#There's only so much effort on Hawke's part. And I guess that's where I get to “Kamal's a little selfish” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilikekidsshows · 2 months ago

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These are really good additions. For all Marinette complains about how her Ladybug/Guardian responsibilities cut into her time as Marinette, she sure isn't making any moves towards making it so that a Ladybug wouldn't be needed. All her efforts go into stopping the Akuma of the day or some other pointless project that won't actually bring her any closer to catching Hawk Moth. She'll jump at the chance to let Tikki replace her as Ladybug, but she won't make having a Ladybug unnecessary or find a permanent replacement herself. Basically, Marinette wants to stop being a Ladybug, but only when doing so would require her to do nothing.

This makes it seem like the only reason Marinette hasn't already quit is that her motivation to quit is even weaker than her motivation to be a hero. Although, Marinette has had this tendency where she complains about things she could change but then makes no effort to change for a long time in the show. She didn't like Fu sidelining Cat Noir but only made the weakest attempts possible to persuade Fu to talk to him after Cat Noir brought the situation up. Even after Fu stops telling her to keep Cat Noir in the dark about everything, when she's crying about how hard it is to be alone for the couple of weeks after Fu lost his memories, she still won't just talk to Cat Noir. Her telling Alya was an accident, done in the midst of another emotional breakdown. Marinette always had the option to reach out to others and, even when the outside pressure to not do so was removed, she still wouldn't do it by choice.

Marinette complains about things she has the power to change, but then does nothing to change them. This has been going on since even before the retool, and the post-retool Marinette views herself as being completely incapable of changing her circumstances even when she's the one with all the authority and power. Even when she knows how she could change things, she won't do it, because Astruc confirmed in the finale commentary that Marinette understood from Félix's message at least the part about Gabriel being Hawk Moth, and then she acted like she didn't know so that the finale could have a standalone "realization" moment (because they're still writing Miraculous as an episodic show).

However, that just means that, even after she found out the truth, she had no intention of acting on the knowledge that Gabriel was Hawk Moth until he jumped her when she was breaking in to find out information about Adrien. Marinette was going to let Gabriel keep being Hawk Moth at least for the time being, because stopping him would have been too much effort, I guess. Even if you go with the interpretation that Marinette didn't fully understand Félix's message, Astruc confirmed that she at least suspected Gabriel before she went into the mansion, and yet she didn't do anything with her suspicions because that would have required her to put effort and thinking into her heroics instead of just reacting to what was going on directly in front of her.

Basically, Marinette will rarely do anything more than solve an immediate situation. She would rather keep having easy-to-win Akuma fights that cut into her private life that she'll then constantly complain about than make a proper plan to track down and stop the source of the Akumas. Because of this laziness, she was completely unprepared to do anything to actually stop him when Hawk Moth decided they'd have their final confrontation now. All the power, allies and knowledge at her disposal went to waste and she fumbled her way into the world getting destroyed.

Like, when the protagonist has this much knowledge, authority and power and goes this far in not taking advantage of it, all the while complaining about rough she has it, you really gotta start wondering at what point her problems start being self-caused. Sure, Gabriel is responsible for his own actions, but 'Origins' had this quote be an inspiration to Marinette: "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is that good people do nothing!" and in the finale, she proves it correct in the worst possible way. Marinette, indeed, did nothing, and Gabriel triumphed. The writers can claim that "Gabriel laid down his arms so Marinette won" all they like, but that symbolic victory is nothing against Gabriel's literal victory of gaining ultimate reality-bending power and getting to reshape the world however he wishes. Once again, the Miraculous writers had something happen that's the exact opposite of what they meant to represent.

I've seen people said Adrien doesn't have motivation to be a hero but Marinette does, which is weird because I feel like it's Marinette who doesn't have a motivation to be hero beyond "people listen to Ladybug". Her lack of motivation is what confused me because as a protagonist, she's inevitably become a role model for the young audience and I find nothing about her is likeable, even more so after she become a guardian. It's as if being a guardian inflate her ego and she forgot that everyone else is a human with feelings, not just a pawn or a doll for her to play and ordered around.

Recently I found out a website that contain the concept plot and it confused me more because I feel like concept Marinette is a more grounded character than she is in the show.

Marinette's goal isn't just to be Adrien/Felix's girlfriend but she also need to collect the kwamis that she accidentally releases and she become a guardian not because of luck or favoritism like how it is in the show, it's because her grandfather is the guardian. Adrien/Felix doesn't even become Chat Noir because he's chosen by the guardian, it's Plagg who chose him. It's actually much better than the whole "I choose you but also I'm not going to do anything with you" that Fu pulls in the show.

i don't understand why the higher up/the sponsor reject this plot because I think this much better than whatever we have now. If they have a problem with Chat Noir being an anti-hero, then why do they accept Marinette being written like one while also hailing her as a hero?

---

“Adrien isn't motivated to be a hero” he actually likes being a hero, unlike our role model protagonist, who’d rather do anything than be Ladybug even when she's being lauded for her heroic deeds. Is this based on Adrien trying to quit when Fu or Marinette is making his job needlessly more difficult to do? Because, like, that's the only thing that he seems to dislike about being a hero, which, like, makes Marinette an even worse hero. She’s so bad at her job, she makes otherwise eager heroes lose their motivation.

I’m gonna be very honest here; Marinette becoming Ladybug because she accidentally released a bunch of magical creatures and Adrien/Félix being more of an anti-hero rival than a full-on ally would have been copied straight from Cardcaptor Sakura’s starting setup. Like, I’m not surprised that even the rejected ideas for Miraculous are copied from other properties, but it just proves that regardless of any other variables, Astruc’s creation was always going to be highly derivative. Regardless, I do feel that Fu being her grandfather instead of a stranger would have gone a long way in justifying Marinette’s special treatment both in-universe and to the audience, but that’s probably why it was rejected.

Like, we can mock the fact that Marinette isn’t actually within spitting distance of being a “normal girl with a normal life” all we like, but that doesn’t change the fact that, from a purely on-paper angle, she is pretty average. She’s a middle-schooler with pretty average hobbies who deals with normal teen problems like bullies and a crush on a boy she doesn’t know how to deal with. There’s a reason it’s the opening line for the show’s opening. It's marketable. A special chosen one from the start wouldn’t have been as marketable in the same way. Especially when we take into account how hypersensitive Astruc is to Marinette being less liked than he’d want. He’d do whatever he can think of to make sure Marinette isn’t immediately judged a “Mary Sue”.

The thing with executives is that they don't watch the shows they fund. They read the pitch, synopses, and maybe the scripts if they can find the time. And even then, they might not want to put in the money to get a script revised even if they paid enough attention to tell it was dogshit. They wouldn't be interested as long as the different Miraculous bedsheets and shampoos keep selling and as long as the show isn’t too gay to sell to other countries. Like, the show bible that Gloob leaked? The one full of inaccuracies because it was outdated? That was what the executives were most likely given when the retool went into development. In addition, corporate oversight on the show has actually decreased the longer it’s gone on, because the show’s proven itself to be a success. I’m pretty sure the higher-ups were not asked: “hey, is it okay if we make Marinette an entitled jerk who gets validated at every turn while she starts treating people worse and worse?” I’m pretty sure no one okayed Marinette’s “villain arc”, it was just allowed to pass because it didn’t make the show less marketable.

That’s the thing with any property that becomes “too big to fail”. Less oversight means less quality control. It’s like one anonymous Gamefreak employee said about making Pokémon games: “It’ll sell anyway, so it doesn’t matter if it’s bad.”

#ml critical #dats chats

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adelheidvonschicksal · 4 years ago

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Gosh, the Hawks x intern! Reader sure made me tear up :(

Like imagine him regretting not being there for her and his baby girl from the start and trying to make up for it now 😭😭💖

I was going to imagine this, but I couldn't because I ended up writing 3000 words. 😭 I just love fictional babies so much and want them to be happy, okay? I left it open-ended, so I wouldn't betray the "kick his ass" gang. I'm a weak woman 🥺 I still don't know much about him other than what Wikipedia and memes tell me but here we go!

Part One | Part Two

Hawks doesn’t think you’ll ever let him in, not that he could blame you. Every time you see him, your expression hardens, pretty eyes narrow into a glare, nostrils flare, breathing heavy. His only bright light during your last exchange is that you wait three seconds before slamming the door in his face rather than the usual zero.

Oh, he’s definitely softening you up. Not.

It’s been a month now that he’s been at this, and he is starting to wonder if this entire thing is worth the headache. All he’s accomplished so far is bothering you with his requests to talk. Then, he remembers the little angel that you have with you and thinks it’s worth the headache.

At first, he had ignored your previous exchange that day at the park and the nagging feeling in the corner of his mind upon seeing the two of you. Until that same feeling started to weigh on his heart. He quickly realizes what those feelings were. Guilt and regret at not taking another path with the high schooler he so carelessly took advantage of and impregnated.

If he had, he could be annoying Endeavor about his cute little wife right about now.

Hawks feels a bit like Icarus flying too close to the sun and now sinking in a turbulent ocean of his own making. Instead of drowning, the world decides to throw him a lifeline as the receptionist patches a call through to him.

His heart jumps when he hears you on the other side, resistant but succumbed in your plea, “I need your help.”

The very next day you arrive at the agency, a small hand latched in your own as you stand in the middle of his office. You didn’t want to be here. The thought of being in the same place where your daughter was conceived with the same man who left you makes you antsy. You can’t believe you actually let Fumikage talk you into this.

You remember that phone conversation.

Your daughter’s quirk had been coming in full force, so fast you didn’t know how to handle it. You hoped that Tokoyami would have been able to help her control it since he trained with the very person she received her quirk from much longer than you had and that he was part avian himself.

“Please, Fumi. It’s getting worse,” you begged over the phone. “She accidentally hurt a few of the kids at school. No. No. They’re fine, some cuts and a little shook up, but fine. They won’t let her back in until she gets it under control though, so please.”

“I told you there’s not much else I can do. The best solution would be to go to the person with the same quirk.”

He’s right. He’s absolutely right, but you don’t want to rely on someone like that man especially now. What if he ended up hurting her?

“I don’t want to do that.”

“I know you don’t, but he’s been trying to contact you, right? So I'm sure he'd do it if you asked.”

“Yeah…” You growled. “I swear if he makes one smart-ass remark, I might kill him in front of her.”

“Remember it’s not for you. Although, I don’t think you could kill him even if you tried.”

“If we combined our strength…”

“No,” Tokoyami immediately shot down.

You sighed. “I’m only joking. Do you have the number to the agency still?”

Now you’re here, watching the very man who abandoned you kneel down to your daughter’s eye level. Hawks couldn’t believe he’s actually seeing her. It’s a bit exciting to see how much bigger she’s gotten in such a short time with big fat wings at her back holding way more feathers than she can probably deal with.

“So, this is the special girl,” he says. She shies away from him, hiding behind your leg for protection. “Come on out, Baby Bird, you don’t have to be scared of me.”

Slowly, she peeks from behind you, fingers still clutched in your pants leg, and Hawks smiles.

“There you are. Did your mommy tell you who I am?”

“You’re her and uncle Toko’s old teacher, and you’re going to help me control my quirk.”

“That’s right. You just turned five, right? That’s when a lot of quirks can get kind of hectic.”

“Yeah. I had a birthday party with Elsa last month.”

Hawks’ smile falters for a second as he thinks he doesn’t know exactly what day her birthday is. At least now he knows the month. Quickly, he’s back to normal to keep an air of happiness in the situation. “You know I know a lady that looks a bit like Elsa. She has ice powers like her too,” Hawks says, having grown a little closer to the number one hero's family as he tried to figure out what to do about his own family situation.

When her eyes widen, Hawks knows he has her hook, line, and sinker. She throws her initial shyness to the wind in exchange for excitement. “She does? Can I meet her?”

“I’m sure we could make that happen. If not, her son has an ice quirk, too. I’m sure he’d show you.”

The young girl smiles at him, but Hawks notices her vision drifting to something else. Cautiously, her tiny hand stretches out to him, making him nervous as to what she’s doing, before chubby fingers clutch around the edge of his wing, squeezing into his feathers. “They’re pretty,” she mumbles.

“Want one?” he asks, and she nods.

“This is my birthday present for you, don’t lose it,” he says, offering her a single long feather from the back of his wings. She clutches it to her chest tightly, a happy smile plastered on her face.

Then, you interrupt.

“Baby, mama has to run some errands, but she’ll come right back to pick you up when the clock says twelve. You remember how that looks like, right?”

“It’s a 1 and a 2,” she says, bringing up her hands to show you.

Hawks decides to walk you out as your daughter sits in his office chair, twirling around his feather in her hand. He isn’t sure what to say to you now that he has you near him. Should he thank you for bringing her? Or would that only serve to piss you off since it’s not like you wanted to do this by choice?

“Hawks,” you say, bringing him out his thoughts. “There’s one more thing before I go.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t tell her,” you order. “Don’t you dare tell her.”

His chest squeezes at that but he can understand why you wouldn’t want her to know that information when the two of you aren’t even on speaking terms outside this issue. He didn’t want to do anything to make the situation worse either, so he brings his fingers to his mouth and zips his pinched thumb and index finger across his lips. “I’ll make sure mine and anyone else’s lips are sealed if they want to keep their job,” he calmly reassures you, always calm and carefree so you wouldn’t think that your rejection is successfully deterring him.

From then on, you drop your daughter off at his office twice a week to get a better handle on her powers. You didn’t stay long aside from that, but Hawks likes the small moments when all three of you are in the same room together.

The hero can be thankful that at least one of his girls likes him. His Baby Bird quickly attached herself to him, always pattering after his footsteps like a shadow, and always asking if he’d hold her hand, a smile forming whenever he engulfed her smaller one. He even keeps his promise to let her see Rei, or Elsa as Baby Bird so passionately refers to her, now that the woman is out of the hospital.

He thinks that if that family can recover from what happened then his shouldn’t be much different as long as he keeps trying to put in the effort and not step on your toes too much.

It isn’t long before Baby Bird begins to get a hang of her powers. At least enough that she wouldn’t be hurting anyone at school. Hawks had hoped you would still allow him to train her past that point though, but you quickly told him that she wouldn’t be returning to the agency when she reached that point.

He was sad to hear it of course, but he didn’t want to cause what little progress he made to be broken even if he really wanted to see her fly at least a few inches before she left. She’s been getting into the habit of jumping instead of walking to practice like he used to do. Although, she resembles more of a bouncy frog than a bird, to be honest.

He watches, amused, as she bounces along next to him in the hallway.

“You’ve gotten good at that,” he compliments, drawing her attention upwards.

“I’ve been practicing lots at home, but I’m not that good yet. Will you teach me how to fly like you do tomorrow?” she asks.

“No, Baby Bird. Didn’t your mommy tell you that we’re done with training after today?”

She hangs her head down, her bouncing stopping as she drags her feet. “…Yes,” she answers, letting his arm go lax as she releases his hand. Hawks pauses, watching as she draws her hands to her waist and anxiously bunches and twists the bottom of her shirt, and Hawks throat goes dry as she asks with glossy eyes, “Daddy, why doesn’t mommy like you?”

He’s completely silent, wondering exactly when she figured it out or if someone in the office had told her, let alone told her the fact that you didn’t like him. Well, he guesses it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. “How do you know to call me that?"

“Yesterday, my teacher told us that we inhe-inhe-inherent our quirk from our parents. I remember you said Elsa and her son had the same quirk, and you have big wings like mine and can make your feathers move.”

Hawks smiles. She’s a sharp one to piece it together in a day. “Your teacher is right. I bet you’ve never seen anyone else that looks quite like us.”

“No,” she answers, sniffling. “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay and play with you. Mommy is so mean to you. I hate her!”

Hawks cups her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at me. Don’t talk about your mommy like that. It’s my fault she always gets upset when I’m around. I was mean and bullied her a lot, so if you’re mad, be mad at me. I’m the reason we can’t play together more.”

She sniffs again but it isn’t enough to stop the globs of tears running down her cheeks. “When we saw you at the park, mommy started crying when we went home. I didn’t know why she did.”

Hawks knows why. The reason you’re always so angry at him is because of the hurt you still hold inside for what he did to you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have cried. The opposite of love is indifference as they say, and he knows it’s true because he had been indifferent to the pain he caused ever since the day you came to him with weepy eyes and shaking arms as you told him you were pregnant. You had been scared, and he told you to deal with it.

Hawks scowls. He’s starting to feel sick.

"If you make someone cry, you should say sorry."

Hawks smiles. “I know, baby. I'll apologize to your mama, and I’m going to try my best to make it up to her, and you, too. I’m not going to make either of you cry anymore. Then, when she forgives me, we’ll play together again.”

She looks to him, a small glimmer of hope. “You promise?”

Hawks chuckles and grins at her, the same charming expression that made you fall for him in the first place. He holds out his hand. “Even better. I pinky promise,” he says and confidently hooks her finger with his. “Repeat after me: birds of a feather stick together.”

“Birds of a feather stick together.”

“That’s my girl,” he praises before dropping her hand to pet her head. “I think we might have a little time for me to teach you something before your mommy gets here.”

At the end of the day, Hawks is already waiting for you at the front steps of the agency as your call pulls into parallel park at the sidewalk. You step out and walk towards the steps, but your daughter meets you halfway by hopping over them, her wings flapping to hover before she falls back down onto her feet.

You smile at her. You can’t believe she’s actually flying, at least a little that is, but your surprise is ruined when she cheers. “Mommy, look at what daddy taught me,” she says, bouncing to show you her new hovering skills. “Are you looking? Are you looking?”

“Yes, I’m looking. You’re so good at that. You need to show me more when we get home,” you say but to be honest it’s the last thing on your mind as you glance over to Hawks. “Baby, why don’t you go sit in the car, and I’ll be right there.”

Hawks watches as she obediently follows your instructions, turning her back and happily hopping towards the vehicle.

“(Name), I-” Hawks says, unsure what to expect when your angry glare turns back on him. It isn’t until his yellow visors are already clicking against the pavement that he realizes you hit him. He hisses at the sting on his cheek. “That actually kind of hurt. I guess I had it coming, but I’m not really sure what I did at least recently,” he tries to play off, but you aren’t having it.

“You told her, you told her,” you keep repeating, and he’s backing away in case you decide to strike him again. “Are you trying to get her on your side?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking, and I didn’t tell her,” Hawks explains. “She pieced it together on her own. She’s sharper than you think, she can see that we look alike when she looks in a mirror, and she knows how quirks work. That’s more than enough for her to tell.”

His explanation is enough for you to halt in your assault, and you angrily huff under your breath. You don’t shift to leave, and there’s no door for you to slam away. He finally has you available. “So, what do you want to do now?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she knows; and honestly, I’m glad she does,” he confesses. “I wouldn’t mind seeing her again if you’d let me.”

Hawks swallows his anxiety as he waits for you to answer. Your eyes shift from him back to where she sits in your car, fiddling with the toys obviously left to clutter in the back before you look back at him, thinking.

“She does seem to like you…for some reason,” you add distastefully, but you know full well how happy training makes her. How her little smile beamed when she fluttered over those steps. How the word daddy came from her so sweetly. “She always likes talking about you after she spends the day here. You make her happy. But that’ll just make it harder for her when you leave ag-“

“I won’t,” he cuts off.

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t but I promise not again. (Name), I’m sorry. I’m sorry for telling you to go away like a burden and for not being there. You must’ve been scared, but I won’t leave either of you alone from now on even if you don’t want me there. I’ll be there if you need me.”

“Drop it. I’m not a part of this,” you tell him.

