what they look for in a partner :: castiel . . ⋆˚࿔
⤷ masterlist ; reqs open ; dean | sam
when asks, he says that he has no preferences, and that things like that are below the qualms of angels.
if you know him, you’ll know he’s lying, even if he doesn’t realize that he is.
honest to god does not care about physical attributes. not even lying and genuinely thinks the concept is stupid. you will only ever in death know what he truly looks like, anyways.
100% needs a direct partner. no 'you should know why that made me mad.' because he actually doesn’t.
would appreciate someone patient. he understands that trying to deal with a man who’s both 40 years old, millions of eons years old, and basically seven years old is quite difficult, and he wouldnt be mad if his partner got upset sometimes.
doesnt expect them to have a patience of a saint.
but would be quite happy with someone who tells him why things are instead of belittling him or being mean
unlike either of the winchester brothers, he doesn’t necessarily require someone who’s wholly independent.
would secretly love someone whos codependent. if someone tells him how unhealthy codependence is, he would most likely not care.
didn’t realize he enjoyed physical contact until he started thinking about romantic relationships, and decided that he would quite enjoy someone clingy, if they didn’t mind if he did the same. he likes the concept, but would most likely struggle to put it into action.
often falls in love with mannerisms before he does anything else. it makes up a person, in his eyes.
wants someone kind just for the sake of it. picking up random litter on walks, keeping bird feed in their bag
, someone who props up plants that have fallen over.
biggest dealbreaker is needless cruelty and selfish dishonesty. he understands that sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to, but partaking in it just to do so not only turns him off, but irks him.
very deliberate about picking his partners, and would much prefer being friends before being lovers.
would also tell them right away what you would be getting into if you get into a relationship with him. he needs that off his chest right away.
wants someone, at the end of the day, to be equals with. doesnt want to ‘rescue’ someone, and doesn’t want to feel as if his partner needs to ‘rescue’ him.
but does secretly appreciate it if his partner is vocal in needing him, for lack of a better term. small things, like being told that they miss him, or that want him to go kill the cockroach that crawled under the oven.
prefers someone taller, so he doesn’t have to look down at them, both figuratively and literally.
also prefers someone with long hair. the thought of doing each others hair makes him happier than he’d ever admit, knowing that it’s something they can both do equally.
something that always stresses him out is that a future partner would ask him to convert to a normal suburban life and abandon hunting after they find out that, out of him and his brother, he was able to live a normal life prior to all this.
wants someone who has a ‘slow’ lifestyle. someone who always keeps a book on them, someone who sews or crochets. someone who makes a point to try and beat him in the weekly crossword.
needs someone smart. not validictorian or deans list smart, but someone who would dissect movies with him before the credits have even rolled, or someone who always asks “why?”
lack of media literacy and just curiosity in general is a massive turn off. he wont say anything, but itll show on his face sometimes.
ideal love languages of his partner would be quality time and words of affirmation.
biggest dealbreaker is someone who isn’t who they say they are. absolutely hates being lied to.
someone who is independent and capable of taking care of themselves.
can exist as their own person and will be fine when he disappears for days, weeks, or even months at a time.
prefers ‘imperfect’ looking people. people with scars, smile lines, calloused hands and asymmetrical faces. someone who doesn’t care to look 100% all the time.
loves people who smile with their whole face and laugh with their whole body
wants someone who likes simplicity and routine. he’s sick of the spontaneous life he lives, and he wouldn’t want someone who wants that.
doenst necessarily means he never wants to stray from routine, but if you need something different all the time, it would most likely lead to arguments
someone who portrays affection through actions more than words. anyone can say anything, but not anyone can, or even would, do anything, especially for him.
someone who’s patient and willing to put up with all the walls he’s built over god knows how many years.
would never make him feel childish, girly, or even gay, for liking the things that he likes the way he likes them.
would be most comparable with someone who doesn’t beat around the bush. no guilt tripping, silent treatment, or extreme jealousy. he doesn’t have time for mind games, after everything.
wants them to address the problem as it occurs. doesnt care that you're in public or 'in front of people.' if he said, or did, something that even upsets you a little bit, he wants you to tell him right away.
doesn’t really care for book smarts. it’s hot, sure, but what really gets him is someone who knows how to use their hands more than their head. turns him on when someone can think on the spot.
ideal love language of a partner would be acts of service and physical touch. a hand in his back pocket, wrapped around his arm. holding his hand while driving. all the small things.
his biggest dealbreaker is someone who is unnecessarily cruel or mean. he understands that he isn’t the nicest person in the world, but it really gets him if you’re mean to children, service workers, or animals.
