Afterwitch Writes - Blog Posts

Fragile Little Thing [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Title: Fragile Little Thing [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: Your “boyfriend” is having a rough day and he doesn’t appreciate you being such a difficult partner. If you can’t behave, maybe he can’t behave, either. 

For request: a fic with Yandere hawks. Maybe he breaks/ ruins something extremely precious to his darling. Something that money just can’t buy.

Word Count: 1800ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped, abuse

The muffled sounds of Hawks returning to the apartment are all too familiar. Jingling of keys. Click, click, clicking of the locks. You know he’d love it if you greeted him at the door, like you used to do. Which is partially why you choose to remain in bed–though really, you’ve hardly left it since that morning, except to greedily drink water from the tap and use the restroom.

So it comes as no surprise when the door to your ‘shared’ bedroom opens and Keigo stands in the doorway, looking disapproving and sad and–you catch it, in the way his eyebrows furrow–slightly annoyed at the way you’re in practically the same position as when he left: curled up on the bed, holding onto a pillow like a shield in front of you.

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I’m so excited for all the new things you’ll be writing :D if you’re cool with it, could you write hawks with a broken darling and him just providing comfort? I’d imagine that when it comes down to it, hawks wouldn’t be all too happy about having his darling become a shell of who they used to be. I feel like he’d just hold darling and pray with all his heart that he’ll fix the problem.

Title: Sunday Regret [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: He didn’t meant to do it. And now he’ll do what it takes 

Word Count: 1312

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of violence

 If he wasn’t in the middle of cooking, he’d probably carry you into the dining room for a change of pace. But he doesn’t want to burn it, lest you get scared at the sound of the smoke detector. 

You haven’t moved from your spot on the sofa in hours. If it weren’t for him, you’d probably still be in bed, tucked on your side, alternating between staring at the wall and burying your face in a tear-stained pillow. 

But it’s not good for you to lay in bed all day, so he carefully picked you up and carried you into the living room after a while. He even left your walker next to you, though you’ve never bothered using it.

You don’t bother doing much of anything, anymore.

At least the living room had more stimulation for you than the bedroom. He worried when you spent hours in there, staring at a blank wall. In the living room, there were books or decor to look at, or he could turn on the TV or play some music, if you wanted. Not that you would say what you wanted, because you haven’t spoken properly in… he doesn’t want to think how long. You’ve made noises. Grunts of assent or disagreement. Sighs. Whimpers, sometimes, at night, when you think he might be sleeping.

He didn’t mean to break you down like this. Truly. How was he supposed to know--know what would happen, and know his own strength. You probably don’t believe him, which hurts (you’re supposed to love him, after all) but he didn’t actually mean to break your leg. You were trying to run, and you made it outside and tripped--all your own fault--and when he’d grabbed your leg as you tried to scurry away, he’d gripped your calf and then.

Crunching. Your screams, no, they were more like wails, primal sounds that made his gut curl. He’s not proud of the way he slapped a hand over your mouth, then, pulling you inside with no delicacy, only hurried fear that someone heard you and might come snooping.

And maybe he shouldn’t have screamed at you after dropping you unceremoniously on the bedroom floor, maybe he should have offered you painkillers right away instead of jabbing a finger in your face and telling you that you could just-deal-with-it.

Maybe if he’d treated you tenderly from the moment of the break, you wouldn’t have become so depressed and downtrodden. The next day, stuffed with painkillers and leg wrapped (courtesy of a favor--no questions, no answers) you simply… stopped existing. You wouldn’t talk, barely nodding or shaking your head at his requests. You stopped bathing yourself--getting to gently bathe you in the tub himself is one perk of all this, he thinks, though he’d never say it out loud. You barely eat, and when you do, he usually needs to feed you.

He’s threatened you with a feeding tube and you didn’t even flinch; he doesn’t want to go that route, but he can always call in a favor. You sleep erratically, sometimes all day, sometimes all night; you stare ahead of you for hours, tears leaking onto whatever pillow is tucked underneath your head. All of his attempts to get you on a sleeping schedule failed, so he stopped trying. You probably needed more sleep to let your broken leg heal, anyway.

He tries to be understanding, because in a way, this is his fault. If he’d been a better boyfriend, you wouldn’t have tried to run from him, and he wouldn’t have broken your leg. (He often reminds himself, that if you hadn’t run away, he never would have needed to grab your leg--but what good does it do to point out that it’s partly your fault, too?)

