❣ Forelsket ❣ Keigo Takami/Hawks

[Book 2] ↬ Goretober 2019

Amputation, Blood Bath.

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"(Y/n), honey, you don't have to do this." Prominent in his voice, was a tone of desperation, interwoven with a nervousness that was highly uncharacteristic of him; at such a wretched point, he wasn't even attempting to veil the fear coursing through his veins.

Tilting your head to the side, a wicked smile carved on to your lips, you responded, "But I want to?"

Hawks, now pressing his half-trembling body flush against the frigid bricks, countered, "No you don't. Please, just back away." Upon your persistent advance, he yelled, "Stop - don't get any closer!"

"You're so funny, Hawks, pretending you don't want this: to be locked away in here forever, with me. I know you want this - your eyes told me everything!" The absolute depravity coaxing your tongue into this dialogue, coupled with the (albeit small) scalpel cradled in your hands, made for quite a frightening display.

Although he refused to admit it verbally, the unfortunate quivering of his frame betrayed him. "(Y/n)," He tried, well aware of your less than healthy obsession with him. "you know that people would look for me, right? Endeavor? Best Jeanist?"

"Oh, I thought you might appeal to those two!" Shivers crept all the way down his spine - your tone had become far too cheery, too sing-songy, and he understood that something must be very wrong indeed. Of course, his assumption was proven correct, when, seemingly out of nowhere, there manifested two grotesque effigies, severed at the neck, their faces twisted, contorted in both fury and fright.

"So," You continued, maintaining that delighted air. "I made sure to shut them up!"

In that moment, any remaining modicum of hope was tarnished - Hawks desperately wanted to believe that this was some sick dream, conjured up by his sleep-deprived mind, in the aftermath of the High End attack. Alas, the ever-expanding pools of crimson liquid, slowly slithering towards him, were evidence enough of this harsh reality. They must have been sitting somewhere, rotting, for many days, as they presented an awful, sickening image of decay. The scent, too. It wafted up into his nostrils, teasing the back of his throat. He wanted to vomit, desperately. He wanted to run, to escape from your clutches.

While his brain temporarily shut down, and his guard was lowered, you crawled closer still. Those feathers, those beautiful, blood-coloured feathers - they were within reach, and so your fingers ruffled them gently. You had always, always admired these wings. To you, they represented warmth, comfort, love. It was unfortunate then, that Hawks would no longer require them. No matter - he wouldn't miss them, he would be too focused on feeling you - all of you.

Scalpel in hand, you silently bid those awe-inspiring wings adieu, as you embedded your weapon of choice into his back. A terrified, agony-riddled scream departed Hawks' lungs, but he found himself unable to move. He could only cry out, plead and beg with you to spare his wings. It was all for nought, however, because the more he screamed, the more your arousal flourished. A long train of satisfied laughter fizzled in the air, as you proceeded to hack into him, more, more, harsher, harder. Soon, Hawks' frantic panting filled the room, his vision gradually fading, as he fought to stay alive. When only a few nerve-endings lingered, you threw away the scalpel, opting for the more conventional method of 'ripping them out'.

Amidst a final string of tortured wailings, you successfully removed Hawks' wings, immediately discarding them in another part of the room. You stood back, admiring the artwork - all the crimson liquid, oozing from his wounds, all of it turned you on so badly.

"That's no good, Hawks!" You pouted, swivelling his weak body around.

"You're filthy! You need a good cleaning. Come with me!" In this situation, your words carried a certain malice, and they left no opening for discussion.

So, against his will, and much to his horror, you dragged Hawks' almost-completely-limp frame into another room. The giant, wooden door, painted with bloody hand-prints, was a truly terrifying sight, especially to someone in such suffering. Nevertheless, you flung it wide, to reveal a minimalist-environment, adorned only with a bathtub and oddly enough, hat racks. Well, they were attached to the walls, and clearly meant for hanging...something - Hawks didn't particularly suppose it was hats, though.

His suspicions were confirmed when, with an obvious lack of surreptitiousness, you started hanging the severed heads of Endeavor and Best Jeanist from them. Hawks could feel a disgusting bile, bubbling away in his throat, threatening to spill out. He cupped a hand over his mouth, trying not to allow it passage. His other hand suddenly became entangled in yours, as your eyes ghosted over his still-clothed body. With furrowed brows and an agitated frown, you traced your fingers along his shirt, down, down, down, until you reached his crotch.

Noticing a slight bulge, you licked your lips. "Ooh, what's that, Hawks? Did you enjoy me tearing out your wings? Did the pain really give you an erection? What a naughty boy! ~"

"N-No...that's n-no-"

Parading him around the bathtub, which, upon closer examination, was already filled to the brim with a familiar, scarlet...something, you laughed. All offending garments fell away at your touch, including your own, and you lowered yourself into the liquid, Hawks in tow. Although extremely reluctant, there was really nothing he could do - the blood was rushing to his head, while simultaneously gushing from his open wounds. He was contributing to the bath, in more ways than one, and you couldn't have been happier. Resting your heavy head in the crook of his neck, (h/c) tresses tickling his flesh, you sighed in contentment. Finally, a chance to relax and recuperate, after such maddening trifles.

Hawks' breathing became shallower, until eventually, it simply ceased. Embracing his cold, beautiful body, you giggled, like a schoolgirl who had just won over her long-time crush. And I suppose, in a way, you had.

[Word Count: 995]