his nose into your shoulder, taking a deep inhale as he takes you into his arms. Your perfume smells like his favorite candle, a mixture of pomegranate and coconut. You break away from the embrace just enough to squish his cheeks gently between your palms.

“Hi, handsome,” you mumble, not looking him in the eyes but at his lips and he is happy to oblige you. Kissing you feels like the first time every single time. It makes his heart stammer in his chest and his stomach do backflips and his hands get way sweatier than they should. You press your teeth gently onto his lower lip to indicate that he should open and then you swipe your tongue along the delicate skin.

You break away and Spencer tries to follow you with his mouth, eyes still closed. He only stops when he hears you laugh, like tinkling bells, sparkling and high and pretty. You rub your thumb across his bottom lip and in response, Spencer melts into a puddle of genius goo in his doorway.

“You gonna invite me in, Doc?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” he says, without moving an inch.

Your left eyebrow quirks up and your right one furrows down. “You do realize that you will have to move so I can come in, yes?”

Spencer swallows thickly and side steps so you can brush past him in a flurry of red silk, dark eyelashes and soft perfume. You slide your cardigan-is that his?-down off of your shoulders, revealing the soft skin of your back and shoulders to him. He knows there’s nothing so intimate about skin, but something about the slightly uneven bow you’ve tied to hold the dress up and the memories he has of looking at and touching you is a little much for him.

You turn your head and catch his eye. He sees something devilish, glinting and dancing, just out of reach, and before he can say anything at all, you’re tugging on his tie and dragging him closer to you. He chose his nicest one for the occasion, burgundy, over a crisp, dark brown shirt and a cream colored vest. Penelope had helped him pick the combination out and he’s feeling a little nervous about it now, especially because it’s paired with his just-a-little-too-big khakis. He’s taller than you, even with your heels, so his neck is bent at a slightly awkward angle but he doesn’t really mind at all because your lips are brushing past his and your index finger is hooked firmly into his belt loop.

“What do you say we skip dinner for now?” You purr, almost touching the corner of his mouth with yours. He gives an emphatic nod yes and you run your thumb over his belly before tugging by the belt loop to get him impossibly closer before running your other hand down his chest. With the tightness in his slacks increasing steadily, he latches his hands onto your waist and he kisses you again, this time even more feverishly than before.

You gasp against his mouth as he digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of your hips, and he relishes in the sound. It’s his favorite one, soft and breathy and unmistakable and this time it’s Spencer who’s running his tongue along your lips to ask you to open without using his words. You do and he momentarily loses track of your hands until he finds them again, loosening his tie around his neck. You break away then, just to pant, “As gorgeous as you look right now, this has to come off.”

The heat in Spencer’s belly climbs up to his chest and he knows he’s flushed pink all over from the compliment. It still leaves him entirely shell-shocked to hear that you find him just as attractive as he finds you, so his brain completely pauses every time. He starts back up when you start back to his bedroom, intertwining your fingers with his to guide him with you.

“Wait, wait, just wait out here for just a second,” he says, as he starts to speed walk backwards. You look just a bit confused but you do as he tells you, probably more out of curiosity than anything else. Usually you’re so completely in charge of your jello-kneed boyfriend that he doesn’t even have the brain left to formulate an order.

He only leaves you in the dark for a moment before he pokes his head out of the bedroom and beckons you in. Inside, he’s lit as many candles as he was comfortable with (four) and scattered rose petals across the floor. He gave you flowers earlier today already but there’s another bouquet on his bedside table. You jut out your lower lip just a little and give him those puppy eyes just before you all but tackle him to the bed. His back thumps against his bed just hard enough to wind him a little and your mouth is on his before he can catch his breath again.

He lets out a whine that is higher pitched than he’d care to admit as your core grinds against the crotch of his pants. Your dress has ridden up your thighs and he can see just a peek of your panties, lacy and white and sheer and he’s trying to reach up to untie the dress so he can fully see but you pin his hands down.

“You first, Doc.” He’s fumbling to undo his buttons-why are there so many buttons?- and somehow even though you’re both tugging at his clothes, they aren’t coming off nearly fast enough. And you’re getting a little impatient so you reach up to untie the back of your own dress and tug the front down to expose your breasts. He abandons his own clothing, vest off, shirt half unbuttoned and pants halfway down in favor of taking one of your breasts into his mouth and sucking at your nipple just to hear the sounds you make. He takes the other one in his palm to knead at the soft skin and rests his other hand on the small of your back to pull you as close as physically possible.

You pull away just enough to tug your dress the rest of the way off and he whimpers at the sight of you, naked except for panties clearly damp with arousal, your nipples flushed. You rest your palm on his exposed chest, digging your nails into his skin just hard enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt.

“I-I, I need you. Now. Please?” Spencer breathes and even though he normally would take his time warming you up, getting you stretched, he knows he can’t handle it right now. It’s too good and it’ll be over before you get to the main event. You tug your panties to one side and tug his waistband down to allow his cock, aching and drooling, to peek out. It hits his stomach with a light thwick but he doesn’t even have time to acknowledge it before you’re sinking down on him, hissing at the stretch.

Spencer pulls you in for another kiss, this one sloppy and breathy as you both gasp against each other’s mouths. You roll your hips and he hangs onto you for dear life, groaning so loudly that he feels sorry for his neighbors. It won’t be long. He’s close.

“I’m close, please-” Spencer chokes out.

“I am too, baby, it’s okay, come on,” you groan as you steady yourself even more firmly against his chest. The sounds your bodies are making together are obscene, skin slapping and sliding together.

“I don’t, I’m gonna, we didn’t-” Spencer is trying to tell you that it’s now and he can’t stop it from happening but he’s not wearing a condom but the words keep getting lost from him, his voice thick and heavy.

“It’s okay, I’m on the pill just,” you grab his hand, guiding him to your panties. He knows what you want, so he pulls them even farther, probably stretching them so bad you won’t be able to wear them again, and clumsily thumbs at your clit in that not quite circular motion you like. He feels your orgasm first, pulsing and fluttering around him but then he can’t pay attention to you anymore because he’s spilling over inside of you and stopping you from moving so he can hold you as tightly as he possibly can. He lets his head fall back with his eyes closed for just a moment and you take the opportunity to slide off of his now spent cock and curl into his side, placing a gentle hand on his cheek and stroking it with your thumb.

“I love you,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

“I love you too.”

“I burned dinner.”

“I know. Do you wanna call in some pizza while I pee?”

“Yeah, sure.” He opens his eyes to look at you, pupils blown, mouth swollen and makeup smeared, and he never ever wants to let you go. You seem to see it in his face, so you kiss his knuckles and say, “I’ll be right back. Then I’m all yours.”

***

“We loved with a love that was more than love.” - Edgar Allen Poe, Annabel Lee

#valentine's special #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #sub spencer reid #spencer reid smut #smut

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