#recover hawaiian history

[freehawaii]

HEREʻS HOW TO RECOVER HAWAIIAN HISTORY

HawaiiBusiness.com - June 23, 2023

You may know it as Diamond Head, but Hawaiians call it Lē‘ahi. Lanikai? That’s actually Ka‘ōhao, and the local elementary school has changed its name accordingly. And that small island across from Kualoa Ranch is Mokoli‘i, which means “little lizard.” Legend says the islet was created when the goddess Hi‘iaka cut off a giant lizard’s tail and tossed it into the sea. That’s a more colorful name and story than the common nickname for the island, which employs an oldtime slur to refer to Chinese people that we won’t repeat here. For many of us, these traditional names may not come to mind as quickly as the modern nicknames, but the Hawai‘i Tourism Authority, the Native Hawaiian Hospitality Association, Hawaiian scholars and others want you to make the effort to learn and use the Hawaiian names for places across all the Islands. The HTA’s Ma‘ema‘e Hawai‘i Style and Resource Toolkit, created in partnership with NaHHA, asks “anyone who has a role in representing Hawai‘i” to use the Hawaiian place names first before referring to any English nicknames. “Hawaiian place names honor the people who named them and the natural forces and stories these names convey. In using proper Hawaiian place names, we bestow the highest honor to the land and the history of place,” says the toolkit. Using “Nicknames Erases a History” Katrina-Ann R. Kapā‘anaokalāokeola Nākoa Oliveira, interim assistant vice provost at UH Mānoa and a member of the Hawai‘i Board on Geographic Names, says Hawaiian place names tell us about the significance of places and their features. “When people understand the significance of the place, it helps us to recall what happened there,” says Oliveira. Hawaiian place names “help us to inform how we conduct ourselves in those places. So when we go to a place that is revered for being a very kapu place, a place that’s sacred, you conduct yourself in a manner that commands that type of respect.” The toolkit says people should consider the implications of any English nicknames. While some nicknames may be interpretations of the place’s Hawaiian name, others may be disrespectful to the traditional value of a place, says Oliveira. “The use of nicknames erases a history, a tradition that preceded the use of the English language here. Not only does it erase the place name, but also the use of Hawaiian language.” Nicknames have also worked to replace the history of a place, says Oliveira. As an example, she describes the East O‘ahu community of Maunalua, whose nickname is ‘Āina Haina. “Folks think that it’s a Hawaiian name, ‘Āina Haina, but it was really because of Hind,” Oliveira says, referring to Robert Hind of Hind-Clarke Dairy. “They hoped that it would sound kind of Hawaiian. And so people … don’t understand that it’s actually a newly created name.” Although the common nickname for the islet of Mokoli‘i may seem harmless to some residents, “referencing the nickname in the media could perpetuate the idea that it is an acceptable phrase to everyone, including visitors to Hawai‘i who will return to their hometowns on the U.S. continent,” says the Hawai‘i chapter of the Asian American Journalists Association. “When I say the names of these places, I’m quoting my ancestors,” Oliveira says. “I’m saying the same words, the same place names that they once used themselves. And so I’m honoring them, paying respect to them and the culture and the language and the traditions and keeping those things alive. Because that’s what makes Hawai‘i unique, is remembering the Hawai‘i of long ago.”

[thegrinningghost]

LOTFTOBER, Day 14 : OC Appreciation

Alrighty, before we talk about the island, let's establish some stuff prior to it involving my silly giant guy, TJ

' ' Backeth off thy homie ' '

Name: Trejean Innes-Jaquiss

Nickname(s): TJ

Age: 15

Gender: Agender

Sexuality: Aro-Ace

Height: 5'9

Ethnicity: Jamaican-French

PRE-ISLAND

TJ's petty. They refuse to cut their hair, so they put it in a ponytail instead. Students aren't allowed to wear any accessories, but TJ's dad is the history/music teacher at their school, so TJ uses that privilege to ignore the rules.

This was their original school uniform before they went to live with their French great grandparents in London. They used to go to one of the public schools in their neighborhood. Their dad taught both history and music because he has a degree in Ancient Civilizations and writes songs in his free time.

He wrote 'Dream Keeper' and TJ knows all the words by heart.

They joined their new school's choir, and inevitably saw the Merridingles perform at a choir concert that the church was hosting. They at least know all their names and faces by the time they get stuck on the island.

TJ used to be part of a Junior Bobsledding team. They loved everyone on their team, and their little cousin loved seeing them at every competition (even tho they rarely ever won). One day, their little cousin asked if he could ride in their cart. TJ was obviously hesitant, but eventually said yes, on the condition that the rest of their team rode with him. They put their little cousin in the middle, and everything was fine until they hit a bump and everyone was launched out and sent tumbling. One of the earlier contestants had lost something in the snow, and it had been covered up to the point that no one could find it unless you rammed into it.

Some of their friends sprained/broke limbs–one dislocated their shoulder–but nobody had it worse than their little cousin. Injuries were unclear, but they left him paralyzed from the waist down, forcing him to be in a wheelchair. And of course, it was all TJ's fault (according to some of their family).

TJ has trauma from that, and left sports for good, despite protests from their parents/friends/family. They began using art as therapy, and as a means of expressing themself. That was when they moved in with their great grandparents. To get away from the 'scene.'

Their cousin and them actually still have a good relationship, TJ is just so scared of hurting them again that it hinders how close they can get now.

Their little cousin is Hawaiian-French, and was adopted by two lovely Hawaiian ladies. He knows a lot of American slang, and would always teach TJ some. It got to the point where both of them were plotting a trip to America to learn even more!