He knows that you’re rejecting his apology, but his ears can pick up what others can’t. He can hear those soft inflections in your voice right before you harden it into aggression, the slight stutter that you so cleverly thought you hid from him as you nearly fumbled your words, a little glimpse of a teenage girl with a crush on her sensei. “Not yet but do know I plan on trying until I make you fall for me all over again. I miss your cute little face when I'd smile at you.”

You glare. “Say that again, and I will smack you in your "cute little" face.”

"You already did that, but if it makes you feel better go ahead, I can take it if it helps you forgive me.”

He just didn’t expect you to actually take him up on the offer. This time, it’s the other cheek that burns.

“You’re right. That did make me feel better,” you say, smirking as you shake the sting from your hand. Hawks grunts, rubbing his jaw as you begin to walk towards your car. He bends down to pick up his shades before following close behind. You open the driver’s door, and say, “I expect you to pick her up at 9 tomorrow. If you’re late, don’t bother showing up ever again.”

Hawks smirks. You certainly became aggressive these past few years, but he thinks he kind of likes it. As you get in your car, he notices Baby Bird smiling at him from the window, her hand up and clutched around that birthday feather he gifted to her as she waves him off.

He’ll definitely be there on time.

#hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks x y/n #bnha hawks

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delu-jean · 4 years ago

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𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐎𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲?

(Hawks x fem!/reader) -> Mostly Fluff -> 1.4k

Synopsis: You and Hawks decide to go out for a date. He’s running a little late, and you’re alone for a bit. You end up meeting a close friend of yours, and Hawks isn’t very pleased.

Notes: Might be a little angsty/sad after hearing about his insecurities? Other than that, I would say this os is kind of fluffy. Hope you like it ^^

It was the day you were looking forward to (since the beginning of the week at least). The day where you and Keigo would finally go out. It’s been at least two months since you last talked to him. He was busy with his job, and you, with university. It saddened you that you both were separated by your choice in career. Him a hero, and you, an accountant. It may have sounded boring compared to his extravagant job, but it was one you found enjoyable.

Keigo texted you a couple days in advance, saying that he wanted to take you out. Of course you had agreed, and here you were, now at the mall waiting for him to arrive. You both planned to go shopping for a bit, and then watch a movie. Maybe go on a short stroll and part ways after. You made sure to fix up your appearance for once, knowing you might not be able to see him for sometime after. Plus, you wanted to make sure that you could make the best of things with the time given.

You waited for about ten minutes. Not thinking much about it, you decided to play on your phone, scroll through your socials, and do whatever you could to distract yourself. It worked for a while...until you found yourself looking at your phone for the next hour. You happened to scroll onto a post talking about Keigo at an interview.

‘I thought he said he was free today…’ you sighed and put your phone away.

You then got up from your seat. Though he doesn’t stand you up as often as he meets you, it still sucked knowing that you both barely met. This was the first time in two months, would you have to wait another three?...four even? You decided not to think too much about it, after all, you understood and respected Keigo’s schedule.

‘I guess I’ll get going now-’

“L/n?” you looked up to see a very familiar face.

“Watarou? What are you doing here?”

“I’m just strolling around haha. I just got back from America, and decided to do a little bit of shopping. You?”

“Oh...I’m...or rather, I was waiting for my boyfriend. He’s a little late though...so I think I’m going to get going.”

Watarou took note of your disappointment, and based on what he knew (about you), he thought about what would cheer you up.

“Hey...if you don’t mind, we should go and get some crepes. My treat.”

“Really!?”

“Really, like old times.”

---

Hawks arrived about an hour later. He felt super guilty that he wasn’t able to see you at the time he promised, but duty called when it needed to. He also knew you understood his schedule and was grateful for that. He was very, very thankful for it. Reason being, one thing that Hawks had always been insecure about, was his lifestyle in general.

He was constantly doing something, whether that be hero work, interviews, promotions, and so much more. That being the case, whenever he tried making relationships work, they’d always end with “why are you so busy?”, “can’t you try to make some time for me?” He tried doing his best, but things would always end because of that. But when he met you, things had changed.

Although he was a little reluctant, and it took a while to convince him, he ultimately knew you were someone who did respect his time. So because of that, he made sure to make your sessions special, to show the appreciation he had for you. Because of this, he always made sure to be on time. Rushing out of his work so he could sprint to you. So when he was late, he’d feel horrible for making you wait, secretly having thoughts about traumatic past experiences.

“Where is she?”

He tried calling only to realize your phone had died, it immediately sent him to voicemail. He was getting anxious at this point, maybe you went home? But then, you would’ve had a charger?...maybe it broke? He then looked around catching a glimpse of your hair...and what seemed to be like...another person.

He started to stride towards you. Just who exactly were you with? He then gazed as the two of you ate crepes together. You seemed to be enjoying your time with him while you both conversed. Hawks on the other hand, was not. Though he was fine with you having friends...your interaction seemed to be a little “too friendly.” He continued to watch from behind, and saw as he then slid something over.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a bracelet...do you like it?”

“It looks gorgeous!” you looked in awe as the gentlemen smiled.

“I’m glad you do. I’ve been trying to get the right gift for a while now.”

“Who wouldn’t like it? I can tell you put a lot of effort into it,” he then put his hand on the box as you continued eating your crepes.

Hawks had seen enough. To see someone give you that type of attention, whether he was a friend or not, didn’t sit right with him. Not only that, but it really hurt seeing someone else was treating you better than him (in his eyes at least). Regardless of who he was, Keigo was your boyfriend, and that being the case, should’ve been trying harder.

He then approached the both of you, and gave a cold stare to Watarou. Watarou seemed a little uneasy with the exchange, while you were thrilled to see Hawks. You got up and wrapped your arms around his torso, hugging him tightly as his hands stood at his side.

“Keigo! You’re here!’

“Were you having fun?...” he said, agitated as you then realized what was going on.

“Oh Keigo...I never knew you’d get jealous over something like this.”

“What!? What do you mean!?”

“Watarou, this is Keigo. Keigo, Watarou.”

“Nice to meet you man,” Watarou said as he gave his hand.

“Yeah...same here…” Hawks said while feeling uncertain.

“Watarou was just helping me kill time, it’s been a while since we last got together, so we took advantage of it while you finished your duties.”

‘So they’ve known each other for a while.’

“Yeah...I hope you don’t mind. I took her for crepes and we talked for a bit.”

“What about the bracelet?” Keigo would ask bluntly as he then said:

“Oh, I was asking for Y/n’s opinion. I’m gifting it to my sister, and since they have similar taste, I wanted her input on things. I’m glad they’re good.”

“Ahh...I see.”

“Well, I’m going to head out. I’ll see you both sometime, I have about two weeks left? So see you then!”

“Bye Watarou!” you waved as he exited the mall.

Keigo then realised as to why he was so irritated. It wasn’t that you had done wrong, no, he trusted that you were loyal. It was that his insecurities got the best of him, which threw him off. He was upset that such feelings got him acting so petty, especially towards someone who had done nothing wrong. Knowing this, he knew what he needed to do. He sighed to then look you in the eye. You still a little confused, he then apologized, saying:

“Dove...I’m sorry…”

“Sorry for what?”

“It’s just that...I was so caught up in my insecurities...that I assumed you were doing wrong…”

“Oh…” you weren’t going to lie, you were a little disappointed. Why would he even think that, after all your time together?...but then, you also understood his past and whatnot. Still, it bothered you to say the least.

“I’m sorry for that...along with not showing up on time. I tried my best to come, but I guess, Watarou beat me to it haha. Not in a bad way of course, I’m just grateful you had some company while I was on my way.”

“I guess so, but Keigo.”

“Hm?”

“You know, you won’t ever have to worry about that kind of thing. Even though I'm a little hurt by your assumption, I get why and will let it slide for this time,” he smiled and then grabbed your hand.

“Mhm, love you,” he pecked your cheek as your hands intertwined.

“Silly, I’d only fall for your chicken-like charms.”

“Aww, why not my Hawkish charms? Sharp, daring, handsome?” he winked as you shook your head.

“Because a chicken is vulnerable, soft, cute, and gives me loads of egg,” you then stared at his wallet as he rolled his eyes (playfully).

“Okay okay fine, let’s go catch that movie,” he sighed as you laughed.

“Sounds good to me!”

#hawks x reader #hawks #boku no hero academia hawks #hawks x you #keigo x reader #keigo x y/n #keigo tamaki #keigo #keigo x female reader #keigo fluff #jelly birdo #luv this man #called ya dove ;)#mha #my hero academia #mha x reader #mha x you #my hero academy fanfiction

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lysteriaposts · 3 years ago

Note

I think a lot of the insane Tor*guel shipping stuff comes from people who HATE Sam and don't want her with Miguel, as well as people who hate Robby and don't want him with Tory. It also doesn't help that one of the showrunners is CONTANTLY tweeting things like "Tor*guel supremacy", like this is a grown man y'all... and it's so bizarre because the show itself doesn't reflect what he's saying. Miguel is all about Sam and he and Tory shared one small look the whole season. And even in s3, they had one scene and it was a fight. I truly think he's trolling the fans because people go nuts in his mentions, but he really needs to stop because he's been doing this for over a year and it makes him look unprofessional. I also don't see Robby and Tory, king and queen of trust issues, running back to two people who betrayed them. Not to mention Sam would look awful if she wants Robby back again now that he's with Tory, and Miguel has all this family drama going on to be thinking about Tory. But hey, this is just me.

Bullseye!

There is a very common denominator where people absolutely despise both Robby and Sam and just want them out of the way. First off, I really don't understand the Robby hate and never will, especially coming from people who love characters like Hawk and Miguel. They've made mistakes too (some imo unforgivable) but they get a free pass? As for Sam she's far from my favorite character but there's really no one I HATE, because I can sort of see where they're all coming from one way or another. It just comes down to who you relate or sympathize most with and those characters will be more likable to you. And also some storylines are just written better and more organically than others.

About Hayden... I personally don't care of his opinion or his trolling. He can do that, it doesn't concern me. What IS damaging though is that it leads to some poor fans taking that as a sign that Tor*guel is still alive, which encourages them to demand it back and for this "fan war". If I was a creator I wouldn't want that pushback if I'm currently writing a blossoming relationship with Tory & Robby.

Even if he's trolling he's at the same time disrespecting his and his co-creators' work... I saw a horrible take from him that went something like: tOrY onLy tOok RoBbY tO pRoM bC sHe diDnT hAVe miGuEL. That's where it gets flat out ridiculous and he starts sounding like a Riverdale writer or a 12 y/o who's never been in a relationship.

If we are to take this statement seriously, which I hope not, then let me point out that SAM sought out Robby this season, SAM said that cringy line about him breaking her heart at the party, SAM stared at him at prom, MIGUEL stared at Tory at prom, MIGUEL was holding onto Tory at the pool. Notice how there is absolutely no effort from Tory & Robby's side? Yeah, that's called being OVER someone. The whole "let's go to prom together to make them jealous" thing was just an excuse both Robby & Tory used to get closer, that's the game they were playing all season, that kind of push and pull dynamic. It's evident from start to finish that the only feelings on their parts are happening between each other.

Now for Miguel and Sam it's more unclear, because the writing is quite frankly bad for them (and I'm going to guess those unnecessary lines and whatnot were added by Hayden who seems biased, or to throw a bone for shippers). They ended of in s3 pretty much picking each other and now they're suddenly hesitant and jealous? It's character assassination (however I won't deny it made me somewhat spiteful cause they did cheat and it was funny watching karma unfold).

And as you said continuing this insufferable love square business would ruin characters further, and Sam REALLY doesn't need that lol. And after S4 being so good to Robby and Tory I would HATE to see them destroy what they've managed to do with these complex characters. And really the interest from Miguel would be completely out of the blue with how little he's cared since s2 and with his ongoing family drama.

All these questionable things aside, I don't think we have anything to fear show-wise. Seeing as s5 has been filmed and Peyton still says that Robby understands Tory and that people should let the idea of Miguel and her go confirms to me they won't be messed with.

#cobra kai #robby keene #tory nichols #keenry #cobra kai s4 #miguel diaz #sam larusso #samdiaz #ask box

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aggressivelyclueless · 3 years ago

Text

twilight

in which star encounters the ghost again

contains: a cemetery

sequel to [this one]

The ghost loitered in the cemetery until sundown. It wasn't a hundred percent on purpose that the graveyard happened to span a good portion of Split River Road, and that it happened to be in between Star's house and Paulina Sanchez' house.

But it wasn't a hundred percent by chance that he knew about their meeting that afternoon, either; he'd watched them eagerly buddy-up for a second-hour history project and make the plans in the first place.

He spotted her making her way down the block at half-past-six. The sun was falling and she looked to be in a good mood, ponytailed and with the new denim jacket she'd been liking since October had started to bite. It'd be cold tonight, Danny guessed.

But he didn't mind it.

She crossed Split River at the signal (hopping over the black stripes, he noticed), and came to the sidewalk that ran alongside the cemetery. It was a sprawling, ancient-feeling place, where the headstones were all crooked and the mausoleum leered from between the trees in the rear, and at first she only gave the scene an acknowledging glance as she passed.

But then she paused.

The ghost leaned in a little, sitting loosely over one of the flat-topped headstones. This one sat squarely between two unruly hedges, perhaps lonely or perhaps the last of its partners not to be eaten up by them, and he watched her as she scanned through the cemetery as if seeking him out.

She shouldn't have been able to see him. None of the living should have.

And yet there was nothing else she was doing, except very clearly staring at him. It was an uncertain sort of stare, and it was only for a moment. Then she turned back to the sidewalk, as if putting it from her mind.

The ghost slipped closer to watch her, drifting over the uneven ground and resting on another stone, this one taller and narrower than the first. She didn't look scared. Uneasy, perhaps.

But not scared.

She glanced back, half over her shoulder, and watched him right back. Her face was like stone, suddenly devoid of its usual smile, those eyes suddenly sharp like a hawk's as she realized he’d moved. She saw him, all right, even in the onsetting darkness, and this time she didn't turn her back to him.

The ghost slinked up to the fence, floating over the flourishing points of iron and stretching out in the air like a cat. Star stepped back as far as the width of the sidewalk would allow her, but instead of turning to run she held her ground, hands sliding into the pockets of her jacket.

When she addressed him, it was with a cold whisper. "Speak, if you will."

The ghost was somewhat taken aback by her directness. He thought of how he knew her, flitting through Casper's halls every day and clustering with the cheer squad. Part of him had to wonder if this was even the same girl at all.

But he did speak. The voice of death was only an echo, not a sound heard by the ears but words placed directly into the mind. He said: (How can you see me?)

Star shook her head. Other than that, she was stone-still.

Couldn't she see him? Experimentally, he waved a hand back-and-forth a few times, but she made no acknowledgment of it. His concern deepened. (But you knew I was here. Didn't you?)

"What do you want?"

(I'm curious) said the ghost, (Can we just talk?)

The last ray of direct sunlight disappeared under the horizon to the west, and the ghost felt the darkness of night begin to creep in. To him, it was a comforting feeling.

Star seemed to feel it; she was studying him, and probably doing some quick thinking too. "You're the ghost from last night, aren't you?"

The ghost nodded but she didn't seem to see it. (Yes)

"You possessed me."

(Sort of)

"Mhm," said Star, rocking back on her heels in a moment of thought. "And now you're back. . . only this time your heart's not in it. Is it?”

The ghost frowned. (What?)

"Haunting," she clarified, shrugging, "You're making such an effort to be heard but you're not out for vengeance, or closure, or fun or whatever."

The ghost slinked down from on top of the fence, pooling in the shadow of the stone behind it. (How do you know that?)

"Because you're sitting right there, and like I said." She paused abruptly, pulling her phone from her jacket pocket and staring down at it momentarily as a passer-by cut between them. She watched them pass, and then continued on almost in a whisper as if afraid they'd overhear her. "Like I said, you're practically yelling. What are you so desperate to tell me?"

The ghost was fumbling and he was suddenly acutely aware of it. What could he tell her - that he wanted to see what she knew, and that he wanted to make sure that wasn’t too much? What lie was he supposed to make up otherwise?

And how could he keep her from catching him in it?

“That’s not it,” she said, after a drawn and studious silence. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

(Of what? You?) scoffed the ghost, but he had the feeling that she didn’t wholly believe him.

“Maybe, maybe not. But something.” Another pause. “I’m right. It is me. Isn’t it?”

(No) All of a sudden, that was a lie.

But she took it. “Alright, you’re just curious, then. Probably a little desperate too.”

(Let’s stick with curious) said the ghost, hoping that he could get at least a few answers out of her before she guessed too much. He didn’t like how she seemed to pinpoint his nervousness - didn’t like that she was right, and so certain about it. No, he didn’t like any of that.

He’d always thought, at school, that she didn’t have two braincells to put together - but all of a sudden, it wasn’t just she’s smarter than she lets on anymore. This was in an entirely different league.

Maybe he was a little bit scared of her now.

“Look, ghost.” Star sighed, shuffling her feet a little. The sun was gone; already the chill had begun to pervade the air, and she was starting to leave thin wisps of her breath behind when she spoke. “I have to get home.”

Of course he wasn’t going to get any answers. (Sure. Maybe I’d see you again?)

“Maybe. But not tonight.” She nodded vaguely at the cemetery beyond the fence. “Buried here, are you?”

(No)

“Mhm.” She wormed her hand out of the jacket pocket, using two fingers to make a swirling motion in the air before her - like the clearing-out of a ouija board between seances.

“Good-bye, ghost.”

And she turned and headed off, and the ghost watched her until she disappeared amongst the living in Amity Park.