⤷ ft. the winchester brothers + castiel :: masterlist ; reqs open
⟢ dean winchester
if you fall asleep in the car he will honest to god take a longer detour that has smoother roads he does not fucking care
gets jealous, but not in an overbearing way. he'll make himself part of the conversation instead of dragging you away. an arm over your shoulders. a hand on your back. ‘what're we talking about?’
eye contact. way too much of it. you didnt quite get the concept of ‘eye fucking’ until you met dean.
puts his hand behind the passenger seat while backing up………………..
fixes things around you/that belong to you before you even realize theyre broken
physical touch is his default love language. hand on your knee while driving. bumping shoulders. nudging you with his foot under the table.
absentmindedly drums his fingers against your knee to the beat of a song.
instinctively reaches an arm across your chest if he brakes suddenly.
in another universe where dean went to highschool, he would’ve absolutely been that guy to do crazy embarrassing promposals
alwayssss rolls up his sleeves bro
lets you steal food of his plate
remembers which songs you skip and skips them before you do
walks half a step behind you in crowded places so he can keep an eye on you.
always saves you the last bite if he knows it's your favorite
automatically grabs the grocery bags that look heavier. doesnt matter if youre stronger than him, or if you’re bigger than him.
likes buying you dumb little gas station gifts. plastic dinosaurs. novelty sunglasses. your favorite candy.
⟢ sam winchester
puts his hand on the doorframe so you don't hit your head getting into the car.
remembers little errands you mentioned and does them while he's already out.
reaches things off the top shelf without making a joke about it, and will do it regardless of how tall you are
slows his pace to match you without realizing it
always offers you the better/comfortable option of seating
also automatically gives you the side of the booth instead of the chair
but if its a two-sided booth, he’ll sit next to you
researches things just because you mentioned being interested in them.
quietly takes things off your plate without making a big deal out of it if he notices you not eating something, even if its a food he absolutely despises
if you have long hair, he always keeps an extra hair tie on him
gets jealous, but internalizes it first, and spends an hour wondering if he’s being irrational.
will brush your hair out of your face or adjust your collar while you’re talking, without breaking eye contact
stays up with you if you can’t sleep, and will ask if you want to do something, go out, or if you’d rather just lay together quietly
compliments things that you chose, not just things you cant control
will do chores you hate doing for you, like laundry or dishes
⟢ castiel novak
watches you with absolute complete attention while you’re talking and will pointedly ignore anyone else that talks to him, even if they started talking first
straightens your necklace if the clasp turned around.
learns your weaknesses and incorporates himself without you needing to ask. if you struggle with brushing your teeth, he'll place the toothbrush on the sink with the toothpaste already on it.
will argue with people over your preferences even if its miniscule (ex. someone sits on your side of the car or uses your favourite mug)
waits for you without complaint before going anywhere, if you’re tying your shoe or if you’re going back inside to change your shirt
stands incredibly close to you and doesnt understand the concept of a personal bubble. attatched at the hip, because he realizes that he's allowed to
asks before holding your hand the first few times, then forgets to ask because now it just feels right and normal
tends to your things if he notices theyre out of place, like untangling your earbuds or putting your shoes back on the rack.
watches your footing if the ground is uneven and keeps his hand on your back 'just in case.'
stares at your face while you're talking because he likes watching expressions change, tilting his hedad like a dog.
will do things that make him uncomfortable if it makes you happy without question. sees it as his duty as your partner.
sees you in everything and thinks its a sign from heaven. thinks dean is quite odd when he tells him thats just how being in love feels
actually enjoys doing mundane thing with you, even things that other people would find boring, like cleaning up after baking
his version of flirting is solving your problems before you notice them
he does compliment you, but he thinks that its odd that humans considers such as flirting. he thinks its just matter-of-fact
not to be like my steak is too juicy and lobster too buttery but i haven’t been posting or writing anything recently is because ive gotten into a relationship somehow sorry gang
Fukunaga hcs next pretty please with a perfect strawberry on top ?
FUKUNAGA SHŌHEI HCS ⋆˚࿔
cannot do anything unless the time ends in 0 or 5. if he misses his cue, he’ll wait for the next one
gets overwhelmed in group chats and just reads everything without ever replying
whenever someone goes in for a fistbump he’ll act like he’s going in for it too but ends up opening his hand last minute and holding the other persons fist like a freak
used to think he wanted to be a teacher because he thought the only way people would like him was if he was useful. became a comedian instead because they arent ‘needed’ like teachers are, but people still go to see them anyways.
knows how to juggle really well but hasn’t done it in front of anyone since he accidentally hit someone in the face first year. started doing it again post timeskip
doesnt know how to swim but he doesnt care as long as his feet can touch the bottom (which considering his height is not a feat by any means)
whenever he has to pay with a bill he’ll iron it out every single time, whether that be on a chair or a railing. lev bought him a mini iron after seeing him do it for the first time.