TJ's great grandparents were the ones who urged them onto a plane when things started getting too rough in Britain. They bought them a ticket, hoping for them to be sent home, but there was a misprint. They got on the wrong plane and TJ had no idea because TJ didn't know they were given the wrong ticket. So they got on a plane with three schools, none of which were their own, and boys much younger and immature than them.

And that's when everything started going down-hill.

ISLAND

TJ's got short hair, but it's longer than what everyone considers 'guy hair' so the boys all ended up mistaking them for a girl. To be fair, they aren't a guy either.

"I'm three Mongooses in a trench coat."

"Three what in a what?"

More often than not, TJ let the boys do their own thing. Of course, that doesn't mean TJ didn't help out. They did. They took care of everyone, no matter their protests, and always treated everyone fairly.

Though if one of the boys made TJ mad, they'd definitely know. TJ doesn't hide their anger.

TJ has a health conditions that mess them over (particularly IST), so when Simon first had a faint on the island, TJ sat by him and talked him through it while he recovered. They bonded pretty quickly.

They like to tease the boys on the island for their accents and all. It's always light teasing; they do this because they were made fun of it in Britain for the languages they spoke and their accent, so they do it out of self-defense and fear that the boys will do the same.

That act is dropped pretty quickly though.

TJ loves the Littluns and Bigguns alike. Johnny and Roger especially, as they both remind them of home. And Johnny is like their cousin, so they're real protective of him. He's like a second-chance for them.

As for the Bigguns' and Littluns' opinions on TJ, well, to them, TJ kind of embodies the Dream Keeper. Someone to listen and help and care and hold. Something/Someone to be cherished, who represents some form of hope when there isn't any left.

"He wants to know what you're going to do about the snake thingy."

"Snake thingy?"

"Now he says it's a beast."

" . . . "

"But there isn't a beast!"

"But if there is one, we'll hunt it!"

Once the idea of a beast was announced, everyone was on high alert. TJ knew even the Bigguns were nervous, so they would always stay up at night on the meeting platform, and anyone who had nightmares would come find them. Sometimes Littluns like Percival would come running and cry till they fell asleep, sometimes Hunters like Maurice, Bill, or even Jack would come and say nothing. Ralph would clamber out sometimes and ramble till the sun rose; Piggy would do the same. Most of all nights, Simon would stumble out of the forest eventually and sit down with TJ and whoever else was there, in a moment of peace and quiet. A moment of humanity.

No matter who it was that came to TJ in the night, they always sang the song that they knew best.

"What are you humming?"

"What?"

"You're humming something. What is it?"

"A song my dad wrote."

" . . . can you sing it?"

"S'pose . . . "

"Bring me all of your dreams, you dreamers; bring me all of your heart melodies; that I may wrap them, in a blue cloud cloth, away from the too rough fingers of the world."

When Jack split off from the group, TJ strayed further and further away from the group. They'd build shelters, and then disappear. First they missed one meeting, then more and more, and more often. It got to the point that nobody saw them for a whole day.

Eventually Simon found them, sitting on rocks and staring out towards the sea. He showed them where he normally ran off to, and they left it at that. Gentle comfort and awareness of where to find the other.

When TJ came back to the shelters and found no one there, they decided that be for the best, and instead took to looking for Simon. They searched the shelters, then where they just left, then searched all through the trees until they found his spot. And what stood there.

"Well aren't you no-go."

" . . . "

"I'm losing my mind, talking to a pig's head on a stick? Really? That's just silly of me."

They searched further and harder until they reached the feast. All the boys surrounding a disfigured shape, drenched and panting like ravenous beasts.

TJ wanted to scream and run away, but instead they heaved a few shaky breaths and asked one simple question.

"What did you all do."

After that, TJ disappeared. They'd appear sporatically. At night, they'd comfort the Littluns, and in the day, they'd sit on the cliff outlooking where Simon was carried out.

At first people would try and talk to them; people like Ralph and Jack, Piggy and Roger. Sometimes even other Bigguns. But TJ was numb and rarely spoke anything. Even if you got a peep, it was likely just a muttered phrase or riddle.

They sat on that cliff for days, and only ever left after one fatal incident. Roger stood right next to them. They had long since figured out how to block out noises. They only kept to staring at the seat, but soon enough, they were pulled back to reality with a sickening crack. They looked down. The first thing they did was look down. They should not have looked down.

Slowly, they turned to look at Roger, only one phrase in mind.

"What did you do."

TJ knew once they caught Ralph, they'd likely be next. So they made a mock choice, and followed Jack as he lead them through the forest, hunting for the 'beast.' The thing that changes forms.

It wasn't long till they all came stumbling out of the trees, finding Ralph alive and sat up on the shore, begging and crying to a man in white. A naval officer, but most certainly not Ralph's dad.

"You're all British aren't you?"

"I'm not."

" . . . good for you. You lot enjoy playing war?"

Ralph sobbed, and TJ honestly wished they could've, but they had processed their grief long ago on this island. The boys had just started to process theirs. Everyone weeped in different ways. Roger stared off, Maurice sat down and buried their head, Henry searched the water for little jellyfish to distract himself with, and Johnny clung to TJ, with a smile and eyes that should've witnessed none of that.

Jack put his hand on Ralph's shoulder, clay blending with tears, and held out glasses freckled in cracks and speckled in red.

"Can we go?"

POST-ISLAND

TJ was completely left out by the journals that covered the recovery of the boys from the island. Something TJ was thankful for but something that confused the other boys. Nowhere were they mentioned. It was as though all traces of them had been erased.

Except for one.

Through some good memory and help from kind neighbors, the boys each found their different ways to TJ's great grandparents, who welcomed them with open arms. They were all fed and treated wonderfully, and everything would've been great had they each gotten an answer other than what they always got.

"Where's TJ gone?"

"Home."