#Ectober Month 2021 #Ectoberhaunt 2021 #Ectoberhaunt Treat #danny phantom #fanfiction #ectober

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atmostories · 4 years ago

Text

Johnny Lawrence x Reader

Matter - Chapter Six Tags: Angst, Gender-Neutral, Alcohol/Drug Abuse, Depression You kept driving. The constant sensation of moving, of going somewhere was the only thing that was holding you together. You needed to go, you had to get away. Your foot pressed down harder on the accelerator, your hands were wrapped tight around the steering wheel. The scenery was flying by faster and faster. The only thing you could concentrate on was the highway, everything else just fell away like it never mattered in the first place. It stripped you bare, washed you clean. You couldn't remember the last time the anxiety had been silent. You drove faster, chasing the feeling, hunting it down, it was the only thing that mattered. Nothing else-

Shit, a sedan was pulling out in front of you. Slamming on the brakes, the seatbelt dug hard into your body as it held you from going into the wheel. The sedan ahead kept getting closer, your eyes widened at the imminent collision. Somehow you managed to slow down in time, the sedan was steadily pulling away from your car. Your heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Adrenaline dissipated outwards from your chest and it made your hands shake. Turning off at the next exit, you parked up at a gas station and turned off the engine. That was close, that was too fucking close. How fast were you even going? You didn't look to see, you didn't care. All you were focused on was maintaining that sensation of freedom and nothingness where the anxieties didn't exist anymore. But that was a momentary blip, they'd already come rushing back as you considered what would have happened if you reacted a second slower, half a second slower. When you'd calmed down, you filled up the tank while you were at the gas station and realised you didn't have a clue where you were. It was hours ago since you'd left the city with no thought of where you were headed. It was already getting dark. After looking up the directions back to the apartment, you got back on the road. Inevitably, you began to picture that pack of beer in the refrigerator again. Why hadn't you thought about him drinking? It wasn't like you'd only been seeing Johnny for a few weeks, you'd been going to the dojo for months. In all that time, you hadn't considered it? If you were honest with yourself, you felt betrayed by him. But he had never lied to you, he never said that he'd stopped drinking. You just didn't think about it. You had blocked it out of your mind, content with your self-imposed ignorance. So what were you so upset about? Johnny was drinking in front of those kids, wasn't that reason enough to be angry? No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't picture him getting drunk in the dojo. Those beers were getting him through the day, a whole pack wasn't going to get him drunk, he'd practically still be sober. You were so conflicted. You knew you were wrong, but it didn't stop how you were feeling. You felt dejected and angry and hurt. There was no one to blame, nowhere to put the emotions so they had to be buried away. You were in half a mind to go to a liquor store, buy a bottle of that cheap whiskey Johnny liked and get fucking wasted. Instead when you finally made it back to the apartment, you got high. Though it didn't help much, you'd take any kind of relief you could get. You didn't know what to think anymore. It'd be easier if you didn't have to think at all. - - - When Johnny called, you didn't pick up at first. You just let it ring and ring until it finally went to voicemail, unable to scrounge up enough courage to actually talk to him. You needed more time to get your head straight. It still wasn't sinking in that he hadn't done anything wrong. Even though he was still drinking, he wasn't like before when you were together. He was healthier, he was more himself. No matter how many times you reminded yourself of the truth, it didn't ease the rising dread and the constant thoughts of the Firebird wrapped around a tree, him going on another bender, him ending up passed out in some alleyway, him lying face first on the ground, wheezing, choking, dying. An hour later he called again. This time you answered, needing to hear his voice. He asked if you could come to the dojo tomorrow and you agreed, like always. Parking up next to his Firebird the next day, you hesitated getting out of your car. A small part of you wanted to bolt. Maybe distance would somehow lessen the pain, maybe if you never saw Johnny again you could imagine that he was perfectly fine, forever healthy and untroubled. You pushed the anxious thoughts aside and headed into the dojo. There were a few kids already there. Hawk, Aisha and Miguel were chatting in the corner, too engrossed in their conversation to notice you coming in. As you went into the office, you almost collided into Johnny and reared backwards to avoid him. He immediately reached out and held onto your shoulders, carefully steadying you before you could stumble. “You okay?” He murmured softly, his bright eyes entirely focused on you. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” you replied, unable to hold to gaze. Turning your shoulders slightly, he seemed to take the hint and let you go. He didn't. . .he didn't smell like booze. Maybe he was being polite and he'd wait until you left before he started drinking. You moved passed him and settled down at the desk, quickly picking up some pieces of paper to start working. Johnny was still hovering by the door, his presence was almost oppressive. You were hyperaware of him in your peripheral vision, you could still feel his hands on your shoulders. Thankfully he went into the dojo and you could breathe a little easier. This was so pathetic. The things you had made yourself believe, the things you convinced yourself of in order to try and ease the pain. It wasn't just being naïve, thinking that he'd stopped drinking, it wasn't even willed ignorance, it was worse than that. You had deluded yourself, you had created an impossible narrative and you hadn't even noticed until it stared at you right in the face. Johnny was never going to stop drinking. He didn't stop for Robby, he didn't stop for you, and he certainly wasn't going to do it for himself. Anguish bled into your heart at the realisation. You looked over to the dojo through the window, seeing Johnny talk to a few of the kids. There was nothing you could do, there was never anything you could do. That sense of helplessness you hadn't felt for months was back. You couldn't even help the one person that you loved more than anything in this world. You were worthless. - - - The next time he called, you didn't answer. Not the second or the third time either. You couldn't bring yourself to go back there and see him again. Your head was all over the place. You felt deeply agitated but calm at the same time. There would be times when your mind would blank, and then it would be a mess of racing, spiralling thoughts. Whenever you got home from work, you didn't know what to do with yourself anymore. You considered listening to some music or watching a movie, but you didn't have the energy to decide. It was too much effort. A strange weight had settled deep inside your chest. Sometimes it would flare up, almost like the echoes of adrenaline. You didn't know whether it was agony or rage, neither conceded to the other so it felt as if you were in the eye of a storm, waiting for the moment when everything would come undone. You parked up outside the apartment after another long, shitty day at work, trying not to think about the fact you needed to get some groceries. The refrigerator was almost empty, the cupboards were largely comprised of condiments and spices. There might be can of soup hiding somewhere. You walked to the entrance of the apartment building, thinking that the soup would have to suffice for dinner even though you wanted a proper meal. A few days ago you got food poisoning from something, you hadn't worked out what it was in the end. Tomorrow you would go to the grocery store. Or maybe the day after that would be better- “Hey.” The sound of Johnny's voice made you look up in surprise. He was standing near the main door with his hands in his jean pockets. “What are you doing here?” “I was driving through, thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing.” You let out a sigh, rather irked by the fact he'd turned up in person. It was easy to ignore a call, but you couldn't ignore him standing right in front of you. His eyes were watching you carefully, expectant of anything but a dismissal. “Let's go up,” you told him, pulling out your keys and opening up the main door. He followed behind you silently as you took the stairs, Johnny's presence was making you nervous, you almost tripped up on the last flight of stairs. The sound of an argument from one of the neighbours permeated through the corridor as you went to your apartment. You fumbled impatiently with the botched lock, completely forgetting the normal routine of opening it up. Taking in a breath, you focused on doing it slowly and managed to get it open after a few seconds. “Want me to take a look at that?” He offered as both of you went inside. “It's fine,” you replied, gesturing to the sofa. After kicking off his shoes, he sat down with his elbows on his knees. There was that same sour expression on his face from the last time he was here. You tried not to take it personally, he was just thinking about his mom. Rather than sitting next to him as the sofa was a little small, you perched on the armrest, waiting for him to say something. “I tried to call a few times,” he told you, obviously waiting for an explanation. “I haven't had time to come to the dojo.” “How about next week? Is Thursday okay?” “Do you have a lot of paperwork then?” “Uhh. . .yeah I guess.” “I'll let you know,” you replied, taking to your feet. “Was there anything else?” Johnny's jaw twitched as he looked away from you for a brief moment. “I wanted to know how you're doing.” “Fine,” you immediately responded. “Just tired.” He kept watching you, wanting more than a three word response. “How are you and the kids?” “I'm okay, kids are doing great too.” You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together. After a few moments of silence Johnny asked you how things were at work. “Busy.” He looked down to his hands, he seemed uncomfortable that you were being so unresponsive. “I saw Robby yesterday,” he mentioned, trying to keep the conversation going. “How's he doing?” “Pretty good. He was in a bit of trouble at school but he's keeping out of it for now. We go to a burger joint each week and I drive him to school sometimes.” “That's good. He needs you, Johnny.” “He asked about seeing you. I haven't told him that we're not uh. . .” “Why not?” “I didn't want to give him another reason to be disappointed in me,” he murmured. “He's got enough already.” The hurt in his eyes made your heart twinge in discomfort. Both of you broke eye contact, unable to hold each other's gaze. “I think he'd be more disappointed that you lied to him,” you replied quietly. He stared at you again. Your chest hurt even more so you turned away and headed towards the front door. You said that you'd let him know whether you could make it next week. Johnny finally took the hint that you wanted him to leave and got off the sofa. After he put on his shoes, he stood in front of you for a few moments, his hands were almost balled into fists, his fingertips grazing the pad of his thumb. “Are you sure you don't want me to take a look at the door?” “I said it's fine.” You opened up the front door for him and he moved past you. He turned as if to say something else so you cut him off before he had the chance. “Talk to me first before turning up here again, alright?” Your tone was harsher than intended. His eyes flicked down to the floor, he nodded in response and then walked off down the corridor. You watched him walk away, trying to ignore how wrong it felt to watch him leave, just like you wanted. - - - It took less than five minutes for you to regret how you had spoken to Johnny. You shouldn't have been so rude to him. You were just so exhausted, and for him to catch you unawares like that, like he always managed to, made you shut down. The only thing that seemed to make sense was to put some distance between you and him, to give you a moment to process what was happening. Almost a week has passed and the agitated state you'd been in had finally started to settle out into something more predictable. Extra shifts and overtime kept your mind occupied. It was almost like you were functioning on autopilot, going to work, driving back, eating some food, getting high, sleeping, you did a lot of that now. Before you had barely been able to sleep, but now you'd go ten hours straight and it still wouldn't be enough. You didn't think about those beers in the refrigerator as much. Every now and then the anxiety would bleed into you uncontrollably as you wondered where Johnny was, whether he was okay, how much had he been drinking, had he got into a fight. Was he safe? He had the dojo now, he had the kids, he had Robby back. It would be enough for him to keep it together, he wouldn't get as bad as before, it had to be enough. When he was in your apartment, you'd said that you were going to call to let him know whether you could make it to the dojo on Thursday. It was only the night before that you finally managed to coax yourself to give him a call and tell him you'd be able to make it. The next day you found yourself driving to the dojo, smoking a joint to try and relax a little. With the windows down and the music blaring, you ran over the apology you were going to tell Johnny. You hadn't meant to be so dismissive and kick him out of the apartment after he'd barely been in it. You were still pretty fucked in the head, maybe seeing him every now and again would calm you down, maybe you wouldn't worry as much, maybe you wouldn't be so scared. After parking up next to the Firebird and heading inside, you asked Johnny whether you could talk to him for a minute. “Everything okay?” He asked when both of you were in the office. You stood in front of the desk, keeping your arms from crossing over your chest. “I wanted to apologise for being rude to you last week. I was just so tired and. . .” you trailed off, the words you had prepared earlier didn't seem right. How were you meant to explain yourself? How could you tell him that- “It's okay. I shouldn't have turned up without checking with you first,” he replied solemnly. That wasn't what you'd been trying to say, was it? “Sensei!” Miguel said as he came in to the office. “Aisha can't make it today, she's got a family thing she can't get out it. . .sorry am I interrupting something?” He must have noticed the tension between you and Johnny. Forcing a smile on your face, you shook your head and sat down behind the desk. “It's fine, Diaz. Text down what we've been doing today and let her know.” “Oh I'll just FaceTime her later.” “Face what?” “It's a video call, Sensei.” “Right, sure.” Miguel failed to hold back a grin as he left the office. Johnny turned his attention back to you. For a moment you thought he was going to say something, but he simply nodded at you and went into the dojo. Over the next few minutes, you watched as he chatted to his students before gathering them all together on the mat and starting the class. His words kept playing over in your mind over and over. Was he never going to turn up at your apartment again? Why did the thought fill you with so much dread? - - - Maybe monthly visits to the dojo would be the best compromise. It was frequent enough to keep on top of the paperwork but infrequent enough to give you time away from Johnny. It would be better if you started to drift away from him. Aside from helping him out in the office, there wasn't anything good you brought into his life. You hadn't helped him before when he needed it the most. All you did was watch him get worse and worse until you couldn't do it anymore. Why hadn't you helped him? Were you really that useless? Why had you walked away? Were you really that much of a coward? It was shameful what you had done, unforgivable. You'd left him. You'd left him all alone. What if he did that to you? You'd never recover, you'd never be the same again. When Johnny called, you didn't answer. The week after you'd been to the dojo, he called a few times, the week after that maybe once or twice. Even though you'd told him not to, you held out hope every time you went to and from work that you'd see him waiting outside your apartment. But he never turned up again. It had been a tiring morning. Work had been torturously long and you were only halfway through your shift. You were on lunch break, sitting in your car smoking a joint. It was the only thing that took the edge off anymore. Your phone buzzed and you were taken back by a text message from Johnny. He never texted. You checked the number a couple of times, making sure it was him. The content of the message should have been evident enough. >> can u come to dojo tonite at 8? He had never texted before, he didn't know how to. Immediately you called him back, but it went to voicemail after a couple rings. A few minutes later you received another text. >> have class cant talk. really need to see u. its urgent Your eyebrows furrowed. It was urgent? Was something wrong? Was he okay? You texted him back, telling him you'd meet him at eight, asking if he needed you to come sooner. He sent back a reply saying eight o'clock was fine. Unable to hold back your curiosity, you shot off another message, asking how he knew how to text. >> Diaz teachin me He didn't text anything else back for the rest of the day. The rest of your shift passed by in an anxious blur as you worried about whether he was okay. Something must have been going on. Had something happened to Robby? If it was really bad, he wouldn't have waited until the evening, would he? You parked up at the dojo a couple minutes before eight o'clock, trying to ignore the growing nerves. Heading in through the door, only the office was lit with the main lights turned off. Passing round the mat, you heard Johnny's voice. “For the last time Diaz, I'm not buying you those nunchucks, they're-” Johnny stopped talking the moment you walked into the office. He was sitting with his feet on the desk, beer in hand, a magazine on his legs which he must have been flipping through. There were a couple of empty beer cans on the desk, one had already fallen to the floor. You suddenly felt nauseous and had to force yourself not to turn away from him. “What are you doing here?” He questioned as he took his feet off the desk and dropped the magazine down onto it. “It's eight o'clock,” you reminded him quietly, eyes fixating on the beer he was holding. How many had he had already? “So?” He spat back. “You said you wanted me to meet you here at eight.” “No I didn't.” “It was a couple of hours ago, Johnny. You texted me.” “Since when do I text?” “Since Miguel started to teach you?” He looked at you puzzled for a few moments before his expression filled with recognition. He let out a deep sigh. “That kid. . .” he mumbled in irritation. You suddenly realised that it was Miguel who had texted you. Shit. . .why didn't you realise? Johnny always called him Miguel whenever he spoke to you, not Diaz. You should have known. He'd never texted you before, and then after he rejected your call, he didn't call you back. He always called you back. You felt stupid, embarrassed. “Well. . .I didn't mean to interrupt you. You seem to have plans so. . .” You tried not to think about how many more beers he'd get through tonight. About to turn away from him, he quickly stood up and put the can down on the desk. “What's going on with you?” “What do you mean?” “What's going on? I haven't seen you in nearly three weeks.” “I've been busy.” “Doing what?” “Work's been crazy, I haven't found the time.” “Haven't found the time, that's a good one. I should remember that.” “What?” “I'm just making a note of your bullshit,” he told you as he began to approach you. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?” “No, I don't want to fight,” he replied softly, stopping a few feet in front of you. The smell of alcohol was even stronger now. “I want you to tell me what's going on. Something's not right with you, what is it?” “I say no when you ask me for a favour and that automatically means there's something wrong with me?” “I thought you liked it here. The kids think you're great, they keep asking me when you're coming back and I don't know what to tell them. It's better when you're here.” “Gotta have someone to do your busy work, right?” “Don't do that. Don't put words in my mouth. I don't give a shit about the paperwork. I like having you around, alright?” Your eyes dropped to the ground, you didn't know what to say, you didn't know what to think. "Look I know work's crazy but. . .can't you come here once a week? Just for an hour or two." You slowly started to shake your head, every week was just too much. "Okay, what about once every two weeks, starting tomorrow?" You pressed your lips together, hesitant to agree even though it was better than every single week. "Please?" You looked up at him then, at his bright, hopeful eyes and you were nodding before you even realised. He walked you out of the dojo and to your car not long after that. You supposed you would be back here tomorrow. - - - The kids greeted you warmly the next day when you walked into the dojo. Miguel, Aisha and Hawk followed you into the office, but it was only Aisha and Hawk who were chatting excitedly about the mock tournament that Johnny was going to plan, discussing who was going to fight each other, what new moves they could incorporate in the fights, who was most likely to win. Miguel remained quiet and avoided your gaze, Johnny had probably chewed him out for the stunt he pulled on you last night. He might have been trying to do the right thing and help his Sensei, but he had no right to lie like that. It wasn't fair. Johnny greeted you without any awkwardness or tension and rounded up the kids to begin the class. It was. . .kind of nice being back in the dojo, listening to the rhythmic sound of the kids doing their movements, to Johnny as he walked along beside them, effortlessly explaining how they could improve and complimenting the students which had cracked it or had shown improvement. After the class, Miguel came into the office with his backpack and apologised genuinely for what he did. You nodded in response and accepted his apology before asking him why he wasn't staying. "Sensei says I have to do some endurance training today." "Endurance training?" "Yeah, it's a lot of running and stuff. Fifteen miles to start and then-" "To start?" You reply incredulously before mumbling under your breath where's Johnny. Taking to your feet, you looked out to the dojo to find him talking to Bert. Miguel might have done wrong, but he didn't deserve to be punished like this. "Oh it's fine, I do it anyways. Just not usually on the night I'm supposed to be going out with my friends," he reassured you. Your eyes flicked between Miguel and Johnny, uncertain whether it really was okay. "I know I shouldn't have lied so. . .really it's fine." "Alright," you told him. After Miguel left the office and more of the kids headed out of the dojo, Johnny came in to see you. "Diaz apologise?" He asked, coming around to your side of the desk and perching on the edge of it. "Yeah, he did.” “He's a good kid really.” “I know.” He nodded slowly, his eyes avoiding your gaze like he was preparing himself to tell you something. “I uh. . . I told Robby about us. About a lot of things actually.” “Yeah?” “About Sid, and Cobra Kai and all the shit I did in high school.” He paused for a few moments, taking a deep breath. “I told him about my mom too and. . .how she passed.” Johnny had told you what happened to her a long time ago. He talked about the months he'd spent visiting her in hospital before she died, how day after day she got worse and worse until she wasn't really there at all. Her death hit him hard, she was all he had. “I think I said too much. He hasn't answered my calls in a couple days.” “He probably needs some time to process,” you replied. “That kid's always got a lot to process huh?” “You still taking him to school?” “He'd already left when I got there yesterday.” “Beat him to it next time.” “What. . .I should camp outside the front door at sunrise?” “You gotta show someone you love them right?” “Yeah. . .” Johnny mumbled back, focus drifting away from you as he became preoccupied with his thoughts. - - - The angst fest is back in town! Been a while huh? I'd hoped to get this finished months ago but season 3 of Cobra Kai really just put me off Johnny's character and I had a total loss of inspiration. I do plan on completing this story and hope you'll enjoy this next installment. Your comments are much appreciated as always. Taglist: @whyhaveyouwritten-mehere @lacontroller1991 @stressedstark @wndrcarol @carissakingofthecastle92 @witchcraftandwit @magicwithaknife@80strashbag @jem-my-greatest-sin @masonsbitch @wholesomehen @chlqefrazer @actuallydrew @jem-my-greatest-sin @masonsbitch @wholesomehen @deadpoolgirl23 @sorryyoureoutofmyleague @princealfie @jackbarakms @the-a-word-2214 @sunflowerkitt @supernaturalcat7 @marvelfangirllll @walkerchick007 @kaelyn-lobrutto24

#johnny lawrence #johnny lawrence x reader #cobra kai #william zabka #atmo-x #the johnny angst fest is back in town baby

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keilemlucent · 5 years ago

Text

a weary head

(r18+)

hawks || takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~2.5k

Keigo fucks you senseless, literally. But, he cleans up his messes well.

warnings: dom/sub, aftercare, subspace, hawks literally concussing the reader by accident, sex accidents in general, vomiting, panic attacks

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Your legs are wrapped around Keigo’s waist that you can feel muscles beginning to pull. It almost hurts enough to ask him to stop— almost.

“Holy shit, you’re really this much of a slut, huh?” Keigo’s squeezing at your windpipe again, forcing your lungs to starve and your vision to haze up. “I can feel you clenching down on me, babe!”

You try to spit, wretch, turn away, anything to get away from his gaze.

It’s feral, the way Keigo is staring down at your slick body as he pounds into you. You’re already so bruised, thighs and hips colored purple and black with his biting grip. Your cunt is gushing slick, lube, and old cum. It’s dripping to the floor, slicking the hardwood beneath you, making finding purchase all that much harder.

Keigo’s eyes are still piercing yours as you turn your head away, trying to focus on anything but the obsidian stones set where his pupils should have been.

“Oh, so that’s your game now? Is that really smart?” Keigo chides, rearing back to slap you across the face, forcing your face back to him. He grabs your cheeks, nails biting into the soft skin of your jaw. “Open up, birdie.”