always has some shit in his pockets and has ruined multiple washing machines because he forgets to take them out every single time
gets genuinely upset when people throw away something that could’ve been recycled
doesn’t correct people when they pronounce his name wrong. doesn’t see the point
takes screenshots of texts that make him feel good and keeps them in a locked folder
used to hate the smell of coffee but now drinks it black just to prove he’s grown up. still hates it
sometimes types messages and deletes them before sending, even when he has something important to say. will take photos of it just to say that he ‘did’ it
doesn’t really like eye contact. will look at your forehead instead and hope you don’t notice
gets motion sick in cars but refuses to sit in the front seat out of politeness
had a recurring nightmare in middle school that he forgot his locker combination. still sometimes dreams about it
never had a favorite color because he always thought it was too hard to choose
downloads fonts for fun and never uses them, but likes to go through them just to feel something
learned how to make origami cranes during a particularly bad anxiety phase and began to leave them everywhere he went
doesn’t know how to explain what’s wrong, but always knows when something is up
gets really attached to characters in books and then refuses to finish the story if he knows something bad is going to happen
bought a candle once and was too scared to light it because he didn’t want it to go away
only keeps photos of people he’s not afraid of losing.
used to eat lunch in the school bathroom until he got to nekoma.
prefers reading short stories over novels because finishing a whole book feels like too much pressure. will not read poetry though.
if you ask him what he’s listening to, he’ll always lie unless he trusts you completely
sometimes practices conversations in his head and still fumbles when they happen
used to always wear long sleeves and sweatpants, even in the summer, because he didnt like how dark his body hair looked due to his pale skin. stopped doing it because he would consistently pass out during conditioning and sometimes practice.
Can I get some headcanons about Asahi from HQ pls? I read ur others ones and LOVED them
ASAHI AZUMANE HCS ⋆˚࿔
believes in ghosts but would never admit to it outloud
allergic to sunscreen (gets a rash)
that one guy who doesnt play about his nighttime routine
scared of birds but could not tell you why
i personally hc him post timeskip as a flight attendant (fashion designer on the side)
always packs too much for any type of trip. six pairs of underwear on a three day trip just incase you shit yourself twice a day kind of guy
guilty pleasure is shitty mobile games. probably level a million on candy crush
allergic to cats but found a stray in his neighborhood and couldnt just leave it so he took it home anyway. he is still allergic to cats.
really terrified of bugs but will not kill them and will escort them outside even if he’s crying
thicks socks with sandals are peak practicality even if he knows its ugly. does not gaf
tried to be vegan once because he suddenly got self conscious eating calamari (it wasnt breaded thick enough and he could see the parts of the tentacles) and it lasted four days
still refuses to eat meat that he can make out what it was though unless its hidden
that one guy who can just figure out the different notes of a fragrance
has very strong opinions on when things need to be washed
lovesss romcoms dude he does NOT play about queereye bro
keeps his nails trimmed short and clean even after graduating. doesnt understand how some people (tanaka and noya) live with the feeling of long nails
takes incredibly long showers
actually wears glasses but suga used to make fun of him for it because he said it made him look like a hippie so he started wearing contacts in second year until he stopped after graduating
doesnt leave the store without buying one thing because he’s afraid people will think he's stealing but the way he walks out of the store all nervous and clutching the item makes people think he’s stealing anyway but doesnt ever stop doing this and he has so much useless shit
thinks about deleting all his socials at least once a week. isnt even online enough that it would make a difference. has 0 posts and 0 tagged but like 4k followers
always burns his bread. he’ll put it on the toaster oven and it wont even be hot, so he’ll turn the crank a little further, and then the next time he checks on it itll be charred
gets emotional seeing old people and has cried multiple times during outings and still refuses to tell anyone what it was about
walked into a glass door once and still thinks about it every time he sees one
always overestimates how much food he needs to cook and ends up having leftovers for the next two days
thinks iced tea is disgusting and is not afraid to say so
has a weirdly formal email signature
will never admit it, but he really likes being needed, even if its just to reach the high shelf
can lift an insane amount of weight but still lets old ladies cut in line at the grocery store
learned how to play the guitar just enough to accompany himself when he sings, but never tells people he sing
loyal to a fault. the kind of guy who stays at jobs too long because he doesn’t want to leave people hanging and would feel bad. thankful everyday he doesn't work at a black company
has no social media presence but still somehow knows everything
doesn't really get memes but thinks they are nice when his teammates (koganegawa) shows him
has the sneeze of a marine veteran
POTS + albinism + autism
will NOT kill spiders or any bugs and if there are no papers or containers he will literally just pick them up with his hands he does not care bro
doesn't know his blood type and refuses to find out because he’s afraid of the JRCS
allergic to a lot of things but eats them anyways because life is too short to be held back by a stomach ache and half an hour in the bathroom
writes in all caps like a law student
got himself toe shoes once as a gift to himself
does not know how to ride a bike
part of the knitting club at his local library that only has old ladies in it
does not fear death but will literally refuse to jaywalk
speaks slowly and directly not because he doesn't know what to say, he just wants to say it right and not be misinterpreted (it does not work)
walks the same route home every single day. hates it when people talk about ‘the scenic route’
learned how to cook because everytime his dad would make food he wouldnt seperate it and would pile them all into one bowl and mix it and he had a breakdown over it
really fucking hates his sheets bunching up so he safety pins them to the mattress
one time he was at a baptism and everyone was handing around the baby and he didnt know they were doing the sign of the cross so he just scratched the baby’s forehead lightly and the lady next to him was like what the fuck are you doing
has strong opinions about shoe storage and gets uncomfortable if there’s a pile at the door.