TJ didn't plan on returning to Britain at all, but they did eventually. They worked with their community and grandparents to connect with spirituality. TJ merged that with their knowledge of art, and after one successful connection to a friend from the isle, TJ made grand plans.

They spent their youth practicing and setting up shop at home, and once their grandparents promised to run it while they were gone, they went to go set up shop somewhere far off.

They returned to Britain around their late-20s early 30s. TJ immediately set up shop and buisness was pretty quick. That being said, nothing came without some trouble, as one boy quickly found out where they were. And he would not stop bringing peace offerings from his guilt.

"Alright, you've pet Jupiter enough, leave."

"You don't want–"

"Put the bread on the table, and get out of my shop, Roger."

"Okay."

TJ owns a German Shepard Mastiff mix named Jupiter who they'd hoped would scare off any of the boys from coming to bother them, but that wasn't really the case.

Not when they got an oddly specific phone call, and not when someone interrupted right as they were going to get out of an already awkward situation.

"Please TJ–"

"Who's TJ?"

"–I just want to see my friend."

" . . . Piggy?"

"So you are the TJ from the I–"

"Shut up and let's get this over with."

" . . . "

"Uh, excuse me–"

"Hold on–"

"–I want to see a friend. His name was Simon."

" . . . "

"Oh great, now there's two of you."

It took some convincing from the dead and the living, but eventually TJ reconnected with all the boys from the island. They'd hang out with them during the holidays, and would always open up shop whenever they needed.

And that's just how they kept living. A peaceful and simple life, one needed after everything that had happened prior. Something deserved.

They went to their place, and they found it.

Found them.

PLAYLIST

DREAM KEEPER

RAINBOW CONNECTION

THUS ALWAYS TO TYRANTS

EVERYWHERE, EVERYTHING

GIVING IN TO THE LOVE

CULT OF DIONYSUS

GOOD GRIEF

MAN IN THE MIRROR

STICK SEASON

ACHILLES COME DOWN

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

2012 - Rhode Island and the Pacific Ocean

Prologue of You Are My Soulmate

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Description:

You're ecstatic on your twenty-first birthday when you finally get your soul-mark. Your soul already feels like a perfect match for you.

A world away, Bradley Bradshaw wakes up alone, recovering from a plane crash. He finally has soul indicators, only two. But quickly resolves to never search for them.

Disclaimer: Bradley is an angsty, angsty boy.

Warnings: afab!reader

Word Count: 2597

A/N: This is the prologue for my new Soulmate AU. In this we see the marks on both sides and get a deep dive into Bradley's psyche and thought processes on first receiving his marks.

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist | Next Part

Tinkerbell

Soulmates. Nobody really knows how they came into being. As far as the history books know and say, everyone on the planet over the age of twenty-one woke up one morning with a mark, an indicator of who their perfect other half was. Since that day, it’s become a tradition for young adults to wait with bated breath for their twenty-first birthday. An entire field of science focused wholly on soul marks and identifying one’s soulmate came into being. But there was one caveat. The marks never tell you outright to whom your soul is linked. You have to use contextual clues and track your soul down. The marks also vary wildly amongst the documented instances of bonded souls. Some people can share their thoughts with their soul. Others hear their soul’s voices or share dreams. Your parents are ridiculously happy with each other and share a mark on their wrists. Yet others hear their soul’s voice, first on their twenty-first birthday and then again during times of intense emotion.

Given all the media attention on successful soulmate searches, it's no surprise that you’re practically vibrating out of your skin the night before your twenty-first birthday. The room is hushed around you, with the only sound other than your steady breathing, the clock's ticking as it counts the hour toward midnight. Every child in your family receives a soul candle to herald the discovery of their soulmate. Your mother and father had selected yours, especially for you. Your candle is now sitting on the table before you, waiting to be lit. You light the candle with shaky hands. The flame is intense, and as the candle wax melts, you close your eyes and wait. You’d been told that your family members had all gotten their marks precisely at midnight. As the clock chimes the midnight hour, goosebumps rise over your skin. A breeze wafts through the room, brushing tenderly across your cheeks and snatching your hair from its braid. It’s aromatic, sending the sweetness of sandalwood into your lungs. A scent clue? That’s not the most typical of indicators.

The breeze teases you with that intoxicating sandalwood scent for a short while before fading. The next soul clue you get is of auburn curls falling into whiskey-dark eyes and of big calloused hands. Then, a song plays, the lyrics swirling through your mind as you scramble for your phone and write them down.

“Matter of opinion, baby That's all right, mama was, (So?) papa too (Hmm) And I'm the only child Lovin' is all I know to do”

Fighter Jets fly through the air in front of your eyes. Then a vehicle roars down the road in your mind’s eye. It’s a truck, canary blue, aged but well-kept, with the paint shining in the sunlight. A shirt, Hawaiian print in a vibrant mix of colors, is laid carefully across the passenger seat. That’s everything you get. With one gentle shudder, your soul candle flickers, light dimming as the midnight hour draws to a close before finally flickering out. You have a soulmate!

What's surprising is the number of indicators you have. The most recent scientific journal articles on soul science mention percentages and the likelihood of a person having more than one indicator. Most people have a single soul indicator, the likelihood of which rests firmly at seventy-five percent. Ten percent of people have two,  eight percent have three, four percent have four, and three percent have five or more. You have five indicators, setting you in the rarest three percent of the population: a scent, one or more physical features, a song, an occupation, and an essential item in your soul’s life. Ideally, the more indicators you have, the easier it should be to find your person. The problem for you is that while the scent, physical features, and song are all as clear as can be and in the case of the song reasonably easy to find, you can’t figure out which between the fighter jets and the truck are your soul’s occupation and item.

