Unfortunately my credit card doesn’t have a “friendship points” option so I’m gonna need that money…

White Feathers, Red Strings

Keigo Takami x Y/n

You being one of the youngest intern in Hawks’ agency was never supposed to be this complicated.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

You’re eighteen.

In your last year in U.A.

Barely legal, freshly licensed, still apologizing when you bump into furniture.

And he’s twenty-two—already a pro, already tired in ways he doesn’t talk about, already trained to shut things down before they become weaknesses.

So this?

This is not supposed to happen.

The first time he sees you, your wings flare out in reflex—soft, luminous, unmistakably angelic. Hard-light feathers catching the sun like you were sculpted out of it.

And Hawks thinks, Oh. That’s bad.

Not because you’re pretty.

He’s seen pretty.

It’s the way you look at him—earnest, wide-eyed, respectful in that painfully sincere U.A. way. Like you’re excited just to be here. Like the world hasn’t taken chunks out of you yet.

He opens his mouth before his brain catches up.

“You’re pretty,” he says, easy grin already in place. “Welcome to the nest.”

You flush so fast your wings brighten.

Idiot, he thinks immediately.

Professional. You’re supposed to be professional.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

He’s careful.

Keeps his distance.

Teases, but never crosses lines.

Still—he notices things.

How your wings dim when you’re tired.

How you chew on your sleeve when you’re nervous.

How you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting.

That last one gets him every time.

On patrol, he fights the instinct to hover closer than necessary. When villains show up, he positions himself between you and danger without thinking—then has to pretend it was tactical.

She’s an intern, he reminds himself.

She’s young.

Get a grip.

But then you get hurt during training—minor, really, scraped palms, overworked quirk—and you apologize like it’s your fault.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

He lands too fast.

“Hey,” he says, sharper than intended. Then softer. “No. Don’t do that.”

You look up at him, startled.

And something twists in his chest.

This is dangerous, his mind says.

Not because of the age. Because you care.

At night, when the agency is quiet, Hawks stares out at the city and argues with himself.

You’re legal.

You’re responsible.

You’re strong.

But you’re still growing. Still learning who you are.

And he’s already been molded into something sharp and useful and tired.

Don’t reach, he tells himself.

Don’t be that guy.

So he settles for smaller things.

Draping his jacket over your shoulders when it gets cold on the rooftop.

Making sure you eat.

Flying slower so you can keep up.

Calling you Angel like it’s a joke—because if he says it lightly enough, maybe it won’t mean so much.

Except it does.

One day, you thank him. For being patient. For being kind. For treating you like you belong.

You smile at him—soft, genuine, wings glowing faintly.

And Hawks thinks:

I shouldn’t want this.

I shouldn’t like how she looks at me.

I shouldn’t imagine a future where she’s fully grown into herself and still standing beside me.

But he does.

So he chooses restraint.

Chooses distance wrapped in warmth.

Chooses to be someone safe, even if it costs him.

Because angels deserve to land gently.

And Hawks—no matter how badly he wants to—refuses to clip your wings just because he fell first.

you know. Earlier today (in the time when I was awake much too early) I saw some old stuff about people saying because of like, how friendly and social Sethos is that he’s in a way the Gaming of Sumeru. And at some point my head went like “the big difference between Sethos and Gaming is that Gaming is innocent and Sethos is, not.” And I still keep thinking of that thought process of mine

why. why so little sethos/reader on ao3… my man why…

Tumblr is so hard to find stuff through… why so little for sethos on ao3…

This is pain

Having a blorbo is so embarrassing like sorry I have to go and self regulate by looking at The guy

Y con esto termino mi estudio de luz y color.

Pd: ya me recuperé

do a flip!

Remember when fanfiction used to be like:

His green orbs peered into mine as he looked up and down, glancing at my oversized Green Day (AN: if you don’t love them then leave!!) shirt that hung around the knees of my ripped black skinny jeans.