does not wear shorts outside of practice
hates elevators and will literally take the stairs even if he were at the burj khalifa
not great at video games but really enjoys simulators, especially ones for ‘niche’ businesses
thinks ghost stories are interesting and doesn't believe in them fully but will NOT sleep with any part of his foot outside of a blanket
has memorized the emergency exit locations of every building he frequents.
scared of butterflies
dislikes it when people call him ‘a big strong man’ because he feels it just categorizes him
buys those weird flavoured chips and oreos at the convenience stores just to ‘find out’
cant do pushups or planks correctly but is still the strongest person on the team
kind of guy to fake water plants ‘just in case’
people think he’s expressionless but they just never make an effort to notice
was nonverbal for a majority of his childhood but most people who knew him then and now dont notice that he isn't anymore
walks exactly in rhythm with his breathing. if his steps get out of sync, he has to stop and reset.
doesn’t understand lies. not out of morality, but because he literally doesn’t see the point.
tried e-dating once post timeskip because people were too afraid of him irl to try but the first time someone swiped right on him and dm’d him he got so anxious he deleted the app and aired them
-> synopsis: before you knew what love was, you knew this: the best things in life were only twenty five pesos each, and the best things in life had to be bought in pairs.
a.n. ; 90% of iwaizumi's dialogue is in tagalog. translations provided at the bottom because i couldnt figure out how to do hover text on ao3 so im not even gonna try coding on tumblr.. . ... . ... .
there’s a kind of softness to the air after a storm in your barangay. not quite silence, not quite stillness. the sun came out around four o’clock today, and the clouds started to pull apart like cotton candy in the sky. once the dogs started barking again and someone’s radio turned on, you knew the world was waking up.
you were eight, maybe nine. old enough to wander barefoot, careful of sharp gravel and frogs in the ditch. young enough to still believe the sun chased your car when you drove. and on days like this, the only thing you cared about was whether iwaizumi hajime from two houses down would come with you.
if you weren’t already side by side, it was easy; one whistle, or a small rock thrown against his gate. iwaizumi never admitted it, but he liked when you dragged him around. especially when you made him laugh hard enough to cover his mouth with both hands, like joy was something he had to hold in.
you had a few pesos jangling in your fist that you had stolen from under the couch cushions, and you had every intention on spending every last centavo on a sweet treat. the sari-sari store was only a few streets over, its wooden counter still damp from the rain. candy sachets dangled like flags in the window, and the freezer hummed faintly from the back.
it was run by an old couple who’d been around since before your were born. you and iwaizumi always went to them after school, so they knew you well, and they were never surprised to see you in the store, side by side.
you asked for two ice cream cups, standing up on your tip toes to see over the counter. isang cheese, isang ube. twenty-five pesos each. and some for the road. you both sat on the curb beneath the flickering street lamp, the pavement slightly warm from the afternoon sun. your shoulders almost touched, his knee brushing yours.
you finiyoud your ice cream quickly, turning your paper cup upside down and licking the last traces off the sides. your tongue was yellow, his purple. when you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, a streak of it was left on your forearm. iwaizumi snorted, then tried not to laugh at the mess you’d made.
he always ate ice cream as if he had all the time in the world. small bites first, then in little scoops from the middle to the edges of the walls; a spiral motion. counterclockwise, then back again.