Maybe your soul, whoever they are, is a mechanic specializing in restoring old vehicles with a fondness for fighter jets. Or maybe they’re a pilot with a particular fondness for trucks, or at least one particular truck. You don’t have enough information to know otherwise. The hour is late, and despite the exhaustion fogging your vision and clouding your movements, you need to know more about your soul. The only indicator you have left that you can learn more about is the song. You grab your laptop and quickly type the lyrics into a new browser window. It pulls up the song ‘Tramp’ by Otis Redding. It’s a funky beat. The lyrics, a duet, speak poignantly about everything the female singer finds wrong with her man. But what resonates with you is how love is interspersed throughout the song. You can tell from the lyrics you heard in your soul vision that your soul is an only child with a big, loving heart. It’s late, and you have to be up early in the morning to start your first day of Officer Candidate School for the Navy. But you can’t help the excitement coursing through your veins. At least if your soul is an aviator, you’re in the right place to hopefully run into them on a Naval base at some point in your career. It’s a thought that ricochets through your brain along with the sight of those beautiful, sad eyes as you unwittingly fall asleep on your sofa.

Rooster

Thousands of miles away, a young man jolts awake in a hospital bed. Pain, thick and cloying, rises through every clumsy movement as he grasps at the call button. Beyond the harried beeping of the machines he's hooked up to and the thwack of rubber-soled shoes hurrying his way, he can just see a flicker of soft hair twisted into a braid and smell sweet citrus. The scent is nearly enough to drown out the sterile bleach smell of the sick bay he’s lying in. His soulmate? Is that them, four years after his twenty-first birthday? Before he can explore the half-remembered vision, the doctors are upon him.

“Ensign Bradshaw, Ensign Bradshaw, do you know where you are?” 

After the all-consuming panic of the last few hours, a medical exam is the easiest thing Bradley’s lived through.

“Can you open your mouth for me?” Bradley feels like a doll, getting moved, poked, and prodded at the Doctor’s behest.

“Your motor functions are good, and your heart rate is stable. Ensign, you’re in luck. Your crash resulted in a broken leg and some scarring. The leg will heal, as will the scars. It will just take some time.”

The doctor, a jovial man with a strong resemblance to a child’s fantasy of Santa Claus, finishes up with the remaining checks quickly. Sick Bay is quiet and calm, the peace punctuated only by the quiet beeping of instruments. Nurses finish bustling around him after the doctor is done, closing the curtains around his bed and instructing him to press the button if he needs anything. With the latest dose of painkiller coursing through his system, it takes everything for Bradley to remember the vision he had of his soulmate. But he can only recall what he got when he woke up — the scent of sweet, tart citrus and glistening, soft hair in a braid. Two indicators aren't terrible. But he saw the scars crisscrossing his face when the nurses changed the bandages earlier. What soulmate would want a lowly Ensign in the Navy? Whose only claim to fame thus far would be crashing a multi-million dollar jet, and who is an orphan to boot?

He wouldn't want to be matched to himself! That all too reassuring thought is the last one before he's asleep and thrust into a disconcertingly familiar dreamscape.

“Uncle Mav! Uncle Ice!”

Bradley sees the child he was long ago, running towards the only dads he’s ever known. He loves them just as much as Goose, even if they’re not his dads by blood.

“Hey, Baby Goose!” Mav is young, with green eyes shining wickedly and a wide smile. Bradley can’t remember seeing his uncle this happy, relaxed, and healthy. Even after years of no contact, Bradley remembers how that embrace feels as he watches his younger self catapult right into his uncles’ arms. The feeling of being with Ice and Mav, even after everything that’s happened, still feels like home.

“Little Gosling! What’s gotten into you?” It’s Uncle Ice who asks him that. Tall and strong, Uncle Ice is everything he’d wanted to be in a man.

“Uncle Mav, Uncle Ice, can we talk?” Bradley remembers this conversation, remembers being squished between his uncles on the front stoop of the tiny house his mom had moved them into after his dad died.

“Of course.”

“Mama and Goose were soulmates, right? Like you and Uncle Ice are, Uncle Mav?” The fond look his uncles give each other speaks of so much love.

“Yeah, Baby Goose.” Mav is as serious as Bradley’s ever seen, green eyes dark with pain like always at the mention of Goose.

“What does it feel like when you find your soulmate? Are they always guaranteed to like me? Why would they like me?” Bradley winces at the sound of his voice cracking.

“I would ask Mama, but she shuts down whenever I mention Goose. Nobody ever tells me anything about him. He’s my dad. I know he is, but he sometimes feels like this ghost she tries to get me to become. I don’t know him. The only dads I know are you and Uncle Ice. And I’m young and gangly and kinda ugly. What about me would a soul have to love?”

Ice speaks while Mav swallows noisily, a sheen of tears obscuring the gleam in his eyes. “Gosling, we’re always here. You deserve to know more about your dad. You can always ask us about him. Goose,” he sniffles a little with a faraway look in his eyes, “was truly the best man I ever knew. He was the kind of man you could trust with everything important. ‘Cause he’d care for them with just as much love as he cared for you and your Mama.”

Bradley watches as his uncle tucks his younger self against his side.

“Do you know something, kiddo?” Seeing his face peer chubby and soft up at his uncle is a shock. “ Do you know how your dad got his callsign?”

“How, Uncle Mav?”

“We told your Mama it was because he acted like a Mother Hen, but when he laughed, it sounded like a goose honking. That’s why your Uncle Ice called him Mother Goose.” He’s grinning conspiratorially, “This is gossip from a friend and what I’ve always thought was the true story. He told me that your dad got the callsign Goose because, shortly before he graduated from flight school, he was lounging on a patch of grass one day. And as geese do, they love scrounging about in fresh grass. As luck would have it, your dad had picked this colossal gander’s prized patch of grass to nap in.”