“You’re disgusting,” You spit back, but it hardly matters. Keigo has two fingers in your mouth, forcing you to keep your lips open for him. He leans forward to spit into your mouth, drool globbing into your mouth. You know better than to bite him, no matter how much you want to. The punishment that follows from biting the hand that literally feeds you was too great and too damaging.

Instead, you just choke as Keigo laughs at him, regripping your thighs with raking nails.

And he starts back up at an unforgiving pace, not a single ounce of him holding back on your ravaged cunt.

You’re screaming, fully, and with your entire chest. Your arms, tied expertly behind your back are bruised and sore beyond feeling. They were hardly holding sensation as they were beaten into the floor beneath you.

You sob as Keigo grabs one of your tits, purposefully sharpened nails driving into the squishy flesh. You screamed, trying to kick at Keigo, but you were so effectively pinned.

“Be a good little fucktoy and maybe I’ll let you come again,” Keigo sneers, squeezing to the point of breaking your skin. Your chest was already covered in scratches and thin lines from his talons. You’d be aching the next day, even if he tended sweetly to them.

Keigo’s getting close, pace downright frantic as you sob over and over. You can’t tell pleasure from pain as Keigo drills into your deepest parts. Drool leaks from the side of your mouth as Keigo somehow manages to speed up.

“You’re gonna come when I tell, right cocksleeve?” Keigo is just fucking cruel at this point.

You manage to nod, breathing getting a little too fast.

Keigo’s hand, slick with sweat moves to the front of your throat, squeezing at the sides.

The muscles of your shoulders and neck had been straining for so long, all through Keigo’s relentless fucking. How many rounds and orgasms had they had to hold your head up with your arms for leverage?

“Cum for me,” Keigo growls down at you, free hand taking to slap your across the face.

It didn’t matter, really. The muscles supporting your head and upper body pulled painfully and gave out. The strain on your neck had finally made you go limp.

With each thrust, Keigo is moaning and crying in ecstasy. He’s fully within rapture as he bruises your insides, making them match the outside,

You, on the other hand, are having a very odd orgasm that wasn’t all that pleasant. It is half-hearted, body so used up and spent that it was hardly holding together. It’s mainly interrupted by the rhythmic slamming of your head against the floor that Keigo was fucking you into.

Your vision is swimming by the third impact, breathing coming in painfully fast gasps.

By the fifth, your brain is mush and you were having trouble staying conscious.

By the sixth, your perception was being warped.

There’s stillness, but only for a moment. You can vaguely here Keigo’s breath change, but it feels like you’re underwater. Every part of your body is thrumming with a fucked up mix of adrenaline and endorphins. You felt like you were swirling and ungrounded.

Keigo gasps and curses above you.

“Oh, fuck,” It’s Keigo’s voice, disembodied. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N).”

There’s some activity, you guess.

Your head is starting to hurt.

The tension on your arms is released. You can’t feel them very well.

“Hey, hey, can you talk to me?” Keigo’s voice is firm, but there’s an edge of nervousness to it.

You make a small, weak noise from the back of your throat as your eyelids scrunch. Your body buzzes and twitches, making your head hurt even worse.

You could feel one of Keigo’s hands smooth over your cheek, “Can you use your words?”

Oh, it takes all of your effort to push anything from your lips. Your vision is still fucked though you can tell Keigo is doing something. Maybe.

“C-can’t.” Your voice is hoarse, rawed along with your body. The face-fucking earlier really shredded your throat.

There’s something cold on the back of your head, where it had been hitting the floor. Your body moves on its own, away from the sudden sensation, but something (someone, Keigo) catches you and forces you to stay put as he applies the lightest pressure.

“I didn’t realize I was hitting your head, I’m so, so sorry angel,” Keigo’s voice is so sad.

“S-s’okay,” You slur. Your breath is still coming too fast, but it’s slowing down. “Happens.”

Keigo doesn’t reply, but you can just feel that he doesn’t like that response.

“Angel, I’m gonna pick you up and take you to our room, okay? Get you somewhere nice and dark,” Keigo doesn’t make you reply, but rather scoops you up and carries you off.

You’re becoming more lucid, slowly. There are weird strikings of fear in your heart, like odd jolts over your mind in its beaten state.

Keigo pulls out your specific aftercare blanket, a soft, baby pink fluffy thing. He slides onto the bed, against the pretty headboard, sending a flurry of feathers to do his bidding. He situates you in his lap, the blanket pulled over the two of you.

Despite the fact that being next to Keigo felt incredibly good, but the position made your stomach swirl and head pound even more.

Being upright is awful, you decide. You want to be on the mattress better.

“Can I lie down?” You try to blink, your vision a little clearer as you turned to look at Keigo better.

He shook his head, smoothing over your sweaty hair, “I’m sorry angel, but you gotta eat or drink first. Then I wanna look you over.”

You feel crushed, your chest hurts. You hurt so bad and you just want to lie down.

You must’ve started crying because Keigo is cooing at you a moment later, rubbing his thumbs at your cheeks.

“It hurts,” You manage to say before pressing your aching head to Keigo’s neck.

“Oh, angel,” Keigo squeezes you, pressing the gentlest kiss to an unbruised part of your skull. “I know, but I need to help you first. Can you trust me to help you? Then, we’ll get you laid down.”

You sniffle. You don’t like the answer, but you do trust Keigo with your life, literally.

Your nod is weak against his sweaty collar.

Some of his feathers must’ve returned because Keigo is resituating the two of you. Your back is supported on the headboard and he’s sitting in front of you. He’s wearing boxers and helping you into a soft shirt. It’s one of his, smelling like his nice, spicy cologne and sweat. It helps dull the pain of wanting him close, but it certainly doesn’t quell it fully.

Your vision is nearly fully back, perception almost proper, but everything truly does hurt. Even your teeth feel like they’re rotting in your skull.

“Kei’, I-I don’t feel good,” You whimper at him, moving to your knees, rubbing at your face. “Help.”

It’s not a request you’d ever make outside of a scene or subspace, not so bluntly anyways. Keigo is immediately running kind hands up and down your arms, regarding you with the softest, most loving gaze. It’s laced with concern, moreover. There’s a pull at his brows and a bad quirk in his lips.

“You did so well, angel. I’m so, so proud of you,” Keigo is shaking as he pulls you into him, rubbing up and down your bruised back. “You took it all so well. You’re so good. So, so good. I love you so much.”

You press into him. With your eyes shut and pressed to his sticky chest, the world is duller and your head hurts worse, “Can I go to sleep?”

You ask again, hoping for a different answer.

“No, love, I’m sorry. You gotta trust me, okay? Let’s start with some water,” Keigo is pulling away and you hate it. You want him touching you. It feels like you’re burning alive if he’s not.

“NO!” You shriek, grabbing his arm as it goes for a condensation-covered bottle laying on the bed.

Keigo freezes.

You tug.

“Angel,” Keigo’s voice has dropped, far deeper than his usual, pretty, high baritone. It’s a tone that you know too well when he chooses to assert himself. He moves to grip your jaw, where he had earlier, but far softer. “You are going to listen to me, understand? I love you, and I’m helping.”

You’re crying again because everything hurts. Your head and body are aching and Keigo is being mean to you and you just want to lay the fuck down—

And then you’re scared.

And then you’re panicking.

And then you’re choking on air.

Your lungs won’t fill fast enough.

Keigo rushes to wrap you in his arms, wings, and legs helping to press down on you. You are both familiar with the helpful nature of weight during moments like this. His lips are at your ear, breathing slow to encourage you to do the same.

But it hurts so much.

Your stomach is churning to the point of intense nausea.

“Keigo,” You manage to push out, giving him a desperate look. A hand is wrenching into your hair.

You’re lucky Keigo knows you so well and has a near-supernatural intuition. There’s a trash can in front of your face. You stick your face fully into it and you wretch. You’re sobbing as you vomit up everything in your stomach, bile, acid, and all. Keigo holds your hair, rubbing at your back.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Keigo is so soft but almost grief-stricken as he rubs at your shoulders. “Get it all out, okay? I’ll take care of you. Just get it all out for me.”

The notion is comforting, but the feeling quickly lost as another wave of sick leaves you.

Finally, you’re just coughing and spitting. You're still crying and your whole face is burning in addition to the migraine you’ve fully developed.

Keigo gently pulls you upwards, feathers taking the waste away. There’s a soft, warm cloth running all over your face, it pays extra attention around your mouth and nose.

It covers your nostrils and you freeze up.

“Blow, (Y/N),” Keigo urges, nodding with a soft smile.

In most other situations, this would be fucking humiliating. But, now? You did exactly as you were told, feeling somewhat comforted as much as your body hurt.

Keigo disposes of the washcloth, grabbing the water bottle from before and giving you a clean cup, “Rinse and spit as much as you need. Then, drink as much as you can, okay, angel?”

You nod, weakly, doing just as he said. It hurts, drinking so much water. It hits your tummy harshly and you stop after only a fourth of the bottle, looking at Keigo helplessly.

Keigo pressed a kiss to your forehead, pulling out a bowl of somewhat warm rice, “Cold, huh? Let’s get something else in you.”

“The only other thing I want in me is your fat cock,” You manage to crack a joke quietly, weakly, very much kidding, but it manages to get a bark of laughter (a little too loudly) from Keigo.

“There’s my girl,” He’s still laughing a little as he presses some of the rice to your lips. “Eat as much as you can, okay? You don’t have to finish it all if you can’t. Tell me if you feel like you need to throw up again, okay?”

You nod weakly, opening your mouth for the bite of food.

You eat painfully slowly, stomach tolerating food to some level. Keigo is patient, offering words of encouragement as your brain slowly rises from the hellishly low section of subspace it was in.

You manage to finish it all, earning loads of praise and kisses from Keigo.

“Thank you,” You offer him as you finish the bowl. He beams you with the radiance of some divine being. His wings have been folded politely to his back, but you can see them fluff up with his joy. Keigo is kind, leaving tender, feather-light kisses wherever he can reach. Your body is still aching and your head fucking hurt, but it is soothed by Keigo’s comforting and distracting presence.

You’re so distracted, it takes you a moment to realize Keigo has pressed a handful of pills into your hand, another water bottle at the ready.

“They’ll help with the pain, we just needed something in your tummy before you took them,” Keigo soothed, running a soft hand over your shoulders.

You down them wordlessly and with a nod.

Keigo proceeds to lay you out on the bed, pulling off your shirt as he does. You don’t like being so exposed, but he calmly explains he needs to clean you up and deal with any other wounds he made.

Oh, right.

You’re leaking like four loads of cum right now.

Marathon sex with Keigo usually ended with you destroyed, but this instance was a lot.

There aren’t too many deep wounds, luckily. Just a few scratches that wept a bit too much blood to be left alone. Keigo cleans and bandages them, talking to you softly. You don’t say much in reply. You know that part of Keigo’s aftercare is letting out the remnants of his energy about the scene vocally.

He presses a kiss to the last bandage with a smile, looking up at you as you slowly put your shirt back on.

��You okay?” You ask him, eyes softening. “That was a lot.”

“It was, but it was very fun. I am very okay. I’m far more concerned about you.” Keigo’s eyes softened as he strokes at the bruised skin of your thighs. “I feel awful. I didn’t realize I was hitting your head like that. I’m very sorry and it will not happen a second time. New rule, pillows for your head for floor sex.”

You groan, “That takes away so much of the allure, though. You know I like getting roughed up like that Kei’.”

“Angel,” He gently pushes you down to the bed, guiding your now somewhat soothed skull with a tender palm. “What you’re not gonna like is when I have to take you to the doctor tomorrow to check if you have a concussion.”

You grumble and snuggle into him.

There’s sweet silence for a minute.

“Thank you, Keigo. You did well too,” You kiss his jaw a few times. “But, if you don’t take the day off tomorrow to take care of my ass, I will personally come to your agency, sit under your desk, and give you head until your balls fall off.”

“Oh, baby,” He nuzzles into you with a throaty laugh. “Say less.”

You’re not sure which option he means, but you suppose its the one where he’s tangled up in you.

#mha x reader #my hero academia x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #reader x hawks #reader insert #this is unbeta'ed so if there's silly grammar issues its definitely on me #also present tense??? who knew #salem writes

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sleepysailorghost · 4 years ago

Text

There are a lot of reasons why it's better for Boone to walk behind the Courier.

Tactically, it doesn't hurt. He's trained as a sniper, and ED-E alerts them of any dangers ahead of them. The Courier can dispatch any enemies with their six guns, plasma rifle, or cowboy repeater. What they don't take down, he takes out with his rifle.

At least part of it is an attempt to assuage the guilt he feels. He had seen the Courier injured before, but he didn't think he would have to see them nearly die. In hindsight, he probably should have-he was cursed, after all.

The Courier had told him he wasn't cursed. That no one was punishing him. He didn't know if he believed that yet.

He didn't hear anything when the Courier had slipped down the cliff. He agonized over that day-wondering if he had heard something and just ignored it. A shuffling of rocks, a scream or shout. But there had been nothing.

He had just kept walking, the Courier's chirping little robot at his side. Even he didn't know when he had noticed the Courier's absence.

When he had finally found them, it had nearly been too late. All his field medical training seemed to go out the window when he saw the Courier laying broken in the ravine. He had used so many stimpacks on them, they nearly died of stim sickness.

But they didn't. Hard to kill, or something. He tried to pull away after that, tried to piss off the Courier so they'd hate him.

They didn't hate him.

Maybe they just didn't know how.

The Courier drags him all over the Mojave and he follows and watches their back.

He doesn't know how that became how he feels now. He's never been good with emotions anyway.

It isn't something he knows how to handle, so he decides to ignore it. He doesn't want it. The Courier is his friend, not Carla. And for him, it was only ever Carla.

Watching the Courier's back desn't keep them from being taken from him, not any more than it prevents them from getting into trouble. He was behind them when they were knocked out and taken away.

But he was there when they returned and he helped them put their peices back together. It would be easier to just let both of them fall apart. It would be easier to deprieve themselves simply because it's too much work to do anything else. Too much work to eat or drink.

Instead, he makes an effort. It isn't easy, but he isn't alone. In time, they grow to being two individuals who want to live. They always were a bunch of problem solvers.

Once, after he and Arcade had convinced the Courier it was safe to rest for a time, Arcade had said something to him.

"It's rotten work, taking care of them."

"Not if it's them. Not to me."

Arcade smirked at them like he had won something in this exchange. Boone ignored him. Whatever Arcade thought that admission-that he cared about the Courier-proved meant nothing.

He was just trying to keep his friend alive.

The Courier has gone to meet someone from their past. They've gone somewhere he can not follow, just as they had been kidnapped away to the Sierra Madre, abducted to the Big MT. Only, this time he's chosen not to follow.

Whatever the Courier finds-if it ends up being the home they had forgotten-he'd rather they didn't have to worry about him.

When the Courier does return, they run to him and grab him in a hug faster than he can react. They burrow into his chest in a way that would have been intrusive if it was anyone but them.

"I misssed you!" they mumble into his armor. "You won't believe-"

But before they can finish, their little robot is beeping so frantically to get their attention. The Courier's arms drop and they take a step back from him, seemingly embarrassed by their affections.

As the Courier and ED-E engage in a conversation Boone can only half understand, he looks out into the desert to compose himself. That's when he sees it first. A glint of something out in the sands.

Initially, he has no idea what it could be. His eyesight's sharp, but not that sharp. It doesn't look like Legion, so he doesn't shoot it.

The Courier is so proud of their new name. It's taken from an Old World battle, and someone had given it to them.

Boone thinks its a mouthful. It takes some time for him to adjust. He had been so used to refering to them as Six or just Courier. Eventually, he decides to just shorten it to Tie.

It's not because he's stupid, no matter what Arcade says. Antietam just takes too long to say.

The name wasn't the only thing Tie had brought back with them. Their bounty-hunter attire is retired in favor of a blue duster with an Old World flag on the back. It certainly makes them stand out against the Mojave.

The Glint he had sighted back in Novac didn't disappear. It followed them. Boone is fairly certain it's a person, but he can't gage their intent or why they are following them. He's fairly certain it's non-hostile-they had plenty of opportunities to kill both of them.

New Vegas looms large in front of them. There's business to be settled here, he knows, but it isn't his.

Instead of tracking down the man who stole their life and shot them in the head, Tie seems happy enough to serve as errand runner for Freeside.

Maybe that's why they had originally became a courier. The reason why doesn't matter much to them any more.

No matter how silly or monotonous a job seems, Tie is willing to complete it. They do a day's work for the Van Graff's and Boone can't help but stand a little closer to them after the attempted bombing.

The King certainly appreciates their work. He tells them as much, bringing Antietam to his room to discuss some task or another The King sent them out on.

He sits down on his stupid bed-what kind of a bed is that-and insists the Courier do the same. Boone stays standing, frowning a mile a minute.

"Darlin', could ya ask your soldier boy to wait outside a minute? I think we oughta have a discussion without an audience."

Boone has seen Antietam face hoards of Legion assassains without fear. He's seen them struggle to recover after whatever they saw in the Sierra Madre. Right now, he doesn't think that they want to be left alone with The King.

"Body guards work better if they're in the same room." Boone says, and leaves it at that.

"I guess, if the Courier trust ya that's enough for me." The King looks him sharply in the eye.

"Thank you." Tie says, but Boone knows that was for him. If his blood wasn't full of rage, he might be smilling right now.

When they return to their room at the Wrangler-not without Beautrice and Old Ben trying to offer their services to Antietam-the Courier says "You're not a body guard. You know that, right?"

"You didn't want to be alone with him." Boone says in response.

"T-That's not-I didn't want to be seperated from you."

"Huh."

And then they pretend that conversation didn't happen. They go to sleep, and their room at the Wrangler only has the one bed. It's not all that awkward, and Boone was just thankful that Tie wanted to sleep. in the morning, they get up and head off on some other grand adventure.

This time, it's investigating what's wrong with the water at the NCR Sharecropper farms. The Glint darts closer to them than it normally strays.

Close enough for Boone to get a decent look at it. It's a man. He moves a little like a Legion man, but he doesn't look like one of Caesar's. His duster is the same as the one Tie brought back back from the Divide.

Tie never had told him too much about the Divide. He sort of expected that. They didn't speak about the Sierra Madre or the Big MT, or even about their trip to Zion unless he asked.

Small talk has never been his strong suit. Arcade, the nosy guy, would be much better at getting this sort of stuff from them.

"Your duster's new." He says casually.

"Yeah. Ulysses gave it to me." They respond.

"Ulysses...What's that guy like?" He asks.

Antietam thought for a moment and then answered.

"He's the strongest man I've ever met. Eyes like a hawk, really skilled in hunting and tracking."

Boone hugged his riffle a little tighter. It was a massive weapon, one lovingly assembled by Tie. He puzzles over that, and then decides that was what he meant. Antietam had lovingly assembled the Anti-Material Rifle for him, handing over dozens of caps to the Gun Runners for peices and parts for it. Any time he started to run low on ammo, Tie handed him another box of .50. They didn't have to, but he always appreciated it.

"Huh." Strongest man they've ever met, huh? An incrediably stupid idea forms in his head. "Hey, Tie, do you think I can carry you?"

"W-What? Don't be stupid-I'm carrying a bunch of gear right now."

"I could do it. Who do you think carried you out of the ravine?" He answered defensively.

"I'm not saying you couldn't do it. I'm saying you shouldn't." Tie settled their beret, and then fixed their pin in their hair. It glinted a little in the sun. "Who are you trying to show off for? There's no one around."

They were heading into a vault. Boone hated vaults.

Dwellers themselves were alright, but if there was a vault where people worked together and Vault-Tec didn't shoot them in the foot by drugging them or something, it wasn't in the Mojave. Boone still thought about the spore-creatures.