Besides, he knows that you need lots of forgiveness right now. You’re hurting.  You’re sad. But it’s hard. It’s hard. And he doesn’t blame you, not really, but he wishes he had someone to talk to about his problems. He misses you. He misses watching TV together. He even misses the arguments, in a way. At least you were talking. At least you were feeling something other than the sadness that kept tracks of tears on your cheeks all day.

Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference in the end. Maybe you would have done this regardless.  It’s not important. What is important--and he knows this in his heart--is that the regrets it, all of it, and he’ll never do it again. And he’s going to make sure you get better by being the best damn boyfriend there is.

“Lunchtime, babe,” he says, quickly scooping together two bowls of rice, some veggies, wanting to keep things light on your stomach. It’s easier to feed you when the vegetables are soft--he worries less about you not chewing properly, at least--so they’re a bit overcooked, mushy in the bowl.

You don’t respond. But it’s okay. He doesn’t expect you to. If anything, this entire ordeal has taught him a lot about considering your needs. He wasn’t exactly a great boyfriend before all this. He got a bit too selfish, making you sit on his lap, getting annoyed if you cried while he made you try on lingerie. Now, though? It’s all about you.

So if he has to miss an interview because you broke down sobbing in the tub and need to be held for a while, so be it. If his new couch gets food stains because you don’t want to get up and he feeds you right from the comfort of the sofa, so be it.

Whatever it takes--he’ll do it.

When he cranes his neck back into the living room, the sight makes his feathers rustle. You’re standing, leaning on the walker he’d left behind, arms trembling from the effort. You got up! It’s the most you’ve done on your own in a long time. A grin instinctively breaks out and he can’t stop himself from practically running up to you, eyes bright, smile brighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, practically breathless from the change. “Do you--shit, this is great, do you want to do something? What do you need? Want to take a walk on the balcony or--”

He pauses when he sees your mouth moving, sees you looking at him with sad, puppy-dog eyes. It’s a tentative gesture, and he’s reminded of an infant, staring at their parents and trying to force through words through unpracticed lips.

“I--I--I…”

He rises up on his toes in anticipation. Moving on your own and talking, all in one day? Maybe this is your breakthrough, maybe this is it, maybe he’s pulled you across that threshold back into health. Back into you.

But you don’t--can’t--finish whatever it was you wanted to say. You huff instead, sighing in defeat, face falling and thick tears dribbling down your splotchy cheeks as you give up entirely.

You burst into short, pitiful sobs, arms shaking violently as your grip on the walker weakens, as your physical strength seems to drop.

He doesn’t wait, and immediately swoops you up in his arms, cradling you as he sits on the sofa, careful of your leg as he tucks you into his lap. You don’t resist as he pushes your head towards his rest, letting it rest there as he rubs your back, stroking softly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

It makes you cry harder, leaning your face into his shoulder like you do the pillows on the bed. Which is good, isn’t it? You’re getting it out. And when is the last time you let him hold you like this without struggling, legs and arms kicking, nails scratching?

So he won’t deny that he enjoys this moment, enjoys getting to comfort you in the way he’s always wanted to; in the way that you’ve always, especially right now, needed.

It might take a long time to get you back to yourself. But he’ll be here, every step of the way, waiting for you to come out on the other side.

Title: Pluck [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Title: Pluck [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: You tried to run–no, fly–away. And Hawks is going to make sure you never try that again.

For request: Anonymous said:  had a thought and I’d love to hear your input! So like keigo or chisaki with like a darling with a winged quirk and then having to pluck and clip your wings so their little bird doesn’t try flying away on them. Btw can I I just say your writing is super super good and characterization is just *chefs kiss* like every piece of your writing I’m like

Word count: 1000ish

Notes: Yandere, violence

It’s that time again. Which is exactly why you’ve placed yourself in between the couch and Keigo. A very unassuming Keigo. A Keigo who is standing, hands splayed, looking all shrugs and smiles. 

You know, and Keigo knows, that he could easily reach you. He could push the couch aside. He could leap over it, fly over it, and reach you in an instant. But that doesn’t stop you from taking refuge behind it, face set in a petulant frown, wings curled protectively around you.

“Sweetie,” Keigo says, and it’s charming, or would be charming, if you weren’t his captive. “I don’t know why you’re throwing a fit about this. You know what day it is. I put it on our calendar." 

He gestures vaguely towards the kitchen, where you know there’s a large calendar tacked up on the wall, edged by taped-up photos of you and Keigo before everything went to shit. Before he kept you locked up, caged, figuratively–well, figuratively most of the time.

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So Far (Yandere Hawks x Reader)

Title: So Far

Synopsis: Follow up to “So Close.” Hawks realizes that in order to build you up as the perfect partner, you’ve got to be broken down first.