Mav’s now chuckling, shoulders hunched, and voice choked at the mental picture even after all the time passed. “Your dad woke up from his nap to the gander’s bill right in his face and startled the gander. The gander snapped his beak right on your dad’s nose. The ensuing hue and cry resulted in laughter and many of the Navy’s soon-to-be finest rolling around in the grass, messing up their uniforms. Your dad escaped mostly unscathed with a bandage on his nose and a new callsign. And, it was that bandage which caught your Mama’s attention, too.”

All three of them are laughing now. Bradley can still feel the connection to his dad through that story. His uncles are brushing away tears, not that he noticed back then, and heaving in deep breaths.

"Now, about your soulmate. Of course, they're going to love you, kiddo. There is a lot to love."

"Yeah, Baby Goose," Mav's nodding along too, "lots to love."

"The best part of you isn't what you look like, Gosling." Ice sounds so fond, "It's what's in your heart. Like your dad, you have the biggest heart I've ever seen. Your soul will love you because they'll see your heart like nobody else."

"But Uncle Ice! That doesn't matter if they don't even get close enough to me to like me!" He's whining now. In hindsight, fourteen was not a good age to have this conversation with his uncles.

"Gosling, you just have to be yourself with your soulmate. The universe picked them for you. They are going to be your perfect match. No matter what happens in your life to make you think otherwise.”

The two men look fondly at each other and him, each with an arm wrapped around him when the colors spin before his eyes and fade to black.

It’s still and dark when his eyes open. A dream? Of Ice and Mav? As much as the thought of them and what they did to his career hurts, it's fitting that they are who he remembers talking about soulmates with first. They’ve always been his idols. The two men he knows, well, who he knew, the best. Why is it that every achievement, every milestone in his life, is overshadowed and entirely controlled by the two of them? Even the discovery of his soulmate is paired with a memory of when everything was perfect in his life. Before his Mama’s cancer diagnosis, before Mav pulled his papers, before his life imploded, bursting apart at the seams, shredded in tatters. Now the only thing in his life is planes, the fuel powering them flowing through his veins instead of blood. And he can’t even fly now.

“Your soulmate will love you for who you are, Gosling.” Uncle Ice’s words ring in his ears. Before everything fell apart, there was nobody Bradley would trust as much as Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky. But he knows Ice, knows Mav. When his papers were pulled, Mav would not have had the influence to do so. The decision to do so may have been Mav’s, but the actions were all the powerful Iceman's.

The ball of rage sitting low in his gut churns. A soulmate? To deal with him? The disaster that he is? That is not going to happen. He’s not taking his soulmate down when he inevitably burns in. Let’s ignore that his biggest fear is burning in, going down in a plane. At least this way, if he ever dies, they wouldn’t grieve him like his Mama grieved for his dad. Like Carole Bradshaw had grieved for Goose, for Nick Bradshaw. Carole had practically shut down. He hadn’t been enough to bring his Mama back, not entirely. The shadow of Nick Bradshaw had hovered over her for the rest of her life. And now the shadows of their love hovers over him. If he could, he’d give anything to be in his mother’s arms, hear her call him his name in her sweet voice, and fix everything. Maybe in that alternate universe, he’d be able to welcome his soulmate with open arms. In this one, where he’s alone in a hospital bed in an aircraft carrier, a soulmate’s just another shackle he can’t afford to have. Not if he’s going to prove he can be the best-of-the-best, be better than Maverick ever could be.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@roosters-girl

@infamous-reindeer

@caitsymichelle13

@mattyskies

@cosmic-psychickitty

@mygyn

@julesclues

@greenbaby12

@bubblegumbeautyqueen

@briseisgone

@soulmates8

@girl-in-the-chairs-void

Want to be added to the Taglist for this fic? Leave a comment on this masterlist or drop me a message in my inbox!

PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BIO. I DO NOT ACCEPT TAG-LIST REQUESTS FROM BLANK OR AGELESS BLOGS. THIS IS AS MUCH FOR MY SAFETY AND LEGALITY ON THE INTERNET AS WELL AS YOURS.

[batb1tch]

I fucking missed his birthday but here’s a belated list of Bruce Wayne headcanons no one asked for 🫡

He’s a walking thesaurus

Begrudgingly takes the time to do general maintenance on the kids vehicles but they know it’s how he shows fatherly love

Genuinely disgruntled/confused by social media culture & language

— “Duke, what does -squints at iPhone screen- thotiana mean?”

“……im not qualified for this”

History buff. Loves the history channel & discovery channel. gets hurt on patrol & just vegges for 8+ hrs. when the painkillers kick in he starts scrutinizing & correcting the narrators. Loudly criticizes naked & afraid. Whole fam finds him unbearable (jay is the same way tho)

Enjoys rlly spicy food. Like shit that should be inedible. Prob from years of inhaling toxic gases & fumes. as embarrassing as it may be he doesn’t have much of a palette anymore. Only way to find out if something’s poisonous is the consistency/density & how it sits on his tongue.

— “clark, dare me to eat this pepper?”

“we’re literally on a different planet that thing could kill you bruce”

“I’ll take my chances”

—turns purple or something—

Total geek on vacations or nature walks, points out every creature it’s Greek name, genus, the whole shebang. Loves fossils and seashells can tell you time period of rocks & what type they are. Same with trees.

100% would blow shit up in the bat cave for “scientific research purposes”

— “it’s for the greater good Alfred”

“even the bottle rockets sir?”

“Especially the bottle rockets”

Really fucking hates the cold. Broken bones & scars ache like a bitch in rainy/snowy cold weather.