This vault isn't any different from other vaults. It's partially flooded, and Tie's geiger counter keeps on beeping.

"Alrright, I'm going to dive down now." Tie says as they stand over a flooded section of the vault. They loved water, always seemed so transfixed and mystified by large bodies of water. Only, they didn't seem to like being in the water all that much. Boone had asked once, and the Courier had just said "Have you ever been buried alive?" and left it at that.

Antietam is not very good at swimming. It's not all that surprising-most bodies of water are too tainted for swimming.

They strip down to their underclothes, all lanky limbs and scars on show. Handing their beret and duster to Boone and removing their boots, they strap on their rebreather. The spurrs of their boots clack against the ground as they wade into the flooded chamber.

He hates waiting for the Courier to reemerge. Anything could go wrong and they would be unable to defend themselves. Eyes on the water, watching for any disturbance, he thinks about something else.

He hasn't seen The Glint since they entered the Vault. Maybe it didn't follow them down here. He'll bring it up when the Courier resurfaces. It should be any second now, but that doesn't stiffle the feeling that they've been down there too long.

Shit. Maybe they ran into an issue with their rebreather. He knew that was a peice of junk. He drops TIe's clothing and is frantically taking off his boots when the Courier rises from the water.

"Christ, Tie. Don't scare me like that."

Antietam drops a handful of ammo on the vault flooring.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to. I found a lock box at the bottom, but I knew I couldn't get it back up to the surface so I popped the lock. " The Courier wrings a little water out of their hair. "Should have done this part last, huh? I'm soaked through."

It's when they leave Vault 34, sick with rads, that he brings up The Glint. He's looking directly at The Glint.

"Do you see that? Do you ever feel like something is watching you?"

"Yeah? I got you, don't I?"

"That's not what I meant."

As Arcade treats their radiation sickness, Boone watches for The Glint.

It was better if he did this alone, he reasoned. He felt uneasy leaving the Courier, especially while they were sleeping, but he knew that there was little threat of anything getting into their room at the Wrangler.

He was facing the real threat: whoever was following them. That, and however sore Tie was going to be if they woke up and found him missing.

The Glint was on the roof of a building adjacent to the Wrangler. His focus on his quarry is stedfast. The Glint doesn't move.

The Glint turns out to be a man, as he had thought. The man isn't anyone he recognizes, but he recognizes the duster the man is shrouded in.

This must be Ulysses, he thinks, although his evidence is shallow at best. Ulysses-if this is him-is sleeping with a hunter's awareness. The Mojave night is warm, and Boone walks away from that roof.

He isn't sneaking. If the man wakes, he wakes. He's fairly sure that Ulysses is no enemy of the Courier, not with how fondly they had spoke of him.

A few days later, the Courier leaves without warning. Leaves of their own volition-not abducted-this time. Comes back in an Old World suit, eyes red from crying. Before he or Arcade could ask what's wrong or why they left, Antietam is pulling the researcher into a hug, muttering some story.

Arcade removes the Courier, holding them at arm's length.

"Hold on, I can't understand you when you're muttering like that. You did what?"

The Courier can't meet Arcade's eyes and is definitely avoiding Boone's gaze.

"I said, I went to go settle things with Benny."

"Ah, yes. The man who shot you in the head. Well, he doesn't appear to have finished the job. You aren't hurt, right?"

"No, it didn't come to that. I'm alright." They find something fascinating in the dirt of their nails. "Reputation might have taken a hit though."

"What did you do, Antietam?" Arcade was something like the Courier's brother, and he often had reason to be concerned for them.

"Tried to seduce Benny."

Arcade looks at Antietam for a second, like he's sure he's heard wrong.

"Sorry, run that by me again?"

"I tried to seduce Benny."

Arcade inhales deeply, and then sighs. He rakes a hand over his face.

"Why? Where did you even get that idea?"

"I thought it was the best way to get him alone! I wasn't going to do anything!" They still aren't looking Arcade in the eye-too afraid to see disappointment. "It didn't work anyway."

"What were you going to do? Talk to him? He tried to kill you!" Arcade says. And then he snaps. "It's your life anyway. Just don't come crying to me when you make a mess of it. Although it seems you already have."

Boone does not say anything. He just doesn't know what to say. This was not a situation he had ever anticipated. He's mainly just shocked by the Courier's actions, and by the blinding fury of his own jealousy. That's probably a thread, but he's doing his best to not pull at it.

"Arcade.." Antietam tries, but Arcade responds with a quick. "Just go to bed, Courier. We'll talk in the morning."

Dejectedly, the Courier climbs into the Wrangler's lone bed and tries to sleep.

"Trying to seduce the man who shot them in the head. What will they think of next?" Arcade mutters , more to himself than to Boone. "It's late. You can take the floor."

In the morning, Antietam wakes up in bed with their brother and their fight the prior evening seems less severe. They get up, get dressed and head over to Mick and Ralph's for odds and ends. New Vegas was a grand place, sure, but it wasn't somewhere Antietam could live. All the lights hurt their head, for one.

Another gift from Benny, packaged in lead wrapping paper. As the Courier steps out they are accosted by Vulpes Inculta. He isn't dressed as he was as a Nipton, but the Courier's reflexes take over and they draw their sixgun.

"Patience, Courier." He says, and then bestows the Mark of Caesar upon them. Antietam instantly feels worse for it, craving a bath if only to wash this man off of them.

The Wrangler doesn't have such amenities, but it does have Boone and Arcade. Two of their favorite people, and the support Antietam happens to need at the moment.

Already, a plan is forming in their head. Barely a step outside of the Wrangler, blood pooling at their feet, they turn and reenter the building.

James Garret tries to get their attention-maybe for work, maybe because he heard of Benny's rejection. It doesn't matter to them at the moment. With the mark burning a hole in their hand, they climb the stairs to their room.

"Antietam, your hands are looking rather empty. Did you forget your caps or something?" Arcade says, smiling at the Courier.

Antietam doesn't say anything, walking up to the table and dropping the medallion. Arcade examines it, eyes wide.

"I got the Mark of Caesar."

"How? Why?"

"They just gave it to me because they're impressed with my work."

"You have killed a fair number of their men."

"Yeah, we're a bunch of problem solvers."Boone chimes in.

"Yeah, we are. Anyway, that's not all. They invited me up there-to their fortress-so I can meet with Caesar." Antietam was smirking. Pointing a finger at Boone, they asked him. "Say, what do you think about wiping out the Legion's Fort, huh?"

"I'd say we're outnumbered." Boone responded, a grin growing on his face despite their very apparent outnumberedness.

"But we've got the element of surprise?"

"Sure, we'd have to be something awfully stupid to try and attack the fort with three men." Arcade added.

"We can probably stop by McCarran on the way, see if Col. Hsu can spare any men for the attack. First recon hasn't left for Forlorn Hope yet, yeah?"

"You head out to McCarran and they'll keep you there all day. "

"I can run errands for Hsu if it gets us men." Antietam responded. "I took care of their messenger, so we should be have some time."

The Courier stretched, and then got to work preparing for their trek across the Mojave and their upcoming battle with the Legion.

It was stupid, and he had a million other things to do, but Boone had an idea. He looked over at Antietam, who was currently comparing different side arms. They put Cram-Opener to the side. Really, they weren't much of a melee or unnarmed fighter, but Little Buster had been something like a friend to the Courier.

"Tie?" He asked, and they looked over at him, putting down their weapons. "Remember how I said I could pick you up?"

"Yeah, but I-"

"You aren't carrying any gear right now." He stepped forward, pulled his friend into a secure hold. It wasn't all that difficult, even if he and Antietam were about the same height. "Told you I could do it."

"Yes, you're looking exceptionally virile." Arcade said, narrowing his eyes at the duo. "Put Antietam down so they can get packed."

Boone rolled his eyes, but put Antietam down.

It was a fast enough walk to Camp McCarran. Hsu, for once, didn't have a grocer's list of errands for them. He was mostly surprised to see them.

Antietam explained their situation and their plan to attack the fort.

"The mark of Caesar? You never cease to surprise, Courier." Col. Hsu never referred to the Courier by name. For what reason, Boone didn't know and didn't really care. "Regardless, we can't spare the men. We just diverted some of our forces to Bittersprings, and the First Recon left for Camp Forlorn Hope this morning. Even if we could, we shouldn't place military troops in the hands of a civilian."

The Courier had fought and seized Nelson from the Legion. Had the NCR forgotten that? But the Courier bites their tongue.

"Yes, I suppose that would be the case. I guess we'll have to take care of Caesar ourselves, huh? Alright, I'll be back to collect the bounty on that-there is a bounty, right?"

"I'm sure we can rustle up something." Hsu said, although it was evident from his tone that he did not think he would see the Courier again. "Goodbye, Courier. Thank you for everything."

"So that was a bust." Arcade said as they exited McCarran.

"It was a long shot anyway. Couple of hours walk to the fort." Antietam said, settling their bag on their shoulder. They had dressed for a fight, assassain suit concealed by their duster, beret on their head, and Arcade's pin in their hair. "Yeah, I recon it's probably about several hundred men against the three of us. Uh, that's the thing. Y'all don't have to go with me. It's likely that we would die or worse and I-"

"And what, leave you to take on the Legion by yourself? I'm going with you, and if we go down, we'll take as many of them with us as we can." Boone said. In a quieter voice, he added "And if you get captured..."

His voice trailed off, but they both knew. Arcade was walking ahead of them a little. Antietam nodded, a consent to things that were too awful to say aloud.

"I'll do the same for you." Either that, or die fighting like hell to get him out. "It might not come to a direct confrontation. I've got a couple packs of C4. Could lay those around the camp, set 'em off. I have some stealth-boys too, if you wanna try that."

"How much?"

"A dozen packs of C4, and 4 stealthboys. Not exactly a surplus. Could stop and get mines too. Didn't think to bring any."

As they walked, he scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of trouble. He knew Ulysses was following them, but he didn't anticipate any fight with him.

All the confusion and jealousy of the prior night had been forgotten in the wake of the Courier's plan to attack the Fort. It certainly had been a wild day.

They reach the Fort via the Cottonwood Cove waterway. Arcade elects to stay behind at the Cove and to send reinforcements if they don't return in time.

But miraculously, they survive. Caesar is dead, and the Courier is victorious. It's almost certainly the heat of the battle getting to his head, but Boone wants to kiss Antietam. Badly.

He settles for picking the Courier up and spinning around. They're both laughing, a rich thing in the air between them, half drunk on victory.

Someone's voice cuts through their reverie.

"Say, wouldn't you let a guy loose, baby? At least before you start macking on each other?"

Shit, had they forgotten someone? He thought they had cleared the camp. Weapons drawn, they quickly find the speaker. It's a man in a checkered suit.

"Oh, if it isn't my baby! Come to rescue me, huh?" Despite the heavy bruising on his face, he smirks and it's almost half charming. "Told them you'd come for me. Just couldn't get enough of me?"

"I didn't know you had left Vegas." Tie says quickly, shutting him down. The man's face fell.

"So what was all that then? Business as usual?"

"Just about, yeah."

"Tie, you know this man?" Boone asked.

"Not really. This is Benny, y'know the one who shot me in the head. What are you doing here, actually?"'

"You gonna untie me if I tell you? What kind of a name is Tie anyway?"

"A good one." They said, feeling their energy level begin to wane as they spoke with Benny. They just didn't make guides on how to speak with your would-be murderer who you tried and failed to seduce. "I'll think about it. Why are you here?"

"Those bullets must have scrambled your egg pretty good." Benny said. "What's it look like? I got captured sneaking into the fort."

"You want me to take care of this guy for you?" Boone said.

"No?"

"Oh, come on, baby! You can't still be sore at me."

"Where's the platinum chip?"

"Caesar's got it. Or had it, considering he's probably worm food now. Baby, you don't know what-"

"Stop calling Tie your baby." Boone snapped.

"Bye, Benny." Antietam pulled a switchblade from their pocket and slashed his restraints.

"You're letting him go?"

"I don't care any more. Let's get the chip and loot and then head back to McCarran."

"What kind of bounty do you think Hsu rustled up?"

"None, probably. Still, we killed Caesar. Won't end the Legion, but it's a blow for sure."

"Sounds like what Ulysses would say. C'mon, let's get back to Arcade before he calls for the cavalry."

ED-E beeped cheerfully, and Boone smiled a little. Just a little.

As they walked through the river, Antietam stopped and then wrapped their arms around him.

"Thanks. For everything, y'know?"

"Yeah, sure, Tie."

Wounded and tired, they made their way back.

#courier 6 #courier antietam #fnv #craig boone #benny gecko #ulysses fnv #ulysses #fallout new vegas #arcade gannon #this is kinda a companion peice to the Ulysses one but uhhh

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queerspacepunk · 4 years ago

Note

For DADWC: “I wish we’d never met. I only bring you pain" for Anders/Fenris?

sorry this has taken forever, my weekends have been chaos and now i'm sick and i think i forgot to respond to the @dadrunkwriting headcount for this week but OH WELL. I think i slightly tweaked the wording but i'm sure we'll cope.

Hawke had prepared him for this. Anders had too, in a way. Far more self-critical, admission lined in deflections, but it’s Hawke’s words Fenris turns to, nights like these, where Anders is in pieces and not all the way in the present.

“I wish we’d never met!” Anders snaps, pushing Fenris away as he scrambles across the bed, putting the furniture between them, foot catching in the duvet as he goes, tripping him. “All I ever do is hurt you!” His voice cracks at the end of it, and his eyes are wild.

Hawke had warned Fenris about this, back in the stilted month between the last time Fenris had tumbled Anders into bed drunk and the first time he’d done it sober. Well, not warned perhaps. To warn would imply Hawke was advising him away. No, Hawke had prepared him for this.

Anders had too, in a way. Far more self-critical, admission lined in deflections, but it’s Hawke’s words Fenris turns to, nights like these, where Anders is in pieces and not all the way in the present.

He’s not reacting to you, not really. He’s like an injured kitten.

“You feel dangerous,” Fenris says carefully. Acknowledgement, not validation.

“I am dangerous,” Anders spits, “I hurt you, it’s all I ever do. Out of control, out of-”

Blue begins to break through his skin, as if to prove a point. Fenris wonders if Anders knows that the pattern of light is different depending on whether his protector is being summoned or coming through of his own accord.

If he’s out of line, tell him.

Fenris breathes out instead of lighting up himself, much as he wants to.

“No Justice in our room without asking,” Fenris says, by rote, without anger. “You’re overwhelmed, do you need a moment?”

“I need you to listen to me!” Anders says, howls, “to get away before I hurt you more. Before I can’t stop myself.”

He’s gets memory mixed up with prophecy. He’s scared of what he thinks he’ll do, of how he thinks you’ll react.

“I’m grateful that hurting me is not something you want to do,” Fenris says, “even if you fear you will.”

Fenris moves around the bed, noting the way that Anders has, even in this state, has left him with an open line to the door, even as he’s had to back himself into a corner to do it.

“I am stepping out for a moment,” he says, “not out of the house, just out of the room. I will be back soon.”

For all Fenris’ skill in running, he hates this part. Hates the brief hint of grief and resignation that Anders never quite manages to hide as he steps away, but he knows it needs to be done.

He’s irrational like this. You could talk at him till you’re both blue in the face and he wouldn’t believe it. You have to play it out, give yourself a chance to prove him wrong.

Fenris doesn’t speak as he walks to the kitchen, but he lets his feet fall heavier than he usually does, slams the freezer door a little harder than he needs to as he pulls the icepack out.

He’s out of the room a minute, maybe two, but Anders has sunk to the ground in the time he was gone. The glow of Justice all but gone, gaze unfocused and distant. He looks up in something like surprise when Fenris enters, brow creasing in a frown when Fenris sits down beside him, lays the ice pack over the back of his neck.

Anders sits with his knees tucked up, wrists resting on them, head hanging between, for a long while before he can speak. The slightest tremor running through his frame the only real indication that he’s still there.

“I- fuck, I’m sorry,” Anders croaks, not raising his head.

Fenris presses his side slightly closer. A reminder of presence, a continuity error for the tale Anders’ mind is trying to spin.

Time travel’s exhausting. Fenris had always wondered how Hawke had known that. Guide him home, ease him in.

A broken, painful sort of laugh shakes out of Anders, and when he sits up, icepack slipping off his shoulders, the tears he’s shedding are frustrated.

“In the morning?” Fenris asks, because he knows as well as Anders does that they will have to deal with this, eventually, but not tonight.

“Yeah,” Anders agrees, “in the morning.”

This seems like an easy one, considering. They’re getting practiced, but Fenris can tell how heavy it is sitting in Anders’ chest.

Be ready for the second wave, go with him through it.

Fenris stands, a little sooner than Anders wants, perhaps, but he’s pliant now, apologetic and emptied out and as much as Fenris doesn’t want to take advantage of that, he needs to get Anders off the floor and to the bed before the next part.

They make it most of the way. Shoes already discarded when they came home, all Fenris really has to do is help Anders out of his jeans, his own long fingers too clumsy, like they’d been under the ice too.

Anders is leaning against him, hands balanced on Fenris’ shoulders as he helps kick away the jeans now pooled on the ground when the second wave does hit. His gaze going from distant to painfully focused on Fenris’ shoulder, where his own hand is resting.

“I hit you,” Anders says, chokes out. Fenris has often wondered if Justice allows Anders to see things that others can’t, or if it’s just the way memories seem to sear themselves into Anders’ vision.

They interact with the past so differently, the two of them.

“No,” Fenris says, for once having to drag himself back into the present as much as he’s dragging Anders, “you shoved me. And only because you were concerned you might hurt me.”

Anders glances up. Not to Fenris’ eyes, not quite, too soon for that, but close, “shoving you isn’t better.”

“When was the last time you were able to push me somewhere I didn’t want to go?” Fenris asks, and takes advantage of Anders’ state once again to push him back toward the bed, angling it so the soft edge of the mattress is what catches him behind the knees and sends him toppling gently onto it.

He’s scared because he loves you. Wants you to be safe. Let him know that you are.

The look on Anders’ face when Fenris does this is so close to the way he looks when they’re playing at things in bed that the first time he’d tried this, Fenris had had to run to the bathroom to retch up his lunch. He’d called Hawke earlier than usual that night.

It still isn’t easy, but he’s learnt since that submission given willingly is less about resignation and more about relief, and he knows now that that is what he’s seeing in Anders’ face. That what Anders’ is responding to isn’t force, but the knowledge that he isn’t a threat to Fenris. Not now.

Change the scene, change the tune. Leave the past in the past, however recent.

Fenris reaches down and helps Anders pull his shirt off, the collar damp from the icepack, the rest of it warmed from his panicked sweat. Fenris tosses it away, pulls another out from under the pillow, helps Anders pull it over his head before stripping his own clothes off in favour of sleep clothes.

Loose pants and no shirt. Anders is rarely ready to be bared to the world so soon after a night like this, but Fenris knows his skin is a warm comfort, knows that even when he sleeps the slight glow of his tattoos will chase away the total darkness.

“I will fetch us tea,” he says, after pulling the blankets over Anders, and Anders nods in response, pulling the duvet up so only his red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair are visible.

Fenris can’t help but push the hair back gently before he leaves. He keeps his footfalls heavy, shuts the cupboards loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to sound angry, fills two cups that he knows probably won’t be finished, but will root them to the present nonetheless.

The cats have materialised in the time it took Fenris to make two cups of tea. Slunk into the room and positioned themselves so as to almost immobilise Anders. One behind his knees, another at his back, a third at his waist.