“c’mon,” he said, already standing up. “daan tayo sa base.”
you didn’t have to say anything. your feet already knew the way. the ‘base’ wasn’t really a base—not in the way kids on cartoons had them, anyway—but it was yours. the half-built house near the bend, framed in rusted scaffolding and peeling cement. no windows, no doors, just the wide-open skeleton of someone else’s unfinished dream.
he picked up the trash, holding the sticky wrappers in one hand, and you followed behind barefoot, slapping puddles as you walked. the street shimmered gold in the dying light. your shadows stretched long behind you.
it wasn’t a secret. it wasn’t really a base either. just an abandoned squatter house with a caved-in roof and a family of stray calicos. vines crept along the ground, and even the chain-link fences were rusted and pulled into the ground.
there was something sort of magical about that place; the trees towered over your head, blocking out the hot sun. there weren't any proper parks around, or anywhere in the philippines for that matter, but this was close enough.
you and iwaizumi had discovered it when he was trying to find his ball, daring each otyour to go inside in hushed tones and giggles but since then, your secret base had become your special spot, even if you did little else than go inside to lay around. despite the time that had passed, the house still smells like mold and the earthy kind of wet. you’d cleaned out most of the debris, leaving a clear space on the middle of the floor.
the inside was dim, the kind of light that filtered through cracks and slats in the roof, scattering into ribbons across the concrete. the walls were bare and grey, patched with moss and peeling paint, and the floor was still slick in places, puddles pooling where the rain had snuck through
a few months ago, you’d convinced iwaizumi to go dumpster diving and bring back some stuff to make the base feel more like a hideout and less like some abandoned wreck. you had a beaten up couch that smelled like smoke and damp, some throw pillows with questionable stains, and a coffee table propped up by a cinder block.
you dropped to your knees and started poking at a puddle in the far corner of the room. the water shimmered with the oil-slick colors of old rain, and little insects skated across the surface, their legs barely touching the water. iwaizumi joined your, pulling a stick from the floor and using it to swirl the water, careful not to splash.
they knelt side by side, dragging sticks through the puddles, watching ripples spread out like slow explosions. you dug a rock through the middle to make waves, then tried to catch a beetle that had crawled out from under a plank of wood. it curled into itself when you touched it.
they kept digging through the damp earth—finding worms, bottle caps, a zesto packet... each thing was a discovery. every flick of a finger unearthed a new secret. digging your hands deep into the soil, you pulled out a button, half-rusted, shaped like a star. you showed it to the girl next to your with wide eyes.
“this is magical,” you whispered, like they were both in on some ancient secret. “baka galing diwata.”
“ha?” iwaizumi raised an eyebrow, but tyoure was a smile tugging at the edge of your lips. “sure ka hindi galing lang sa t-shirt mo?”
you shoved your with a huff. “shut up. it’s special.” you clutched it a little tighter before placing it on the coffee table like an offering. then you lay back on the mattress with your arms stretched wide, listening to the sound of the world breathing outside.
“ikaw yung special,” iwaizumi muttered under your breath. it was the kind of jab you made all the time, meant to be sarcastic, just to tease, but this time it was so soft that you almost thought you’d imagined it.
you lay back on the mattress with a sigh. you scooted closer, arms barely touching, heads tilted to the sky peeking through the slats. the light had gone gold. dust swirled like magic in the air.
in the hazy, half-light, iwaizumi’s face had lost all its sharp edges. your hair, soft-dark and curling over your forehead. you could see the purple and yellow from their ice cream had rubbed off on iwaizumi’s chin and lips, a streak of color against your dark skin.
neither of them were talking much. just laughing sometimes, leaning close, chasing after something invisible and gone before they could grab it. time didn’t move the same way inside the base. it slowed down. stretched, softened.
the street outside glowed amber, lit by old lamps and the last breath of sun. puddles caught pieces of sky. you walked slower now, feet bare again, slippers in hand, the concrete warm and soft beneath their soles. you walked side by side, iwaizumi on the side closest to the cars, even though they were both walking in the road.
they were walking the long way home for no reason except that neither of them were ready to say goodbye yet.
a beetle flailed near the edge of the sidewalk, flipped on its back. you paused, but iwaizumi was already crouched beside it, flipping it over with an unusual gentleness.
“kawawa,” you said, brushing your hands on your shorts. “probably got frightened in the rain.”
you looked at your—mud on your knees, hair curling from the humidity, lips stained a little purple—and something flickered in your chest, soft and golden.
“ano?”