Hates taking medicine/cough syrup like a giant baby. Alfred has resorted to hiding pills & sedatives in all kinds of creative ways. Stephanie is surprisingly good at baking them into her “special” cupcakes.

wears those horrible Hawaiian shirts and slacks every time the fam goes on vacation. Looks like a walking pattern violation.

as opposite of a morning person as you could get. drinks his coffee black & cant function until he’s finished at least a cup. The longer he sleeps the longer it takes him to recover when he gets up. Pours orange juice into his cereal & that kind of shit. Most of the kids know better & leave him alone to his morning paper but Steph knows it’s the best time to get what she wants so she’ll hassle him relentlessly at the breakfast table. Morning stubble always makes a cameo

Fucking terrible at most video games. The WORST at 1st person shooters. Does enjoy racing & building games (& Skyrim for some reason)

Really good at crossword puzzles & fills them out in the newspaper when he gets the chance.

Truly is the turtleneck king (you lose a lot of heat in the neck)

Has horrible handwriting for someone who grew up with a top tier education. Drives his secretary nuts.

Has like 5 cellphones, very plug of him. nobody understands how he manages to keep track of everything. the one he uses as bruce to contact the kids is an 02 NOKIA that’s probably been to the moon and back (literally)

Very affectionate towards Alfred the cat it’s definitely that ‘dad who vehemently denies the pet/doesn’t want it & then becomes inseparable with it’ type of relationship. He may or may not sneak him friskies much to Damian’s chagrin.

—*tsk* “he’ll become obese father its irresponsible of you”

“ill feed this cat until he has to roll through my house thanks”

Has one of those fancy watches with like 1000 functions thanks to tim. It’s bulky and black looks like some sort of military electronic.

His kids call him inspector gadget.

Wears blankets around his shoulders like the cape/cowl when he’s sick.

Most certainly keeps track of and studies the colony in the cave. The kids have a theory that he has trackers and mics attached to the bats for snooping purposes. (He doesn’t but he’s not telling them that)

Has a collection of crazy socks, ties, and cuff links (mostly from tim & steph) that he wears to work when he’s feeling worn out. They are all hideous and Alfred tells him so but just a glance at some putrid yellow cotton & he already feels better.

Enjoys going to classic car shows with the kids and Alfred. everyone has an opinion if he’s made a new purchase, he pouts if the consensus is bad

Singe-handedly funded the 24/7 food truck services/entrepreneur program for the entirety of Gotham after getting his ass kicked by killer croc one night & by the grace of god & the pity of a concerned man running a taco truck was given the best meal he’s ever tasted in his life. Jay was very on board when he heard about it & actually the entire team is pretty grateful to be able to grab something delicious on the go all hours of the night

Likes to swim and going to the beach in general. One of his favorite things to do with Clark is deep sea fishing — dad shorts baseball cap and socks with sandals kind of fishing.

Contrary to his stony persona, the mans a crier. Cries when he’s sad, cries when he’s happy, cries when he yawns, cries when he laughs, cries when he’s sick, etc. etc. Sometimes tears come out when he’s upside down, he’s just got very active tear ducts 😪

Definitely has a photo of every kid in his wallet, most of them are blurry and cropped weird cause he cut them out himself but all of them are of the kids smiling or laughing. He looks at them all the time to the point that they’re worn down and faded different colors.

Has severe manic & depressive episodes. PTSD as well.

He’s ambidextrous but primarily left handed

[inspired-aspiring-artist]

Youre so coolio !!!

Uh uh uhm do you,, can i learn about your headcanons for your sillies (the dca) or or even funcacts abotut yururpself !!!/nf

This has been sitting in my ask box for far too long

Thanks for sending me asks! Also you’re coolio too!

I’m still cooking my dca headcanons tbh, I have a fanfic idea bouncing around my skull but idk if anyone would actually want to read it, and I’ve never written fanfic before. If you want to learn more, please send an ask cause I’d love to yap about it :3.

Fun facts about me:

I grew up on Kauai (the Hawaiian island)

I keep my hair pink irl (it’s been pink for 5 years now with only a few weeks going back to nonpink before I get it repinked)

I used to have a pet axolotl named Alexander Jacob Thunderberkin Kippensquire, or Kip for short (I had to rehome him when I left for college)

I had a retinal detachment in my left eye when I was 16 which could have left me blind if I didn’t get emergency surgery on Oahu (I had to fly to a different island) . When I woke up after surgery, my mom asked me how I was and I told her “I’m all right now!” When I was still recovering from surgery I had to keep my left eye covered (for about a year) so I put a winking eyelash embroidery sticker over my left glasses lens and medical tape on the inside. Somehow being monocular made it easier to draw (but not to walk, cause no depth perception!) so I really improved my art in that year. I ended up getting the artist award in my graduating class in high school and I used my experience to write a great college entrance essay so some good did come out of it. To this day my peripheral vision in my left eye is bad and I frequently get waves of floaters which block out my vision in that eye. Also now my left pupil is smaller than the right one so I have to let any doctors know that my eyes are just like that and I don’t have a concussion.

I am a direct descendent to one of the more famous taxidermists (they are named on the Wikipedia taxidermy page), they did a lot of taxidermy for museums and also did sculptures and statuettes of animals. Some of their work is still on display at the Denver museum of natural history, and there are statuettes that are family heirlooms (we have one of a leopard on the hunt)

Thanks again for the ask! I’ll answer them quicker I promise :3

[rudie-wr1tes]

Endless Passion: A Sandman Fan Fiction

XIV: Deprivation

Synopsis: Sabine is not the only one searching for answers regarding her fate in the Dreaming. In the midst of anger for his rash judgment in banishing Sabine, Lord Morpheus uncovers her story within the halls of Lucienne's library, finding more answers than he could ever prepare himself for. During his search, he realizes much more is at stake if Destiny and Death are beckoned by his own creations.

