Uhm. Feel Reluctant To Put This In The Tags But . I Hope This Helps At Least One Person. - Blog Posts

This is so sweet I'm crying

TRIGGER WARNING: Hawks x reader. Minors DNI. Trauma. Pedophilia/incest. Comfort/support for that. Do not add any harmful comments or tags. Subject matter is not for everyone, so please ONLY read if this will not trigger you, as I will be making no attempt to censor this or any explicitness.

"Is there something wrong with me," you ask.

Those words are the last to leave your lips. Putting your secrets to words feels as if you've allowed the fluid that filled the cavity of your chest to spill; that fluid being a sacrilegious amalgamation of sorts, an unholy blend of suicidal dread and utterly childlike rage.

Keigo catches them. He picks them up like he does your hands in the cradle of his palms. 

You could count the creases in those palms just as easily as you could Keigo's smile lines, or the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when you make him laugh from his belly. You could sketch Keigo's fingerprints from memory, you're positively sure.

"There's something wrong with what happened to you," Keigo answers. "But no. There's nothing wrong with you."

For once, you feel no obligation to correct him. His emphasis on happened is deliberate, and you allow it. After years of gentle coaxing, from the first time he nearly cried the word baby the first time you told him, you feel no need to compare what didn't happen to what did. You feel no desire to hide in shame of what could have been worse. You feel no obligation to inscribe a caveat into your own experience.

You feel no performance in your childhood death.

If anyone understands the intricacies and complexities that line a traumatic past, if there's anyone you can trust, it's him. His voice crackles with empathy like candlelight in the dim of your shared bedroom. 

Try as you might to find it, there is no pity in his words. They are neither rehearsed nor forced. 

Keigo's words are perfect, and they are for you.

"Is this okay," he further asks before he lifts your hand to his cheeks; and it cracks your shell down its center. You nod and you mean it.

Simple, unfamiliar words; finally, finally, finally uttered by someone who should be saying them to you. A person unrelated to you by blood, a man of the appropriate age promises to crawl inside your body and it's so innocent and sweet. His words taste of sugarcane and smell like the pinkest sakura petals, dancing as they fall like stars and landing with a comparable delicateness.

Keigo's words remind you of the morning he tried cooking you pancake stacks with whipped cream and strawberries. They remind you of how the edges of the batter crisped golden brown with char because he was too distracted by the way you laughed at his quips that came to his throat easily.

From your chest, a giggle— another word you can say now, with him. 

Giggle. Neighborhood. One day, when you and Keigo raise your own little ones and watch them tussle and toddle trying to carry the weight of their untainted wings, you're sure you will be able to say the word family again.

For now, his chaste kiss to your bruised yet healing knuckles is enough.