There is a brief glaring contest between Fenris and The Viscat before the tabby sighs far too heavily for a cat of even his vast size and vacates the spot in front of Anders’ chest where he had been pinning the blankets down, allowing Fenris to lift them up and slip into the bed. To let Anders curl close around him. Clinging with a sort of desperation that Fenris can never quite figure out what to do with.

They sip at their tea and watch cat videos on Fenris’ phone (his recommendations will be a mess after this) until Anders is dozing, halfway to sleep. Fenris lets the video run itself out, and then presses Hawke’s number.

Call me, after, to check in.

“Hey, how’s he doing?” Hawke never seems to need to guess what he’s calling about, not at this hour.

“To debrief with you about your ex-lovers... episode?”

“Nearly asleep,” Fenris says, brushing the hair back from Anders’ forehead again. Anders nuzzles further into his side and mumbles something, “he says ‘hello’,” Fenris relays, “I think.”

Just because we didn’t work together like that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about him, that he’s not my friend, you both are.

“How are you doing?” Hawke asks next, equally gentle.

“You think I’m not capable of handling this on my own.”

“We’ve had worse nights,” Fenris admits, “better ones, also.”

I think you’re more capable than I am.

“You did well,” Hawke says, “you always do. Do you need anything?”

“We... will talk about this in the morning,” Fenris says, “the two of us. After that, perhaps?”

“I’ll bring lunch,” Hawke says, “but call, if you need me before then.”

I think that a person can hurt someone all on their own, but healing is a team effort.

“I will,” Fenris says, surprised to realise his eyelids are heavy, “goodnight Hawke, thank you.”

“Nah,” Hawke says, “thank you.”

#dadwc #dragon age #dragonage #fenris #anders #fenders #fix it in post

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mochibrokenheart · 3 years ago

Text

SVSSS: Guardian of the Museum

Mobei Jun x Shang Qinghua

Word Count: 2,756

Summary: Of course there's ominous growling and destruction to the building on Shang Qinghua's first night as a museum curator. Of course there is! Besides being desperate to keep the job, he's not sure what possesses him to actually walk toward the dangerous situation. His survival instincts were better trained that! Except...wait a minute...the terrifying creature causing all the ruckus is actually the hottest thing he's ever seen???

My first contribution for Moshang Monsterfucking Month (and my first fic for the fandom in general!) Heavy on the monster part as the nsfw is not explicit. Who knew that it would be hard to write something short. Inspired by the Day 2 prompt: horny.

Also posted on my Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34305571

A nearby bell tolled at midnight just as Shang Qinghua locked up the museum for the night, which meant that he was officially off for the weekend. Being a party of one, he celebrated with a groovy victory dance while turning the key over in the lock.

There was a little click and he rattled the knob, checking that the door was properly locked—if anything was stolen or vandalized during the night, he would most definitely be blamed as the recent hire!

The job was an important stepping stone in his career path plan to being a rare artifacts curator. He really needed the experience. It was hard enough to land the job, so he wasn’t above looking neurotic by double, and triple, and quadruple checking everything before he left.

A chilly breeze tussled his hair and raised goosebumps down his neck. It was October, he supposed while drawing up his hood to block the chill, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to complain.

He was much to delicate for cold temperatures and would exercise his right to curse out the changing seasons. Of course, he could move somewhere further south, so that he wouldn’t have to put up with it anymore, but still!

The only good thing about the loss of summer was the bugs, he decided.

Clearly, Shang Qinghua was irresistible because bugs treated his blood like an all-you-can buffet. If only hot men thought the same. But alas.

Sighing, he turned up to admire the full moon, who seemed to sympathize with the sad state of his romantic affairs, being the moon and all. Something about it’s pale gray-white color naturally emoted a sad, longing reflection.

It was as he was looking up that he heard a growl, loud not because of its pitch—it was actually quite low and gravelly—but because it vibrated the very air around him.

Shit. Shit. He wasn’t equipped to deal with some beast! He had no weapons and there was no way his body was going to get the job done either. He was a delicate flower, just ask the bugs who always feasted on him!

He rummaged through his bag frantically for his phone. That was what the authorities were for.

Opening his phone, his mind was racing. Who did you call when there was a potentially wild animal on the loose? The police? Animal control?

Gasp! What if it turned out to be a demon?

…!!!

He didn’t have any shamans or priests on speed dial. There had never been a reason to until then but if it would save him, he’d buy up every type of religious necklace he could and wear them around his neck daily. It was like insurance—it never hurt to cover all of his bases.

While he was wasting time on the sidewalk, what appeared to be small bits of gravel drifted down from what seemed like the roof. Scurrying to get closer to the streetlight, which casted a circular light on the steps of the museum, Shang Qinghua bent down to get a closer look.

It felt dusty when he rubbed his pointer finger against his thumb and did match the shade of stone the building was…The new evidence presented a bit of dilemma. Yes, he was still itching to call somebody have them do the dangerous work, but at the same time, his boss might fire him if something happened to the museum under his watch.

“Well, if there’s more damage, I guess I’ll take a look,” he muttered. He clasped his hands together. “But please, take mercy on me, moon! I promise that if you get me out of this that my next erotica will be dedicated solely to you, and in very large print, so that my readers know the reach of your mystical power!”

His hands remained clasped high above his head as he waited. So far so good.

There was still the scary growls, of course, but those didn’t count because he wasn’t going to investigate that. It was absolutely common knowledge that people who investigated weird sounds always ended up dead, at least in horror movies, and that was all the proof he needed to wash his hands of it.

No, the only thing that could sway him from his crouch on the front steps was…was…

Tears shimmered in his eyes as more rubble was knocked off from the roof, the fine particles irritating his nose and causing him to sneeze.

Thoroughly betrayed, he used his sleeve to wipe at his nose. Forget the moon. Clearly the bond he felt had only been one-sided, and now he was obligated to actually suck it up and put himself in harms way.

The Shang Qinghua of five minutes ago would’ve screamed and called himself a fool. Why ignore those highly honed flight instincts?! Even the Shang Qinghua of the present was screaming and calling himself a fool when he took the first hesitant step inside.

It was deceptively quiet in the stairwell but that wasn’t enough to calm him. As the saying went, it was the calm before the shit storm and he was about to be right in the middle of it. How careless of him.

Just in case this was the end, he started to draft an epitaph—it’s not like anyone else would put in the same amount of effort.

His minor following would be too busy wailing about the permanent book hiatus; his boss would have their hands full dealing with insurance over the architectural damage; and that hot-and-cold cucumber bro of his would still be nagging him in the afterlife, criticizing him for his stupid plan when it ‘clearly would’ve been better to do such and such’. But back to him.

We are gathered here to mourn the passing of one Shang Qinghua, a bright hamster that was taken from Earth far too soon. His exhibit work was flawless, his knack for collections cataloging unrivaled. There was never a day without bountiful office supplies with him around. We thank him for his singular brave—foolish?—sacrifice in the name of historical value. Shang Qinghua is survived by several dying houseplants and the stray dog he usually fed on his way home from work.

There. That sounded as good as he was likely to get. Wait. No. He almost left out the most important part: the secret letter of last words meant only for cucumber bro’s eyes. Bro, if you’re reading this it’s because I died a terrible and scary death. Please take pity and wipe all of my search history. It was all for research, honest! It’s bad taste to judge a dead man.

The access door to the roof was large and imposing in front of him, even though there was still no noise coming from the other side. He was going to be mad and then relieved, in that exact order, if this turned out to be nothing.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Jumped around and shook his hands where they hung down beside the length of his body. He’d watched enough athletes—for research!—throughout his short life and getting loose always seemed to pump them up for competition. The same principle should apply here.

The door gave with a loud screech and he suspected that it wasn’t in regular use. Not that there was probably much to see up there anyway. Just roosting pigeons, stone slabs, and—

His mind went blank.

Crouching in the corner, so close to the edge that all it would take was a gust of wind to send him tumbling down, was some sort of winged creature. And the wings were massive things that arched up before curving downward completely over it’s back, the tips draped on the ground. Judging by how large they were, they had to be functional, which nearly caused him to wet himself.

He didn’t want to imagine that thing taking flight after him. Not that he would be exciting prey. Gods, this probably how a mouse felt when a hawk was flying overhead.

But it was the horns that really caught his attention. They were hulking black spirals and the sharp points were pointed right at him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious that they were pure black. Any other time, he might comment on how cool they actually were, how they were a cosplayer’s dream, but it wasn’t cool when it was a matter of life and death.

And he would most certainly die if those menacing horns and wings were any indication.

Trying to keep the element of surprise, he slowly let the door swing shut. Until a little bat started flew over squeaking, which caused him to squeak as well. The door hit the frame with a loud rattle. His body went heavy with fear and his eyes snapped shut, a natural prey response. He had never, ever been this scared.

Not patient enough for Shang Qinghua to turn around on his own, the creature flung him around to face it with an aggressive growl. And he had thought it was loud when he was on the sidewalk. Which wasn’t true at all. It was much louder and more intimidating when it was right in his face.

“Trespasser!” it growled, teeth clicking.

…Okay, so it could talk. Maybe this was a good thing. Now could grovel with it to spare him!

Blinking rapidly, he opened his eyes and looked up, up, up. It didn’t look as horrific from the front as it did the back. In fact, it had a humanoid appearance and was distinctly male. He was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, a total fantasy come to life. How the hell was he real?

His was incredibly tall, his huge wings proportional to his size now that he was standing up. Now that he saw them up close, Shang Qinghua noticed that they were a beautiful shade of blue that started out dark but lightened to pale blue once it reached the tips, which also had sharp spikes—Nails? Claws? He wasn’t well versed in anatomy—attached.

The top of his ears were pointy, too, just like the tops of the wings. Oh, and the horns! There were two of them, both pure, glossy obsidian, that sprouted out on either side of his temple, the bases thick and ridged as they spiraled like a ram’s. The only difference was that his horns were much larger. He could maul someone with those along if he wasn’t careful.

But now that he considered it more—even in times of crisis, he could multi-task when it really counted—the horns only added more to his attractiveness. They were intimating, sure, but also sexy, in a monsterfucking type of way. He gasped as a clawed hand wrapped around his throat. Yep, he could definitely get into the horns and claws. Mark him down as scared and horny.

The growling died down but sharp teeth were still on display, and there was a stylized tattoo-looking mark on his forehead. Despite the snarl, Shang Qinghua instinctively knew that his face was insanely attractive; it had to be to match the rest of him. Speaking of the rest of him…

He dropped down in front of him, making sure to drag his hands down that ripped physique and gave his massive pectorals a quick squeeze before he landed on his knees in a kneeling position.

His face was right in front of the creature’s impressive package, covered only by a flimsy loin cloth. It fluttered in the night breeze and he had to bite down on his finger to stop his depraved moaning. “Ff-forgive me, my good-demon-sir, but I swear I’m not trespassing. I’m a humble worker here at this museum.”

He quickly took out his employee badge to offer it up to the demon who barely gave it a glance. “Gargoyle,” it said in reply.

“Oh. I’m sorry but I don’t really know what you mean by that.” Wait, why did he say that? He didn’t want to get further in the demon’s bad side than he already was! “I mean no offense, of course. I’m sure gargoyles are absolutely lovely—”

“No,” he interrupted, his face smoothed out into blank slate. It made it harder to read him but Shang Qinghua quickly decided that it was alright. “I am a gargoyle, human. You may address me as Mobei Jun.”

Ohhh. Now that he mentioned it, his wings and horns could belong to a gargoyle. He knew that they were popular parts historical buildings that had a strong Western influence, which the museum did.

“And I am a king. Not a sir.”

Curse his authority kink. He was sure that any new fantasies he conjured up would be staring this particular king and Shang Qinghua as his servant.

“Of course, my king! You’re reeking of kingly handsomeness. As a lowly human, my apologies for the obvious mistake.” The gargoyle king didn’t make any move to acknowledge his words other than a slow blink, so he figured that it was all good. “Excuse me if this sounds rude, but what are you doing up here? And what was all the noise about?”

“Guardian. I was charged with the safety of this place by a war lord.” Jeez. So he’d been with the building for centuries at least, maybe even millennia.

There was a pause and he realized that he wasn’t going to answer the second question. It also seemed like the gargoyle king was waiting on him and a light bulb went off. “S-sorry again my king. I am Shang Qinghua. I am in charge of the rare artifacts inside of the building, so you may see me closing up most nights.”

The gargoyle king nodded sagely and he figured that the role must be acceptable to him. A loud sigh left him and his muscles relaxed just in the slightest way. He might survive this encounter yet. Ever better, survive and be able to go home and break out that new bottle of lube that he bought last week. There was plenty of new material to work with, that was for sure.

Then the gargoyle stepped back, giving him more space, which was actually the opposite of what he wanted. Feel free to punish him for earlier transgressions, king, especially if they were rough in a sexy way!

Unaware of his inner pleadings, he continued walking away to crouch back near the edge of the roof.

“Umm, be careful, king. It’s dangerous to be that close—”

“I am a king. Concerns such as that are not applicable,” he said, puffing up his chest. Those pecs! He might have to put in a request tomorrow to do more work on the roof. It was a crime that no one was admiring that body on a regular basis. “Leave. Return home. The circles under your eyes are hideous.”

He gasped, touching his bags. Rude! He had just finished a long shift and definitely wasn’t at his best. He was going to have to step up his game if he was going to tempt this gargoyle in the future. Trying his best not to show embarrassment, or disappointment, he agreed to leave.

“Whatever you want, my king. I’ll leave for now but if you need anything, I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after as well. In fact, every night, in case you need me.” Screw his weekend off. Who needed one of those when there was a hot gargoyle of legend serving as the guardian of the museum. Not him, that’s who.

He scrambled to his feet and bowed again for good measure. The door was open and he was across the threshold when his dream gargoyle muttered something. “Did you say something, my king?”

He cleared his throat and spoke gruffly. “The pigeons pooped in my hair.”

Suddenly, the growling from earlier made sense. No matter if you were human or gargoyle, having birds shit in your hair, especially hair as luscious as Mobei Jun’s, was bound to make anyone furious.

Determined to keep his laughs to himself if it was the last thing he did, he merely replied, “Yes, my king. I will make sure to chase them away from you next time.”

“See that you do.”

On cloud nine, Shang Qinghua grinned as he bounded down the stairwell. The gargoyle’s comment implied that there would be a next time. And he intended to romance the loincloth off (literally) of the serious gargoyle king.

Hope you all enjoyed! So happy to share this with everyone. Thanks for reading :)

#svsss #svsss fanfic #mobei jun #shang qinghua #moshang

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writtenonreceipts · 4 years ago

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Thank-you for 100+ followers! Here’s a little thank-you fic, I so appreciate the the support. ~5.7k words. Rowaelin.

Sometime Around Midnight

Three years ago when he would have a day off, Rowan found himself hiking in the mountains. Two years ago when he would have a day off, Rowan found himself pacing the hospital halls.

Currently when he would have a day off, Rowan found himself at work.

He no longer knew what a day off actually looked like and that was fine with him.

“What are you doing here?”

Rowan looked up to see his longtime friend and co-bar owner, Fenrys come in from the storage room. He had a clipboard in hand, his gold-blond hair hanging in long, loose curls around his shoulders.

“Working,” Rowan replied. He wiped down the metal table before him where he’d accidentally upended an entire tub of maraschino cherry juice. Thankfully there’d been no actual cherries left so there wasn’t much lost there, but the mess was still annoying.

“Go home, Rowan,” Fenrys said. He jabbed the clipboard his direction as he came behind the bar and examined the on the floor stock. “You haven’t taken a day off in two years.”

“Not true, last week you and Lorcan forced me to go camping,” Rowan said.

“Forced being the choice word of that sentence,” Fenrys replied. He leaned back against the bar and examined his friend. “C’mon man, she wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Rowan slapped the cleaning rag down on the counter and scowled. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

It didn’t take much else for Fenrys to surrender. But Rowan could see the mixed look of anger and disappointment in his friend's eyes. It was easy enough to ignore when one of the regulars came in and ordered his drink.

Rowan poured the man his whiskey, neat, and went back to cleaning up behind the bar. It was only eleven in the morning and it was already proving to be a miserable day. Especially given the fact that Rowan was haunted by that damn piano with it’s strange cadence. And even though Rowan knew next to nothing about classical music there was something about the way that the chords were struck that told Rowan someone one was sacrificing their heart and soul to whatever god might be listening.

And Rowan found himself wishing that he could be the one to say that he was there.

Not long after that, Lorcan came in for the start of his shift. It was a strange time, but he was taking classes at the local community college and the later afternoon and evening shifts worked best for his schedule. Not that Rowan minded working around his friend’s schedule. It was what he did. What they all did for each other.

With his ever-present scowl Lorcan shuffled behind the bar and pulled his shoulder length hair back into a bun. He greeted Rowan with a grunt and started on making sure there were plenty of clean glasses to be prepared for the rest of the night.

“You could go home man,” Lorcan said quietly as he leaned against the bar. “You’ve been working non-stop all week.”

All week. All year.

It all rolled together in one fat miserable existence.

Rowan merely shrugged. “Nah. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“It’s a Tuesday,” Lorcan said. He rolled his eyes. “What’d’ya thinks going to happen?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But if Rowan went home all he would do is stare at his phone, the tv, the wall. He didn’t sleep much anymore despite how exhausted he was. Besides, Rowan didn’t want to owe Lorcan anything.

“Shut up and go wipe down tables,” Rowan growled. He leaned down and grabbed a bowl of limes from a mini-fridge beneath the bar. He had a feeling they would need them at some point that night.

And hours later, he was right.

It was near closing time, one in the morning, and a woman with golden hair twisted into an intricate braid atop her head stumbled in. She slid into a barstool with easy grace and immediately ordered an entire bottle of tequila.

Rowan stared at her.

She was beautiful, there was no mistaking it. With her large, golden blue eyes, full lips, and sexy black dress that dipped into a sinfully low v--Rowan had a hard time looking away from her.

“You do know we’re closing soon, right?” he asked even as he lined up a few shot glasses.

“Shut up and pour,” she said.

Rowan was never usually one to take orders from someone else, particularly when that someone was out looking to get blackout drunk. And yet, when she stared at him with those sharp eyes and hard tilt of the chin, he decided that listening to her might not be a bad thing. So, he poured.

The woman slammed back two shots before snatching the bowl of limes he’d cut earlier. Without even hesitating, she began sucking the slices dry.

“Feel better?” he asked.

She flipped him off and grabbed a third shot. She didn’t seem at all affected by the tequila which in and of itself was a phenomenal feat. But Rowan recognized the drinking and the behavior for what it was. She was trying to forget.

One o’clock in the morning in the middle of the week and she was ready to lose herself to anything and everything.

“Riddle me this barkeep,” the woman said as she twirled one of the shot glasses between her fingers. “Why do men make promises they have no intention of keeping?”

Rowan watched her, somewhat concerned.

She truly seemed far to put together for a bar like this, a neighborhood like this. Far too attractive to be alone, even pontificating on the idea of being alone. And yet, as she downed another shot and sucked on another lime--Rowan had a feeling that this was who the woman really was. Confident and self-assured.

He poured her a glass of water just to be safe.

She scowled and glared at the offending drink.

“I do know how to handle my liquor,” she said. She gave him a pointed glare.

“Whatever you say, Princess,” he replied with a growl. “I’d just rather not spend half my night cleaning up after you.”

“You are a cranky old buzzard,” she said. Her full lips jutted out in a scowl and Rowan had a hard time tearing his gaze from them.

He needed to focus on something else. “Buzzard?”

“Your shirt,” she said pointing with a lime rind. “Those look like hawks. And hawks are assholes that pick and mother-hen everything. Buzzard.”

Looking down at his shirt, Rowan frowned. Indeed, the button up had birds in the design, but he didn’t think it was that noticeable. Or at least not enough to comment on. Even for a woman who most certainly was well on her way to getting wasted.