Lord Morpheus traced his fingertips across the spines of several books in Lucienne’s library in bitter silence. The halls of Lucienne’s library were back to their normal white noise, save for the occasional flutter of a turning page, but at what cost? The yellow lamp light was dim in comparison to the young woman who wandered these books before. Sabine’s laughter ceased. Thunder in the distance loomed, mumbling softly over Fiddler’s Green. Morpheus tuned out the churning wind that rattled the windows near readers. 

Names, names, all names of dreamers in the waking world and their life stories. Everyone had their story. But what was it about Sabine’s that landed her here? It was a question he had asked himself since banishing her to a purgatory she hated most. It was cruel. He could be crueler to most, but this had everyone furious. He was angrier with himself for losing patience with her so quickly. While Evangeline recovered on bed rest from such a frightening storm, Matthew had spent every hour arguing with Morpheus regarding Sabine’s temporary banishment. 

 Her betrayal stung him worse than a century in isolation, but why did it fester so in his chest? The feeling infuriated him, as he peeled through alphabetical order by surname. The room began to spin as he sorted through every K titled surname, until he found it under twenty volumes: the Kanaka family. 

Climbing ivy tapped at the windows nearest to him. Morpheus’s eyes grazed over Sabine’s spot, where she usually read. Mervyn was behind a shelf, side eyeing him with a disapproving frown, a bottle of wood polish in his hand. 

“Good evening.” Morpheus greeted, “Mervyn, would you mind trimming the ivy from these windows tomorrow?” 

“Sure, boss.” Mervyn said flatly, turning away back to his work. There was no jovial nature in his step. No spappy remarks, no sarcasm that was considered normal. Morpheus huffed a sigh, shaking his head. 

Morpheus returned to his search then, peering with ease on every shelf. A majority of these copies were worn with age, dust, and darkness collecting on the book jackets. Only two very bright copies remained with the last name. The first- a brown leatherbound beauty sewn with golden trim sewn in a native Hawaiian pattern to symbolize community- lines intersecting and lapping into each other like ocean waves. A golden sun etching shimmered across the spine, reading “Kalea.” Beside it was another beautiful relic, equally gorgeous, whose shading he recognized all too well. 

Morpheus carefully pulled the navy blue novel from its space on the shelf, as if it were made of glass. He hadn’t realized how much it glowed until it rested in his hands, as if it awakened something across the cover. Bursts of starlight and symbols of prosperity shimmered across its face like diamonds. A plumeria tree etched in silver glowed beneath his hands, cold to the touch:

Sabine Haunani Kamalani Kanaka

Surely, such a beautiful name bound to a beautiful book could not belong to anyone else. He expected nothing less. 

Minutes prior, he requested Lucienne to find any books tracing back to her history. As Morpheus seated himself at the head of a long oak table within the library, Lucienne slammed down a hefty pile of texts, causing the entire table to shake. Her slam timed with the thunder, as Morpheus looked up at her. 

The wind picked up outside.

 “I hope you’re happy with yourself!” She huffed, “Now that you’ve gone off and punished Sabine for something she had every right to feel!” 

Morpheus ground his teeth in his jaw. 

“She lied.” Morpheus uttered, “Do you fail to see that she betrayed my trust? And not just our agreement, but endangered a dear creation? To you? To Matthew?” 

“She’s mortal!” Lucienne cried out, “Humans lie! It is in their nature, but that doesn’t make her evil. And you, of all people, should know that by now. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She never meant to hurt anyone. Evangeline even said it herself, it was her idea!” 

Morpheus dared not to look directly at her. Lucienne stood in the periphery of her vision, motioning to Sabine’s book. 

“What are you trying to find in there?” Lucienne asked, “Instead of, I suppose, asking her for answers instead of banishing her to Destiny knows where?” 

“I search for answers.” Morpheus spoke vaguely, “It is of not your concern.” 

Lucienne shook her head, “You pushed her away like you pushed away your other human friend, Hob Gadling, don’t you see it? Why does it bother you so badly, sir?”

“That is exactly what I am trying to search for.” Morpheus’s tone raised, “And I must do so alone.” 

Lucienne scowled into his soul, “Very well. I shall leave you to your own devices.” 

Her tone was bitter, turning on a heel to distance herself from her creator. Morpheus regretted pushing her away, hearing the door slam behind her, followed by some aggressive shushing from other library residents. 

At least now he could focus. 

With idle hands, he turned each page and took his time reading. From the beginning of her life to the beautiful childhood she had. Everything he pulled from her diaries alone was nearly accurate to her story. Being born under a December sky and waking up each morning in paradise, only to have it lost in the recession so long ago. Strife, self-hatred, fear, and uncertainty plagued her nightmares. And yet, Sabine chose to remain kind. She chose to help others, even with the little she could provide. Morpheus sighed to himself, reading exactly how much she had prided herself on becoming a caregiver to Kalea, despite never needing to. 

He paused then, on the chapter recounting her ravenous need for the Dream Stone copy, scanning the pages carefully. Sabine’s longing for such an ancient relic made her sell everything unless it was her own soul. But in the way her writing described it, she may as well have. A vision in watercolor shades presented itself before him. Sabine was in a restaurant in Paris, something red and vintage. The secluded booth glowed under the intimate beam of natural candlelight. Morpheus traced the back of Sabine’s head with his fingertip, taking note of how long her hair used to be. He looked carefully then, at the mysterious bidder. Their figure was cloaked beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a dark suit attached to a feminine presenting body, a face fully blocked from his view, save for a smear of dark crimson lips and a poised hand.