Word Count: 2163

Notes: yandere, choking, violence, food deprivation, malnourishment 

You wish you could stand up and properly stretch. But the unassuming crawl space that Keigo unceremoniously pushed you into after bringing you “home” was too small for that. The ceiling was low, and 

You pull your knees up against your chest and wince at the pain in your thighs and legs. The floor was concrete, and the drop had hurt–enough to bruise, at least, but the dim lighting from a single, small window didn’t really provide an opportunity for you to check.

You flinch when you hear the half-sized door open, and not a moment later does Keigo enter, ducking his head  to avoid hitting the ceiling. He has a tray with him, which he sets down in front of you. A glass of water and leftovers from the other night, still streaming from the microwave.

Your stomach seems to growl on cue, but you fight the urge to reach for the food and instead stay still. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of feeding you right now.

Keigo sighs, as if sensing your defiance, and crouches down until he’s sitting on his heels. He stares at you. You stare back, hoping your gaze looks braver than you feel.

“This is my fault,” he says, finally. Low and sad, you can see his lips curling downward in a frown. “I shouldn’t have done this.”

Keep reading

I’m so excited for all the new things you’ll be writing :D if you’re cool with it, could you write hawks with a broken darling and him just providing comfort? I’d imagine that when it comes down to it, hawks wouldn’t be all too happy about having his darling become a shell of who they used to be. I feel like he’d just hold darling and pray with all his heart that he’ll fix the problem.

Title: Sunday Regret [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: He didn’t meant to do it. And now he’ll do what it takes 

Word Count: 1312

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of violence

 If he wasn’t in the middle of cooking, he’d probably carry you into the dining room for a change of pace. But he doesn’t want to burn it, lest you get scared at the sound of the smoke detector. 

You haven’t moved from your spot on the sofa in hours. If it weren’t for him, you’d probably still be in bed, tucked on your side, alternating between staring at the wall and burying your face in a tear-stained pillow. 

But it’s not good for you to lay in bed all day, so he carefully picked you up and carried you into the living room after a while. He even left your walker next to you, though you’ve never bothered using it.

You don’t bother doing much of anything, anymore.

At least the living room had more stimulation for you than the bedroom. He worried when you spent hours in there, staring at a blank wall. In the living room, there were books or decor to look at, or he could turn on the TV or play some music, if you wanted. Not that you would say what you wanted, because you haven’t spoken properly in… he doesn’t want to think how long. You’ve made noises. Grunts of assent or disagreement. Sighs. Whimpers, sometimes, at night, when you think he might be sleeping.

He didn’t mean to break you down like this. Truly. How was he supposed to know--know what would happen, and know his own strength. You probably don’t believe him, which hurts (you’re supposed to love him, after all) but he didn’t actually mean to break your leg. You were trying to run, and you made it outside and tripped--all your own fault--and when he’d grabbed your leg as you tried to scurry away, he’d gripped your calf and then.

Crunching. Your screams, no, they were more like wails, primal sounds that made his gut curl. He’s not proud of the way he slapped a hand over your mouth, then, pulling you inside with no delicacy, only hurried fear that someone heard you and might come snooping.

And maybe he shouldn’t have screamed at you after dropping you unceremoniously on the bedroom floor, maybe he should have offered you painkillers right away instead of jabbing a finger in your face and telling you that you could just-deal-with-it.

Maybe if he’d treated you tenderly from the moment of the break, you wouldn’t have become so depressed and downtrodden. The next day, stuffed with painkillers and leg wrapped (courtesy of a favor--no questions, no answers) you simply… stopped existing. You wouldn’t talk, barely nodding or shaking your head at his requests. You stopped bathing yourself--getting to gently bathe you in the tub himself is one perk of all this, he thinks, though he’d never say it out loud. You barely eat, and when you do, he usually needs to feed you.

He’s threatened you with a feeding tube and you didn’t even flinch; he doesn’t want to go that route, but he can always call in a favor. You sleep erratically, sometimes all day, sometimes all night; you stare ahead of you for hours, tears leaking onto whatever pillow is tucked underneath your head. All of his attempts to get you on a sleeping schedule failed, so he stopped trying. You probably needed more sleep to let your broken leg heal, anyway.

He tries to be understanding, because in a way, this is his fault. If he’d been a better boyfriend, you wouldn’t have tried to run from him, and he wouldn’t have broken your leg. (He often reminds himself, that if you hadn’t run away, he never would have needed to grab your leg--but what good does it do to point out that it’s partly your fault, too?)