She grinned at his silence and plucked a cherry from behind the counter. Watching him, the woman ate the cherry and kept the stem between her fingers.

“But I really would like to know,” she said, “why make promises that you don’t keep?”

Rowan shook his head. Maybe he should just let her drink herself to oblivion. It would make it easier to call a cab for her. And he had a rule not to get involved in these deep philosophical-like talks. They never served anyone well.

“It’s probably just me,” she said, so quietly Rowan almost missed it.

But her phone buzzed from where she set it beside her. She glanced at it, laughed loudly, and shoved it away.

“Maybe I should try celibacy for a while,” the woman said. She stole another cherry and sighed. “Because this dating thing is not working very well.”

Rowan waited until she’d gulped down half the glass of water before pouring her another shot.

“You don’t talk much do you?” the woman asked.

Rowan noticed then the distinct tint of her eyes. Gold rimmed with blue. Or blue rimmed with gold. One of the two. Whichever it was it was distinct enough that Rowan had a much harder time looking away this time.

“I try not to mingle with the crazy.”

She gave an affronted huff.

“Or the emotionally distressed.”

A snort. She dropped the cherry stems into one of the shot glasses. “Cranky old buzzard.”

“I’m not old,” Rowan said.

She laughed at him, a triumphant sort of gleam in her eyes.

Rowan wished he’d carded her just to prove a point. But he recognized her now, at least partially. She’d come in once before months ago with someone that could have been her brother. Lorcan had carded back then. He carded everyone mostly so he could have a greater opportunity of throwing someone out.

The last time she was here this doom and gloom cloud raging over her had been absent. All she’d been was carefree.

She finished her water and nodded to the tequila.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, “besides, I should be finishing closing.”

Rolling her eyes, the woman picked up her phone--a call flashed on the screen and whoever it was had her grinning broadly.

“Dorian!” she cried into the phone with a happy lilt to her voice.

She was definitely drunk.

Rowan grabbed the dirty glasses he’d poured her and collected the lime rinds and cherry stems.

“Where the hell are you?” A voice demanded on the other line. Loud and on speaker. The woman made no effort to take it off speaker.

“Ugh, you’re too loud, asshole,” the woman groused. She tried to snag the unattended tequila, but Rowan managed to slide it out of her grasp. It earned him a pout, but he didn’t really care.

“Where are you?” the man on the other end repeated.

“The Cadre.”

A loud, very crude curse sounded. “Are you trying to get alcohol poisoning? This is how you get alcohol poisoning.”

“Buzz kill,” the woman sang into the phone. She grinned at Rowan. “You should come get me. It’s way past the bartender’s bedtime.”

She hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

“You know,” she said, “this place is so close to my apartment. But I never come here.”

“You must live in a crappy part of town,” Rowan said before he could stop himself. But she didn’t seem to be at all offended. In fact she laughed.

“If only you knew,” she laughed. Her demeanor turned serious and for a moment, Rowan thought that she might say something more profound, something that would help him better understand her. Because there was something entirely different about her. And not just the confident way she held herself or overtook a room. But something.

It wasn’t long after that when the door to the bar opened and a young man entered. He was tall with thick black hair and a lean build. He held himself well though and the well-tailored suit only helped exude more confidence. Or perhaps it was the woman at his side. She was shorter, lean, and had long bone white hair that curled in loose waves. Her golden eyes examined the bar with amusement.

“Dorian!”

Slipping out of her stool, Rowan’s once companion, ran over to the man with surprising agility for how much she’d been drinking the past hour.

“Are you kidding me?” Dorian groaned as he caught the woman. “I thought you were with Sam.”

“Nope,” the woman popped the “p” with a loud smack of her lips and giggled. “But I found another broody man to keep me company instead.”

The woman cast a bright, beaming look over her shoulder to Rowan. And in all honesty, he didn’t know what to make of it.

The man, Dorian cursed, and passed the tipsy blonde over to his companion who rolled her eyes and said something softly to the other woman.

Dorian approached the bar and pulled out his wallet and handed Rowan several bills. More than enough to cover the drinks and a tip.

Rowan glanced at Dorian more than ready to tell him off for whatever statement he wanted to make in front of the women.

“Thanks for letting her in,” Dorian said, his voice soft. There was such sincerity in his words, that Rowan accepted the cash without realizing what he was doing. “And making sure she was safe.”

Rowan shrugged. “I was about to call a cab.”

“Still,” Dorian said. He knocked his fist on the bar and backed away. “You’re a hopeless drunk Galathynis.”

“It fits, seeing as how I have a hopeless fiancé,” the blonde replied. She paused. “Ex-fiancé.”

The doors of the bar shut behind them as they left and Rowan followed after making sure to lock up. It had been a long night and he had no idea what to make of the woman who’d just left.

Once on a dare, Rowan shaved his head. He’d been drunk when he actually did the deed because being sober for the event was not an option. His fiancée had asked him to shave his head for her. No. That was a lie. She would have never asked him to do that for her. But he knew he should have. She would have loved it.

Two years after, Rowan still kept his head shaved.

If pestered about it, Rowan would just say it was easier and more manageable this way. Anything to get out of mentioning Lyria. Anything to get out of thinking back on her.

When he saw the woman from the bar next it was at the bar. At a decent hour this time.

Well as decent as the hours could be for a grunge bar such as The Cadre.

It was nearing ten o’clock on a weekend and all the usuals were there. Rowan expected it to be another regular night without anything exciting happening.

But then he spotted the woman with golden hair and distracting eyes come in. She was alone, again. But this time she wasn’t in a black dress with her hair perfectly braided in that crown along the top of her head. Tonight, she wore black leggings and a long flannel shirt over a white t-shirt. Her blonde hair hung in loose curls down her back.

And again—damn him—Rowan about found himself speechless. It wasn’t something he was used to. Not since Lyria.

“Well, if it isn’t the Buzzard,” crooned the blonde as she sidled up to the bar.

“Are you going to drink me out of tequila again?” Rowan asked warily.

She flashed him a grin. Yes. She probably would.

Because Rowan had learned a long time ago how to read that grin. Ferocious and cold. The kind of grin that would take no prisoners and show no mercy.

As she ordered her drink, Rowan quickly became distracted by the late-night rush. A college game had just finished up and post-drinking was required. Not to mention it was the middle of the summer and everyone seemed desperate for escape. Even to a place like the Cadre.

And still, all through the night, Rowan found his gaze wandering to the end of the bar where the woman had set up. She spent her time nursing a drink, taking shots, and declining any offers to join anyone.

“You’ve been staring at that woman all night,” Lorcan said, coming up beside Rowan. The broad-shouldered man edged a palette of clean glasses onto the bar and began putting them away.

Rowan grunted and looked distinctly away from her. He threw a towel on his shoulder and sidled past his friend to grab a new bottle of vodka from a shelf behind him. Lorcan rolled his eyes but said nothing. Nothing until the woman changed seats and came to an open space near the center of the bar.

She leaned against the bar and examined both men.

“Well you both seem to be enjoying your night,” she said dryly.

“It’s a Saturday with a bar of grumpy old bastards,” Rowan replied. Lorcan snorted back a laugh. Whether in agreement or making a statement, Rowan wasn’t sure. Either way, he’d make sure to punch his friend later.

“Then you’re right among friends,” the woman said. She looked so serious as she said it that Rowan almost missed the sarcasm lacing her words.

It was Lorcan who laughed first and helped himself to a tequila shot before pouring one for the blonde. She offered him a silent toast and downed the drink.

“I’ll get you another drink in a minute,” Rowan told her. He still had to finish a few orders for another table of some ass-hat executives at a table near the back corner.

“Okay,” she said.

And then she was swiping cherries. Again. Perhaps it was Rowan’s fault for leaving the container up on the bar. Rowan narrowed his eyes at her. She smiled; her lips stained with that saccharine syrup.

She said nothing else, but leaned against the bar with nonchalance and yet her eyes seemed glazed over as she watched people slowly filter out. It wasn’t that late, barely past midnight and a Thursday. Yet as the hype simmered out from the baseball game, the bar still remained busy.

As she nursed her second drink--despite the gleam in her eyes at the start of the night, she’d paced herself very well—the woman finally accepted a glass of water.

“I do not need any food,” she told him after he’d asked again. Her lip curled a moment. “Unless you have cake.”

“Cake?”

“Cake.”

Rowan stared at her. She puckered her lips.

“No,” he said slowly, “no cake.”

“Then no food.”

“You’re just going to sit here and drink all night?” Rowan asked.

“I’m in good company.” She turned those brilliant eyes on him and for a moment Rowan felt as though he were staring through the universe as it collapsed in on him and he were left bereft in that unknown sea.

And then she blinked.

“Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone waiting up for me.” She threw a cherry stem down on the bar with a scowled. “Sorry, I’m sure you love hearing about everyone else’s problems.”

Rowan shrugged indifferently, even as she leaned forward on her elbows to watch as he shook drinks for a couple a few spaces down.

“You’re the perfect bartender,” she declared, “you don’t talk, you’re surly, and that whole brooding bastard look is working really well. And I could say anything and not even faze you, couldn’t I?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Rowan said. He delivered the drinks as he finished them and returned to find her with more swiped cherries while texting someone.

She quirked an eyebrow at him before finishing the last of her drink. She slipped out of her stool with much more ease that he would have expected.

“I wonder if you have it worse or better than the rest of us,” she said, smiling around a cherry stem.

And that image of her imprinted its self in Rowans mind long after she left.

Maybe, Aelin realized, she had an addiction. The kind that made no sense. The kind that gripped her with nothing more than coincidences and overthinking. One that didn’t even require her to consume anything other than the sight of one person.

And she did not like it.

She didn’t even know the bartenders name. All she knew was that he worked practically all the time at the rundown bar down the street from her apartment. It made sense that she’d never been there before. Sam didn’t really like the bar scene after all. Said it was just too much. And Aelin had known that. Hadn’t really minded it because they had other ways of spending time together.

But that damn bar was like a stain on her mind. It would not leave her alone.

So yet again she found herself there.

Too late or too early, she didn’t know which. What she did know was that she probably shouldn’t have gone to the bar. It wasn’t anything more than the fact that she really should be sleeping. Or pounding down Lysandra’s door demanding a last-minute slumber party and not taking no for an answer.

But here she was instead.

When he looked up and found her entering the bar, he gave her a trademark scowl. Aelin told herself that there was softness to his eyes. No brief flicker of joy. Just a scowl. Because she was a pain in the ass.

His silvery blonde hair was styled to stay out of his eyes and Aelin found herself desirous to run her fingers through it and see it messed up from it’s usual grace. He wore jeans and a non-descript black shirt. The style, combined with the lighting of the bar made his green eyes all the more vibrant.

“If you’re here to swipe cherries you can leave now,” he said.

“Just as cheery as ever, eh Buzzard?” she said.

He gave her a glass of water and left her alone for a few minutes. It wasn’t much longer until he came back and began slicing limes.

Aelin watched him work in silence. Despite his large hands he handled the knife deftly and cut perfect slices. Aline was tempted to ask him how he’d learned to handle a knife, but figured he’d make her drink more water.

“Can I get a real drink now?” she asked.

“No.”

She scowled at him. “Why not?”

“It’s nearly two in the morning.”

“So?”

He looked up and stared at her. His pine green eyes were unreadable pools.

Whatever he saw in her was enough for him to grab a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He set the items before her silently.

Of course, as soon as she got what she wanted she didn’t want it.

Again.

Aelin stared at the amber liquid in the carefully cut glass jar.

“Do you think we have multiple shots at happiness?” she asked.

The man grunted.

“You’re as interesting as your friend.”

“I’m not having a conversation with a drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Aelin said defensively.

“You’re in a bar at three in the morning,” he replied, “besides, I don’t do soul searching conversations.”

“Oh of course,” Aelin said, “because that would mean actually connecting with someone. I forgot; men don’t do that.”

He scowled at her. “I barely know you. Besides, I make it a general rule not to cross the bar like that.”

Aelin ran a finger over the rim of the empty glass, eyes still set on him.

“I’m hardly a stranger, I’m here often enough,” she said.

“And yet I don’t know your name,” he said. He tilted his head just barely to the side and Aelin found that the angle exposed his collar bone. Black ink swirled along his tanned skin. She thought she recognized some of the symbols as Celt or some sort, but then he shifted again and her view was lost. Which was highly disappointing. He had nice skin.

“You already act like you do,” she said, finger still gliding over the glass cup. “Princess.”

He snorted, unconvinced and rolled his eyes. Aelin found herself grinning. She didn’t know what it was, but she liked being able to make him break that stoic wall of his.

“Aelin,” she said finally. “My name’s Aelin.”

He blinked those glorious pine eyes at her. When he said nothing, Aelin wondered if he would go back to ignoring her or whatever it was he did.

“Rowan,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on her.

“Hello, Rowan,” she said, “now tell me. What is your understanding of finding happiness?”

For reasons that she could not explain, Aelin found herself returning time and time again. She pried information from Rowan like she was trying to pull lies from a faerie. Impossible.

But how she tried.

She learned his last name was Whitethorn. His tattoos were in fact Celt. He co-owned the bar with a friend. All of his friends worked at the bar at one point or another, one night or another. He didn’t tell her what the tattoos meant—though Aelin had an idea of who they were about. Based mostly on what Rowan didn’t say and how easily he avoided certain conversations.

She learned other things too. He was left-handed. He had a dimple on one cheek. There was a freckle on his ear. He knew the words to most of the 80’s songs that blared on the speakers. He had secrets. He wanted to believe in happiness for one.

And she wanted to know more.

“You jumped out of a two-story window?” She asked in disbelief one night

Throughout the summer when she wasn’t at work or handing out with her friends, this was where she was. Far more often than she wanted to admit. Especially the fact that being here around him made Aelin feel...safe. And far better than that first night she had stumbled across this place.

“You would have done the same thing,” Rowan said. His eyes were far too wide that Aelin couldn’t stop laughing despite the somewhat serious nature of his story. “I’m pretty sure my Aunt has murdered someone before.”

“So you thought it was a good idea to break into her house?” Aelin sputtered. Tears of mirth were brimming in her eyes as she stared at him.

“I really didn’t want to streak through the college quad,” Rowan said with a grimace. “It was below freezing that night.”

Cackling loudly, Aelin took a slow sip of her plain orange juice. It was ten in the morning and she wasn’t needed in work until after noon. Oh the joys of a damned internship. It was better than the old place, but certainly not as reliable.

“Your turn,” Rowan said, pulling away from the bar as he grabbed a clean rag to give a general wipe down to everything. “Stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

Aelin hummed. “I don’t know…”

He pointed a finger at her. “We had a deal.”

“Well when you put it that way,” Aelin drawled, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “I accidentally started a brush fire out behind my house.”

“Now the question is if this happened years ago or last night,” Rowan mused.

“Buzzard,” she said.

“Fireheart,” he replied.

She rolled her eyes at him as her phone buzzed with a text and her boss's name popped up on the screen. Aelin sighed, knowing just what it would say. “Well, as much as I enjoy telling you all my darkest secrets, they need me to go in early.”

“Told you the plain orange juice was the better idea,” Rowan said.

“A lot less fun,” she muttered and dug a few bills from her purse. She met his eyes and smiled. “I’ll see you later.”

Her heart fluttered when he smiled, briefly, back.

When Rowan realized that Aelin was probably destined to never leave him alone, he resigned himself to that fact.

Really it wouldn’t be bad.

Not with her smile. Her laugh. Not with the insistence she had that he and Lorcan add chocolate cake to the bar menu or make the bar pet friendly. Not bad at all when she would come simply to talk. Simply to sit. Simply to be.

Until one night she came in, far too close to closing. It was too the point that Rowan had been about to lock up that she came up to the doors, reaching for the handle. They stared at each other for far too long before Rowan let her in.

He said nothing as she made her way behind the bar and grabbed the vodka and went to her usual stool. He said nothing as she took a swing, cursed, and drank again.

Despite everything that he knew about her--she was ambidextrous, her parents were dead, she loved playing the piano, she couldn’t her tongue--despite all of this he had never seen her like this.

This was different from that first night she came tumbling into his life, nearly six months ago now.

“I should be getting married,” she said after a third drink.

She set the vodka down heavily and leaned her head against the bar and sighed heavily. Slowly, Rowan came to sit beside her. The first time really that he had done so. They usually spent their time separated by the bar with enough distance that he could keep his emotions at bay.

Now, Rowan was far too close to her. He could smell the lotion she used, smell the night on her, see tears in her eyes when she finally looked up.

“Or, I would already be married,” she amended. “Married and on my way to Mexico, though I wanted to go to Ireland. I’ve never been and I think I have family still out there, but going to Mexico would be cheaper and warmer. But Ireland has the ocean too, and history, and…well it’s different. Apparently too different.”

Her words stilled as her chest heaved from everything that came tumbling out in too quick in procession like a piano solo that raged out of control and now that she’s finally caught up to herself, she doesn’t know where to go.

So she looked at him.

“He broke off the engagement without really telling me why, other than it was too soon and too much and everything else he could think of.”

The tears rolled slowly down her cheeks and she looked away from him, out over the empty bar with its scuffed floor and mismatching furniture. There was a bulb out over head that cast them in semi-shadows, enough that things feel quieter and gentler.

Rowan waited as she collected her words, her thoughts. He waited and remembered all the questions she’d asked him in the past about broken promises and happiness and everything in between. He wished he’d answered her sooner.

“Aelin,” he began slowly.

“Was I not worth it?” She whispered. Her words were aimed at the empty space. At the nothingness of the bar that reminded Rowan of how long the nights could get. “Was I not worth the fear and change of it all?”

Between the wondering of how they came to this and the wondering why she trusted him with her fragile words, Rowan was convinced he would do something entirely too stupid for words.

But when her gaze returned to his, Rowan found he didn’t care.

So he reached out, cupping her cheek with one of his hands. He could feel her tears on his skin and could feel how her chin trembled with restrained sobs.

“I thought, I thought,” she said. Her voice was ragged, abused and the words fused together. It was enough to make Rowan lean forward, enough for him to lean his forehead against hers.

They sat that way for a long time. Long enough for Aelin to get a hold of her staggered breathing and reign in her thundering heart.

Rowan remained silent not wanting to disturb the silence that settled around them. He ran his thumb across her cheek, catching all the tears that fell from her eyes. Aelin didn’t reply immediately. She merely closed her eyes and learned further into his touch. The soft sigh that left her lips was almost Rowan’s undoing. How long had it been? Only a few months and he was already enthralled by her and the way she had held herself together for so long.

“Aelin.”

Her eyes fluttered open and Rowan was convinced she could have petrified him with that gaze. The tears that lingered there only enhanced the gold rimming her pupils.

For a moment, Rowan thought he had overstepped his bounds, had done something she wasn’t comfortable with. Hell, he was just a bartender. Did she even consider him to be a friend? She probably didn’t even reciprocate the feelings that he had been developing for her. He made to pull away when she snatched a hand up to hold his hand in place where it still rested against her cheek.

Rowan’s heart stuttered in his chest at the movement and continued to stutter the longer they remained there. He wet his lips before speaking, knowing full well that it could potentially be a terrible idea. She’d never talked about that first night she came in. Never explained much about her ex-fiance or why they’d split up. And Rowan never pried. Mostly because he didn’t feel like it was his place.

“You’re worth all of it. All of it and more.”

He watched as the words sunk in, as she slowly blinked.

“You barely know me,” she whispered.

“I know enough,” he answered honestly. “You have a heart of fire. You’re strong. Confident. Unforgettable.”

Still clutching his hand, Aelin turned away from him, gnawing on her bottom lip. When she looked back at him, Rowan could see uncertainty in her eyes. The same uncertainty he felt in his own chest.