“wala lang.”
iwaizumi started walking again, and you followed.
barangay ; neighbourhood
sari sari store ; local convenience store
isang cheese, isang ube ; one cheese, one ube [sweet purple yam]
daan taayo sa base ; let’s pass by the base.
zesto ; popular brand of orange juice
baka galing sa diwata ; it might be from a diwata [mythical creature, usually a nature spirit]
ha? sure ka hindi galing lang sa t-shirt mo? ; what? are you sure its not just from your t-shirt
okay i hashtag survived... may i pretty please (with a cherry on top) request a journalist reader x touya where they have never properly met, but the reader is assigned to report on any case regarding dabi. they see what remains of him, like the corpses he leaves behind or the char marks left on the building walls n stuff yknow? touya realizes that he has a 'fan' he starts taunting them (think hannibal making his victims into art pieces but i dont think touya would do all that unless he REALLY hated the person) and the reader is obviously like ??? the fuck ??? idk thats all i have my brain is fried and all i can think of is art history... sorry if this makes 0 sense but thank u in advance and congrats again on 6k !!! so proud of u !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
hiiiiiiii poooooooomf <3 happy survival of finals!!! soz im smauifying this idea bc my brain cannawt write rn also yeah ofc im dragging hawks into this how can i not
every single scene from the hidden inventory arc of satosugu has been milked so hard that seeing the new screenshots of them feels like seeing government encrypted files or some shit because it doesnt feel real/official even though it is
-> synopsis: and when you whisper i love you, it’s not a plea. it’s a promise.
one he doesn’t say back—but he stays. and that’s enough.
it was love before anything else. you met him in the spring with the rain on your lips and the sun warm on your skin, and all you could think was that he was the most beautiful thing in the world. you looked at him and thought ‘i would die for you.’ before you even knew his name.
and oh, you would have it no other way.
you’ve never been in love until now. in romance novels, they say something about the way the world goes still when you fall in love, but that wasn’t how it played out for you. your life started moving faster, faster, faster, with the way your heart raced when you saw him and your breath caught when he met your eyes.
it became like this; you, and him, with the world as an afterthought.
your feelings have always been intense, strong and burning, like you can’t help but feel everything all at once, to the greatest extent you can. and it was like that with him, too. it was love, a kind of intensity that left you reeling and almost dizzy, with the way it consumed you. as if you had lost all other thoughts beyond him.
it didnt happen all at once. it was a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until you looked down one day and realized you were already stripped bare. he started showing up with blood on his knuckles and bruises blooming down his arms, and you stopped asking where he'd been. there were unspoken rules between the two of you—don’t ask, don’t follow, don’t name what this is.
still, you learned the rhythms of him. the way he knocks twice on your window when he needed somewhere to sleep. the way his eyes flicked to the side when he was trying to hide the truth. the way he touched you, hesitant and trembling, like he’d never been allowed to want something before. and you let him have you. every part, every inch, without asking for anything in return.
you started locking your front door out of habit, but leaving your window open on the nights you thought he might come. sometimes he didn’t. sometimes you’d wait for hours, curled under a blanket with the lights off, listening for any sound that might be him. and when he did come, he’d slide under the covers like he belonged there, like he never left. he’d press his face to your neck and breathe you in like you were the only safe place he knew. he’d never say thank you, never say he missed you, but he’d stay until the sun began to rise.
and this is how it goes; you leave your window open at night, even on the coldest nights. sometimes he will come in, slip under the sheets with you in the darkness and bury his face in your neck like he hates you. except he won’t hate you. it’s never hateful, the way he touches you. his hands find your waist, your ribs, your thighs. he touches your body like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, like he’s afraid of breaking you despite it all. and all the while his hands are on you, he will pretend he’d rather be anywhere else.
he returns to you on the nights when the world becomes too much for even him. after the bloodletting, after the screaming, after he’s played god again; deciding who gets to keep breathing and who doesn’t. he doesn’t always kill, but sometimes you wish he did. because what he leaves behind is worse. heroes without hands. without hope. men who will never step outside again for fear of the shape in the shadows.
and yet, he knocks on your window like a boy coming home from school. crawls into your bed with silent feet and a lowered gaze. he never says what he’s done, and you never ask. but there are nights when he doesn’t bother to clean up first. his hands are still damp. his shirt clings to him, stained dark. he holds you like he didn’t just tear someone open. presses kisses to your spine like you’re holy, even as blood from another man soaks into your sheets.
you don't want to know the number of names he’s taken or the ways he made them beg. you only know that when he comes to you, his body is sore and his knuckles are raw, but his touch is always soft. his violence never follows him into your room.
or– at least, not always.
there are nights he slips under your sheets and you smell it on him before you see it. copper and iron and something hot. blood clings to his shirt, soaks into yours, pools faintly between your bodies like a secret neither of you dares speak aloud. and you never do. you let him curl around you as if he’s clean. you run your fingers through his hair like it isn’t sticky. and he will sigh, tremble, maybe press a kiss to your collarbone. you let him hold you. you let him sleep. you tell yourself it’s still him, underneath it all.