Besides, he knows that you need lots of forgiveness right now. You’re hurting.  You’re sad. But it’s hard. It’s hard. And he doesn’t blame you, not really, but he wishes he had someone to talk to about his problems. He misses you. He misses watching TV together. He even misses the arguments, in a way. At least you were talking. At least you were feeling something other than the sadness that kept tracks of tears on your cheeks all day.

Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference in the end. Maybe you would have done this regardless.  It’s not important. What is important--and he knows this in his heart--is that the regrets it, all of it, and he’ll never do it again. And he’s going to make sure you get better by being the best damn boyfriend there is.

“Lunchtime, babe,” he says, quickly scooping together two bowls of rice, some veggies, wanting to keep things light on your stomach. It’s easier to feed you when the vegetables are soft--he worries less about you not chewing properly, at least--so they’re a bit overcooked, mushy in the bowl.

You don’t respond. But it’s okay. He doesn’t expect you to. If anything, this entire ordeal has taught him a lot about considering your needs. He wasn’t exactly a great boyfriend before all this. He got a bit too selfish, making you sit on his lap, getting annoyed if you cried while he made you try on lingerie. Now, though? It’s all about you.

So if he has to miss an interview because you broke down sobbing in the tub and need to be held for a while, so be it. If his new couch gets food stains because you don’t want to get up and he feeds you right from the comfort of the sofa, so be it.

Whatever it takes--he’ll do it.

When he cranes his neck back into the living room, the sight makes his feathers rustle. You’re standing, leaning on the walker he’d left behind, arms trembling from the effort. You got up! It’s the most you’ve done on your own in a long time. A grin instinctively breaks out and he can’t stop himself from practically running up to you, eyes bright, smile brighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, practically breathless from the change. “Do you--shit, this is great, do you want to do something? What do you need? Want to take a walk on the balcony or--”

He pauses when he sees your mouth moving, sees you looking at him with sad, puppy-dog eyes. It’s a tentative gesture, and he’s reminded of an infant, staring at their parents and trying to force through words through unpracticed lips.

“I--I--I…”

He rises up on his toes in anticipation. Moving on your own and talking, all in one day? Maybe this is your breakthrough, maybe this is it, maybe he’s pulled you across that threshold back into health. Back into you.

But you don’t--can’t--finish whatever it was you wanted to say. You huff instead, sighing in defeat, face falling and thick tears dribbling down your splotchy cheeks as you give up entirely.

You burst into short, pitiful sobs, arms shaking violently as your grip on the walker weakens, as your physical strength seems to drop.

He doesn’t wait, and immediately swoops you up in his arms, cradling you as he sits on the sofa, careful of your leg as he tucks you into his lap. You don’t resist as he pushes your head towards his rest, letting it rest there as he rubs your back, stroking softly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

It makes you cry harder, leaning your face into his shoulder like you do the pillows on the bed. Which is good, isn’t it? You’re getting it out. And when is the last time you let him hold you like this without struggling, legs and arms kicking, nails scratching?

So he won’t deny that he enjoys this moment, enjoys getting to comfort you in the way he’s always wanted to; in the way that you’ve always, especially right now, needed.

It might take a long time to get you back to yourself. But he’ll be here, every step of the way, waiting for you to come out on the other side.

Title: Pluck [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Title: Pluck [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: You tried to run–no, fly–away. And Hawks is going to make sure you never try that again.

For request: Anonymous said:  had a thought and I’d love to hear your input! So like keigo or chisaki with like a darling with a winged quirk and then having to pluck and clip your wings so their little bird doesn’t try flying away on them. Btw can I I just say your writing is super super good and characterization is just *chefs kiss* like every piece of your writing I’m like

Word count: 1000ish

Notes: Yandere, violence

It’s that time again. Which is exactly why you’ve placed yourself in between the couch and Keigo. A very unassuming Keigo. A Keigo who is standing, hands splayed, looking all shrugs and smiles. 

You know, and Keigo knows, that he could easily reach you. He could push the couch aside. He could leap over it, fly over it, and reach you in an instant. But that doesn’t stop you from taking refuge behind it, face set in a petulant frown, wings curled protectively around you.

“Sweetie,” Keigo says, and it’s charming, or would be charming, if you weren’t his captive. “I don’t know why you’re throwing a fit about this. You know what day it is. I put it on our calendar." 

He gestures vaguely towards the kitchen, where you know there’s a large calendar tacked up on the wall, edged by taped-up photos of you and Keigo before everything went to shit. Before he kept you locked up, caged, figuratively–well, figuratively most of the time.

Keep reading