Rowan leaned forward, drawing closer to Aelin. They were separated by mere centimeters. All it would take was for Aelin to tilt her chin up and capture his lips with her own.

The uncertainty that had been in her eyes was wiped away with determination and she rose up to meet him with a firm press of her lips. Rowan could still taste the vodka lingering on her mouth as she opened to him.

Her hands immediately went to his hair, pulling through the strands. The touch sent a shiver of pleasure through him as his own hand wandered down her waist. They didn’t break contact as they rose from their seats and in a fluid motion, Rowan lifted Aelin onto the bar top.

Aelin arched into him as Rowan explored the planes of her skin with his mouth. There was something electrifying about this woman, about being so near her, kissing her. And he would be perfectly willing to spend the rest of his life doing this.

When they finally broke apart, both out of breath, they touched foreheads and merely stared into each other’s eyes.

Until Aelin hummed, fingers threading through his hair again.

“You know, you should at least buy me a drink first, Buzzard,” she said.

Rowan chuckled lowly. “Whatever you say, Fireheart.”

thanks for reading dears! my ask box is always open. I’m probably going to try and bust out some holiday drabbles for the next two weeks then move on to my other updates.

tags: @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire @aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @bamchickawowow@ladywitchling @ireallyshouldsleeprn @courtofjurdan

#aelin #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin au #rowaelin #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #appreciation fanfic #thank-you #aelin and rowan

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anakinlove · 4 years ago

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Hi wow okay, so I definitely cried whilst writing this. I absolutely took this great romantic prompt and deSTROYED IT I am so sorry anon 😭😭

If enough people come into my ask box and yell it me I could be persuaded to write a part 2 happy ending 😌

✨requests are open✨

See my Valentine’s Day post!

My Masterlist

(Join my taglist in my bio!)

Set It Free

1.5k words (angst)

Sometimes, when Y/n thought about her boyfriend, she thought about the avril. Native to Yavin 8, the bird was a large hawk-like lifeform. It was beautiful as it soared high in the air. Being the top of its food chain, the avril was also ferocious, swooping in and killing its prey in one bated breath. Anakin was a lot like the avril, both beautiful and ferocious, and so completely beyond Y/n.

She wonders now, how she had ever let herself fall so completely for him. But then, there always was something so freeing about his smile, his eyes. Y/n remembers with such clarity the first time she saw that smile,

“Hey! Y/n, wait up!” Y/n whipped around, looking for the source of the voice, only to see Anakin Skywalker jogging after her.

“Skywalker. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Y/n raised her eyebrow at the boy, looking him over. She couldn’t deny that he was attractive, but with his usually shorn hair overgrown he looked a bit like a narglatch.

“Well, I uh, I noticed you looked confused today in class?” That was funny. In all her years of classes with Anakin, Y/n had never known him to stumble over his words. The boy was always so confident, cheeky even.

“I guess you could say that. The Huttese dialect is much more…” Y/n bounced her head, looking for the right word, “well, less refine than basic.”

Anakin snorted, looking down at his toes. He didn’t say anything. Y/n waited for him to speak but he just stood there, looking down.

“Skywalker?” Y/n prompted. Anakin whipped his head up.

“I was just going to offer, as I’m fluent, if you might want a tutor?” Anakin said softly. Y/n was thoroughly confused with the Anakin was acting. First, he stumbles over his words, and now one could say he looked bashful! Still, she really was awful with Huttese, and of course she knew the Chosen One to be from Tatooine, therefore he must know the language well.

“Yeah, okay, I’d really appreciate the help. Does today in about four standard-hours work?” Y/n smiled up at him.

“Yeah, yeah that works great!” Anakin grinned, bouncing up and down, “Sorry, but I’m late for meditation with my Master, I have to go!” He looked one last time in Y/n direction and walked back the way he came.

Y/n could only stand there, speechless. In all of the time she’s known him, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile like that. It left her breathless, standing like a fool in the middle of the hall, staring after him.

Looking back on it now, it was so clear to tell that he had just wanted to spend time with her. Get to know her, be her friend. He never had that many friends in the temple, Y/n knows. Choosing to spend his time with Master Kenobi or tinkering with droids in his quarters. Sometimes spending time with Aayla Secura, but only when they both had time, which was few and far between.

Y/n reached their shared apartment, separate from the Temple. It was eight months ago when Anakin suggested finding someplace where they could be themselves, away from the rules of the Jedi. Together, they found this place. It was small, but it was them. It was Anakin’s boots by the door, his tools scattered randomly, oil staining parts of the carpet no matter how much either of them scrubbed. It was Y/n’s robe by the door, her favorite mug left on the counter from her morning coffee, hair ties left in every crevice of the couch.

Y/n’s heart hurt looking around the room, and his smell suffocated her, leaving her more choked up than she already was. She looked at the chronometer on the counter, its time indicated that Anakin should be home, and squared her shoulders. She found him just where she knew he would be, hunched over his desk, fiddling with something so small It should have been impossible.

She stood in the door, watching him, for what felt like an eternity. Taking in the pattern of his curls today, the way he bounced his knee, and the back of his shoulders as they rose and fell with each breath. She knew that he knew she was there. He was so attuned with the force that he probably felt her four blocks away. His power was unimaginable. He was radiant, a glowing force that any force-sensitive could have felt him from a mile away. All the more reason, for Y/n to not be the one to dampen him.

After a while, or probably when he finished whatever he was doing, he placed his project down and stretched. If Y/n wasn’t already devastated, she might have laughed at just how many joints he popped with one movement. It was a wonder that Y/n had managed to shield her feelings from him so well, knowing that he should have felt what was wrong the second he felt her.

“Hi, angel, how was your day?” Anakin finally looked up, a smile softening his features. Y/n could say nothing, staying in the doorway.

“Y/n?” Anakin stood, slowly walking over to her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in. Just for a second, Y/n told herself, you can indulge yourself for only a second. Y/n steeled herself, forcing herself to pull away.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Anakin scrunched his eyebrows, staring down at her. He was unnerved at how blank she was, scared even.

Wanting it all to be over, to be able to never have to do it again, Y/n prepared herself to speak.

“I think,” she paused to try to control her tears, “I think we should stop.” And there, the words that had been controlling her all day were finally out.

“Stop? Stop what?” Anakin’s voice was measured, words slow.

“This. Us” Y/n looked down, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Us. Us? Why? Why would you ever think that? What’s happened? Have I done something? Y/n you can’t just walk in and say that what is it?” Frantically Anakin tried to catch her eyes, ducking his head down into her view. Y/n shook hard, doing everything she could to hold in her breakdown, despite her efforts, tears began to track down her cheeks. She took measured breaths, counting each one.

“I cannot be the one to hold you back.” Her voice cracked, more tears leaking through.

“Hold me back? Hold me back from what? You could never hold me back! If anything, I’m where I am because of you!” Anakin raised his voice but didn’t shout.

“No, Anakin, you deserve to be the greatest jedi of them all, to have everything you’ve ever wanted. I cannot take that away from you. I won’t.” Y/n voice shook, but she was determined as ever, trying to just make him understand that this was for him. Not her.

“But I want you, not to be some… some great jedi! I want you.” He pleaded.

“Anakin you don’t understand, your place is on a throne!” Y/n sobbed, backing away from him.

“No, my place is by your side!” He walked towards her, reaching for her. She evaded his every attempt, solid in her decision.

“Y/n, please, stop. Come back, think about this. Let’s talk about this.” Anakin begged.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Ani. This is all for you, for your life.” She replied.

“But I don’t want this!” Anakin tried again, once more advancing.

Y/n shook her head and backed further away, towards the door. Taking a quick look around the room, she thought of every happy memory here. All the times they cuddled on the couch, the one Life Day they spent here, every moment. Each called to her, and she longed to answer, to stay. But she couldn’t. Looking once more at Anakin, at his state of disarray. The tears in his eyes, his hair mussed from his hands, his body shaking. It broke her more than any of the words she said did.

“I’m sorry.” Y/n cried, turning around for the final time, grabbing her robe and walking out of the door.

“Y/n! Y/n wait!” Anakin lurched forward, desperately calling out for her. By the time he reached the door, she was gone. He fell to his knees then and cried. Cried for Y/n, for their life, for the ring he was working on a room over.

As Y/n walked away, hood drawn, she thought once again of the avril. Free to soar high above, without anything shackling him to the ground. A force of nature, unbelievable, and so, so beautiful.

Taglist:

@anakinswhore @gonnakickanakinskywalker @etherealsanakin @ani-skyvvalker @haydens-moles @anakinshmanikin @anakinsprincess @agent-catfish-kenobi @saltybreaddream

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #lili writes #angst #Anakin #Anakin Skywalker fic #Anakin fic

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lovehugsandcandy · 4 years ago

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the stories we tell (and the stories we live) (Coltx MC, RoD)

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: ~2400 words

Rating/Warnings: N*FW (Not explicit but it’s there. And swearing.)

Summary: Colt’s story isn’t his own until it is.

When Colt thinks of stories, he thinks of the stories of his youth, hazy memories of sitting on his father’s lap and listening to tales of Kanekos past. He thinks of scenes from movies, car chases and explosions before the guaranteed victory, ending scenes and credits rolling with the hero beating the odds and riding off victorious into the sunset.

And then he gets older.

And learns that stories are myths, hiding lies and false promises, wrapped in the guise of happy endings that will never happen.

Not to him.

And when he thinks of stories, he tries not to think of his own.

And when he does, when he thinks of the story of Colt and crew and the Kaneko name, he can’t of the beginning.

It hurts too much to remember a time when he was a welcome fixture at the shop, when Pop greeted him with a smile, sometimes even a pat to his head. This was before, before those hands became angry and harsh, before the smiles turned to glares, before the words turned hateful and vicious, echoing the nightmares that creep into his sleep, shocking him awake in a cold sweat.

There are other stories,

He steals his first car when he’s 11. It’s the first time he’s ever driven as well, the tips of his toes only able to graze the pedals when he leans against the steering wheel. It’s a massive effort to peer over the dash, to not press his scrawny chest on the horn, but he manages, denting only the bumper against an unlucky mailbox. But when he pulls into the garage, his father is more shocked than awed and his mother furious.

So he first leaves California when he’s 12, hustled onto his first airplane, deposited in an unfamiliar city with scabs lining his knuckles and a bruise blooming on his jawline, the first transition of many marking the flow between scenery and characters.

He’s first suspended when he’s 13. Everyone at this new school is despicable, but he’ll be damned if some upperclassman is going to throw slurs at him amidst a crowded hallway. He’s sent home, his opponent sent for stitches, and his mother spends five of her limited vacation days making his confinement as miserable as possible.

He first has sex in the dingy bathroom of a dive bar that obviously doesn’t care about liquor laws.

It’s a story he never tells.

Stories are prideful things, lies portraying overcome odds and vanquished enemies until a triumphant, crescendoed victory. Curtains close on dreams attained.

His story has never gone like that and this memory is no different.

He’s 14, sipping something amber and toxic from a rocks glass because it makes him look cool, sitting alone as his knees knock against the stool because he hates everyone. His feet don’t even touch the ground yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the bartender, who keeps sliding booze across the slick bar top as long as the cash keeps coming from Colt’s pocket.

And apparently it doesn’t matter to the girl across the bar, all blond hair and glossy lips, pendant necklace dangling heavy above a low-cut shirt. She bats a heavy mascara gaze over her wineglass and it takes an embarrassingly long time before he recognizes the fire behind gaze.

His heart is racing when she perches on the stool next to him, and it’s with fumbling hands and drunken kisses that they weave a messy path to the bathroom.

Once they’re done, she buttons her jeans and smirks at him, waltzing out of the bathroom without a second glance.

It feels like a fitting end to his childhood, thrown from LA to end up staggering into the Bronx streets; his jeans are still unzipped but no one’s around to care as he turns the key in the empty apartment and sinks into freshly washed sheets.

If the saga of his childhood has ended (beginning as a worthy heir before being cast aside, thousands of miles away, lost boy and discarded son), then the story of his adulthood is beginning. Stories have beginnings and middles and ends, protagonists and supporting characters, events when second matter, where every step taken leads towards a goal, an achievement of some sort.

He hasn’t achieved anything.

Not yet.

His mom gets off work at 3am, footsteps light as she makes her way to the adjoining bedroom. Once the light snores start, he creeps out of bed to spew stomach acid into the toilet, lights off, stifling the shameful hacking and choking.

He slips back into bed, mouthwash still tingling on his tongue, but sleep doesn’t come that night.

It doesn’t feel like a fortuitous beginning.

~~~~~

And then it doesn’t get better.

The fights continue.

He comes home weekly with bruised knuckles and wounded pride, counting the days until he can free himself from the cast of characters around him.

Every teacher treats him like an adversary, every stupid social clique shuns him, and it’s fucking bullshit but he doesn’t need anyone, none of these assholes at this fucking school. It’s him against the world, at least until he can get back to LA, back to the home and the legacy that belongs to him.

His mother wants everything from him. They’re alone, the two of them, and he falls into the role of trusted confidant and then wayward son and finally complete stranger; none of the roles he tries satisfy anyone in this fracturing family of two.

The girls want one thing from him and it’s so simple, so easy, and the best part is that he doesn’t have to think, just for a moment.

His dad wants nothing from him, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip so his sobs don’t echo through the thin apartment walls.

~~~~~

Stories come in chapters and his next one takes him to LA. It’s inevitable that he ends up here, speeding aimlessly through the crowded streets, ending up on the outskirts of a crowd that should part for him like the seas.

The first time he sees her, she looks like a baby hawk. Not that he’s ever seen a baby hawk, mind you, but her eyes peer sharply around the lot even though her steps are stuttering and small.

He would never have guessed that she would be more than a supporting character in his fateful return, but soon, she becomes everything. His mind is consumed with their future, ruling LA as a team, owning the next stage of the Kaneko legacy. Her insightful mind and sharp wit are both challenging and refreshing; it feels like he’s met his match.

His story is finally beginning.

But the pyre in front of him is actually the conclusion. Flames lick at his eyebrows as he drives by, staring into the wreckage for something, anything; her arms around his waist are the only thing keeping him upright.

And if his father’s explosion is the end, then the blaze at the garage is the epilogue, the wreckage a fitting end to the Kaneko legacy.

~~~~~

It takes years, four to be exact, before he’s comfortable taking a brief vacation. Building up the fledgling crew has been challenging and painstaking, but, brick by brittle brick, he has finally created a crew worthy of the Kaneko name.

So he heads to New York.

Colt cares about two people in the world and the irony of them being in the same city at the same time feels a little like choreographed coincidence and a little like fate.

He starts with his mother. She’s moved to Manhattan, and he needs to Google the route, feet almost taking him into the gritty streets he knows intimately well. He recalibrates off the train, unfamiliar buildings flying by as he crosses the East River and straight into her new setting and her new life. They walk through the tree-lined streets; she lives in Soho now and every step is strange. She leads him through farmers’ markets and points out breakfast joints, each one a reminder of how far away he is. As they amble, she speaks of her job before turning the conversation to Pop; his every reply is halting, pain and truth veiled through clipped words and terse responses, his hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched to his ears.

For two people who share a bloodline and a language, they’re incomprehensible to each other. Colt realizes, with sickening clarity, how much better his mom’s life is now, now that he’s gone and vanished across the country.

She holds him close outside her new apartment building (this one doesn’t have bars on the first-floor windows) and her eyes well with a sadness she can’t name (or won’t, Colt thinks bitterly, shifting on his heels in her embrace). Her hands linger on his shoulders, and she presses a lipstick kiss into his cheek; he furiously wipes it off as he strides to the subway.

His palms flash pomegranate pink as he swipes his pass.

Langston is eighteen stops uptown. It takes thirty minutes on the A train, and he’s wasting away every second, an eternity spent watching subway tiles and grim faces blur past.

He blends in with the crowd, rowdy college kids streaming into her dorm, and he sneaks up the stairs and raps lightly on the door. They barely talk but he’s immediately understood, her hands gentle under his jaw, up his shoulder blades, then insistent up his sides, gripping his forearms, tugging his hair.

She curls against him, the slide of her skin both foreign and reminiscent, and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you just showed up here. You’re lucky seniors get singles.”

“I can’t believe you let me in.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I guess I was cautiously optimistic.” He craned his neck to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Guess I was right.”

She grabs his hand, tracing up and down each finger as if she were relearning every knuckle, every tiny scar. When her inspection is complete, she stills. “I waited for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“For years I thought…” She trails off, and he wonders if they thought the same, that the other would reach out, bridge the miles and the trauma; he’s lost in the past until she curls over him and then there’s no time for thinking anymore.

They emerge the next morning, blinking away the sun, and she pulls him through her haunts, dragging him to the coffee shop where they know her order, her favorite path through the park.

She drags him with glee through the tourist traps and side haunts; they have beers at tiny dive bars, eat pretzels from rickety carts, and walk city blocks until his feet and cheeks hurt, hand in hand.

She glows here, radiantly beautiful, and he realizes that maybe she as well has been bolstered by his absence.

Even though it’s not Colt’s borough of choice, it’s hard not to feel comfortable as she pulls him down the packed streets, weaving through crowds with the same agility with which she wove through highway car chases.

She’s at home here as she is behind the wheel, and something in his chest tightens.

She belongs here, vibrant as the surrounding city, crafting her own story.

~~~~~

He needs to get back.

Empires don’t build themselves.

He doesn’t tell her but, apparently, he doesn’t have to. It’s achingly slow as he slides into her, savoring every moment to remember when he’s back home, alone. She rolls her hips against his and it’s almost painful, blinding light flashing patterns behind his eyelids as she takes her pleasure from him, quivering above him until he can’t stand it, flipping her over in one fierce motion to bury himself, again and again, world dissolving with her squeal of pleasure in his ears and his teeth in her shoulder.

“I can’t ask you to come with me.”

She starts, head jerking off his shoulder, and he can’t bring himself to look into her eyes. Instead, he focuses on the assignments scrawled on her whiteboard, each one a reminder of a goal to attain, and the graduation cap askew on her desk, a reminder of the path she had chosen, her story told in the golden tassels dangling to the floor.

“You don’t need to ask.”

This time, it’s him jerking up, head spinning to face her. “What do you…?”

“I was coming anyway.” She settles back against him, and he counts the puffs of breath against his skin as reassurance that this is real. “I told you… I waited for you. I had a go bag packed for two years,” he feels her lips tug into a rueful smile against him as she continues, “a backpack stuffed in my closet with clothes and stuff, just in case you asked, just in case you called.”

“I called. Once.”

“Wha… when?”

“February of your sophomore year.” His hand slides up her back to tangle in her hair. “From a payphone in Torrance. It rang once, and I hung up. I couldn’t… I thought better of it. I couldn’t mess it up for you.”

“You don’t mess anything up for me. You help me be great. We’re gonna be great together.”

He springs two thousand bucks for an additional plane ticket and upgrades to first class. She points out the NY landmarks as they climb into the air and then curls against him as she dozes. They land at LAX, falling into bed in the loft at the shop, and, the next day, she climbs aboard the back of his bike, arms warm around him as they pull over to the cliff.

This isn’t a story.

Stories have heroes and villains and everything is tied up nearly at the end, when the evil is vanquished and the hero gets the girl and the sun rises on a brand new day when everyone lives happily ever after.

This isn’t a story.

It’s real life and real life has real people, all their virtues and flaws, hopes and dreams, and there are no storybook saviors riding in to save the day --- at least not in Colt’s life.

There’s only him and this girl and the sun setting brilliantly beneath the ocean below, lighting the cresting waves in purples and blues, and this isn’t the end, not at all.

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