you will wake up with the sun. the space next to you will be empty, an indent where he used to be. but he would have left with the covers kicked off and your skin littered with bruises. he slips out before the first bird can sing, always vanishing before the sun crests the skyline.
when you reach across the bed, his side is cold. he never fixes the sheets. he never wipes away the stains. sometimes, you’ll wake to brown, blooming patches on the pillowcase or the faint outline of his body in red on the sheets. he never means to leave a mess, but he always does. still, you never wash them right away. sometimes you lie there, breath held, and pretend he’s just gone to the kitchen. that he’ll come back. that he won’t disappear like smoke the moment your eyes are closed. once, he left his shirt. you folded it and placed it under your bed, like a relic, like a sin.
even when he leaves in the early hours of the morning when the sun is just starting to rise, even then you love him. you pretend to be asleep so he won’t realize you hear him putting his clothes back on, the soft sound of his footsteps as he goes. you pretend not to hear as he leaves, pretend you don’t know that he never sleeps whenever he’s in your bed. you pretend not to feel that deep hurt in your chest, the hollow kind of heartbreak that never really leaves you.
and every morning, you lie there for a while, watching the blood dry, telling yourself you’d do it all again.
the next time he comes back—and he will return, he always does—you will see the same tiredness in the way he moves. the weariness that sits heavy on his shoulders. and you will reach out, take his scarred hands in yours, and pull him to your bed once again.
it’s only been three months. it’s too early for love, but you’re falling so hard that you stop thinking it matters. or maybe it’s early enough for love because the first few months are served on a platter. it’s everything you ever wanted and more. and you know it isn’t perfect love - but at the time, none of that stuff seems to matter. at the time, none of it matters as much as the thought of being with him all the time.
you know its wrong. of course it is, why wouldn't it be? but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. a dragon, maybe even a god level threat, taking shelter in a civilian’s house. slipping into your bedroom when the sun sets and leaving before it rises.
you know it’ll never be anything more than this. you know he’ll never settle down, that he’ll never let you have him how you want. but you tell yourself it’s enough to have him in any way. you’re a desperate mess, and you know he knows it, too.
one would think it would be terrifying, the thought of a monster in your house, in your bed, the thought of something that could kill you at any second. but the thought is just as exciting as it is terrifying. it makes your heart flutter at the thought of his hands on you, his mouth, the way he only touches you under the cover of the dark. you shouldn’t want it. but you do. you do, you do, you do.
it’s not normal, you know. you know you should feel trapped, you should be screaming and calling for help, but you’re not. you’re looking forward to night, looking forward to the moment your window will creak open and you’ll wake up to the feeling of hands on you, dragging you out of your bed and into his. you’re looking forward to being in love with a man no one should want.
and you wonder sometimes; is the danger something he wants to be close to, does he feel some kind of perverse joy at the thought of it? or is he simply using you to run away from it, some way to forget about everything. is your body something to use, or is it a safe haven. you wouldn’t be mad if it was the former, and at the same time, you want desperately for it to be the latter.
in an ideal world, you could pretend that you were only a bystander. caught in the crossfire, held against your will. but you both know better. you leave your window open for him every night. cook an extra meal, and leave a blanket or two for him.
and you know that even something like this could end your life. if the hero association ever so much as catches an inkling of an idea of what you’ve been doing—housing the hero hunter— you’d be eviscerated on the spot. they'd make you disappear, ruin your image so bad you'd never want to step foot out of the house. or, if they were feeling merciful, kill you dead on the spot.
but garou still comes to you every night is a secret of the most delicate caliber, the kind that, if it so much as brushed the edge of their attention, would make both your lives hell.
but it didnt stop you the first time. and it wouldnt stop you now.
it would be easy to call it stupidity, to say you let your heart lead you. but what garou is to you goes beyond that. it will never be easily defined, what he means to you. all you know is that the moment you saw him, you knew he was it for you—the moon, the stars, and the sky that held them.
you can see it in the way he looks at you—that fire in his eyes, the way he holds your body under his like it’s his to keep. it’s impossible, the way he looks at you. it fills your chest, makes heat rise to your throat.
keep me safe, garou, you want to say, keep me with you.
the words never make it to your tongue. the same way he can’t say it, you can’t either. this is just another of the secrets you keep, this thing between the two of you.
the first time you kiss, it’s after a fight. he’s soaked in blood, both his own and someone else’s. his hair is messy and dirty, his clothes are torn, his hands are clenched into fists. he smells like copper and dirt and sweat and all you can think, all you want, is the warmth of him in your arms and his mouth on yours.
and as you look at him through half-shut eyes, garou glances over at you and away quickly. he is a man who does everything with intent, every step and gesture carefully chosen. except, somehow, when he looks at you. he will take you in unabashedly, openly, like he is starving and his only salvation is seeing you.
it is love, and foolishness, and everything in between.
you can never get enough of his hands in your hair. his mouth against your neck. the way his eyes never leave yours in the rare moment that he lets his guard down enough to show the truth behind all those walls. you can’t get enough of the way he wants you, the selfish, greedy thing inside of him that can’t help the way you consume his thoughts, the way he comes back to you time and time again.
you see that part of him, that you see him behind all the sharp angles and harsh edges he tries to hide behind, is something he cannot bring himself to give to anyone in this world except you. something about the way your hands fit in his, the way you meet his eyes without fear, the way you seem to know him without him needing to say anything—it breaks him apart and builds him back just a little softer every time you let him close to you.
you know, for all he is worth, could kill you instantaneously, if the hero association doesnt first. wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze until you go purple. plunge two fingers into your arteries until you bleed out. dismantle you limb by limb while you're fast asleep, and dispose of your body parts in whatever backwater place he came out of. kill you every which way he so pleases, and do it again.
this is never the man that comes to you at night. the man that climbs under the covers with you and touches you with careful hands is a different person to the one the world knows. because he changes. he softens, and the hands that could kill are suddenly gentle, the mouth that could maim is instead pressing soft, reverent kisses into your skin. the monster turns into something else when he’s with you, into something you find yourself loving more and more. the thought of all that power, all that strength, all of it under your control, it’s intoxicating. it makes the fear worth it.
the world knows a wolf, but it’s a dog that lays his head in your lap.
the heroes call him a monster, a killer, a threat to peace. and maybe they’re right. he’s their worst nightmare come to life—rage in motion, vengeance in human form. every time he walks out your door, you know someone won’t be walking back through theirs. sometimes you hear about it on the news, sometimes you don’t. but he always comes back.
and when he does, he drops the snarl, the fangs, the fury. he sets them all at your feet like offerings, like he’s begging to be seen for something more than the blood beneath his fingernails.
you sit him down and cradle his jaw in your hands like he isn’t the most dangerous thing in the world. like he doesn’t smell like iron and ash and rot. you wipe away the blood—his or someone else’s, you rarely ask—and kiss the cuts left behind. he lets you. sometimes, that’s the most love he knows how to give.
there’s always a question lodged between your ribs: why you? why does he keep coming back? you’ve asked him before, in the quietest hours of the morning, while the sheets still smell like steel and skin. he never answers. just stares at the ceiling like the stars might spell it out for him.
maybe he doesn’t know. maybe he does. maybe it's something in your eyes, your voice, the way you let him in when you shouldn’t. you never ask again.
you only know this—he is something feral made human by your touch. he bows his head when you kiss his knuckles. he goes still when you touch his back, like he's afraid you'll pull away. he never says thank you, but he never stops coming.
you try not to think too hard about what it means, what it says about him that he stays, about you that you let him. maybe you’re just as lost as he is. maybe you’re both fools, clinging to each other like driftwood in a flood.
and still, you try to keep him close. you memorize the planes of his face, the weight of his body against yours, the roughness of his voice when it drops to a whisper. he gives you almost nothing, but you take what you can. you trace the long scars carved into his arms, his chest, his ribs. press kisses to the wounds time forgot. press yourself into the empty spaces no one else dared to fill.
he watches you sometimes like he’s waiting for you to leave. like he's daring you to. but you don’t. you stay, again and again and again.
it’s like you’re playing house together. you know, like children pretending to be their parents and playing at having a family. you pretend this is a real relationship. you pretend he belongs to you, and you to him, and that’s the way things should be. he pretends he can’t stand you, and you play along with the charade like you don’t know any better.
you make believe you’re his, and he’s yours, and that this is love in the ordinary way.
he plays along. pretends your touch is a nuisance. pretends your voice doesn’t steady him. pretends he doesn’t fall apart when you whisper his name like a prayer.
neither of you are particularly good at pretending.
your hands are the only soft thing he’s ever known. and when you touch him, it isn’t out of mercy. it’s out of choice.
he’s not easy to love. his moods turn like weather. his eyes never settle. he shies from affection like it burns. but you’re patient. you’re constant. you give him the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be returned, that waits, and waits, and waits.
and he fights it. god, he fights it. he snarls and flees and comes crawling back, like loving you is a war he cannot win and cannot bear to lose.
but still you offer. your hands. your home. your heart. every inch of you, piece by piece, night after night.
you give, and give, and give, until he cannot help but want.