“Desiree N. Dless”

Morpheus frowned, feeling his teeth grind within his skull at the name. His thumb dragged across the page, feeling it sear into his skin like a white-hot burn. He flinched a moment, pressing harder beneath the page, tearing away at the ink and paper. Red and gold dust populated beneath his fingertip like charcoal, to reveal the true charm of the name, which confirmed his suspicions all along- 

“Desire The Endless.” 

Morpheus was quick to anger. First Death, then Destiny, now Desire. All were meddling in the life of this poor mortal woman, and for what? What purpose did it bring? He nearly closed the book’s pages, until one sound stilled his focus. 

Sabine’s weeping. 

On the velvet bookmarked page, he found her alone in that warehouse. The live watercolor showed her kneeling against concrete, crying herself to sleep. Morpheus cringed at the sound, his eyes growing glassy. He hurt her for this as if he didn’t do enough damage, just as he did to every mortal who crossed his path, repeating the cycle he feared most. 

At the bottom, he found the last note in her words- 

"And even when I sit here hating him, I need him here with me. He frightens me. He mystifies me. I defied him, he angers me, but it makes me want to apologize more. I need him to forgive me."

Morpheus continued flipping through each page, holding the backboard carefully. He noticed then, that the second half of her pages had silver edges to their pages, a detail he had not seen previously. But the pages continued. It was as if an infinite charm had been placed upon the book. When it seemed he met an end, fifty more pages began to rise from thin air. Her book was not ending, scaling beyond the confines of mortal life expectancy. Morpheus began to see himself on the pages, transitioning from being a static figure of black in the background of her drawings, to being at her side. And in many later chapters, much closer, to an extent that left his lips parted in awe. Much closer to any level of comfort the Endless was prepared for, as he carefully closed the book. He returned it to the shelf with ease before striding to his room of sigils.  

In transit, Matthew approached his side, hopping across the marbled flooring. 

“Sir.” Matthew interjected, “We need to talk, like right now.” 

Morpheus’s gaze only focused on what was ahead, “If this is about Sabine, your points have already been made regarding her banishment.” 

“I’ve spoken with Evangeline.” Matthew interjected, “And she takes full responsibility, sure, but that’s not what I’m here to-” 

“This discussion can wait.” Morpheus said hurrdily, “I must speak to my siblings.” 

Matthew scoffed, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Your siblings are here!” 

Morpheus stopped, nearly snapping his neck to look back at his raven. 

“They are here, in my realm?” He asked in a cool tone. 

“Yes.” Matthew said, nearly out of breath, “Death and Destiny are looking to speak to you immediately. That’s why I’m here.” 

A louder roll of thunder echoed overhead, nearly shaking the entire palace. Morpheus sucked in a breath through his nose. 

“Take me to them.” Morpheus commanded, straightening his shoulders, “I wish they had notified me sooner of their arrival.” 

“Oh, they didn’t call first,” Matthew uttered, as they walked together to his throne room. 

“Then who did?” Morpheus asked, concern forming across his brow. 

Matthew flapped his wings and landed on the doorways to his throne room, standing straighter than usual. 

“We did, sir.” 

_____________________________________________________________

We love a subtle mutiny, am I right? (Laughs in Shakespeare)

[abadpoetwithdreams]

Sorry if this is weird, but I know you're Hawaiian (at least I think so?) and I'm a big fan of your writing and just wanted to check that you're ok <3 <3 <3

Oh this is very sweet and kind of you, anon ❤️ I am part Hawaiian, yes, but I am safe and so is my family who still live on the Islands; I do not have family on Maui.

That being said, emotionally this is a very difficult time reckoning with the sudden destruction of Hawaiian history and with the immediate losses so many many kanaka maoli and kamaʻāina are suffering through right now: loss of life, of home, of community, and in some ways a loss of identity. I have been pretty shaken up by the tragedy. I am grateful my grandmother is safe but it’s horrifically sad that so many people like me are currently waiting for news, not knowing, about their own family members. I have not lost my home, but the loss of historical buildings and artifacts of the Hawaiian people is still a loss for our collective self.

It is difficult feeling helpless, but there are ways to help! There are reputable and verified places to donate now to get funds to the local people who really need the aid. There are also our own social media platforms; keep lifting up stories about the people of Lahaina and other communities affected by the fire, and keep their plight in the public eye so they get the federal aid and support they need long term to rebuild. As the Hawaiian people mourn the loss of a historical home and community, take the opportunity to learn a little about the Hawaiian Kingdom and indigenous history! The better the general public understand and respect the Hawaiian identity, the better they can help the Hawaiian people recover from this cataclysm. Too many media stories are still framing this as the loss of a place of tourism; as individuals we can educate ourselves to look past that narrative at the reality of the situation and its impact upon the people whose land this is.

Thank you very much for checking in on me, I appreciate it very much! I have been communicating about the fires and relief efforts on my personal social pages and hadn’t thought to speak on the subject on tumblr; I’ll make an effort to share some info here too.

Your thoughtful message brightened my day, thank you kind anon ❤️ it’s nice to know my work is read by good people ❤️

[burdened-boy]

A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE. Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own!

NAME: Jonathon Jeremy Limbo

NICKNAME: Jack, Saucy Jack, The Ruiner, Jezza

TITLE(S):  n/a

AGE: 40

SPECIES: Human

SEX: Male

NATIONALITY: left up to interpretation

INTERESTS: In spite of his work, Limbo doesn't sit around his house all day pondering murder. He likes doing light physical activities, like yard work and car repairs, because it makes him feel like he's really doing something. Limbo's classic car is his magnum opus, a 1968 Oldsmobile Toronado that he restomodded himself. He is also a casual history buff, and is a good source of information on why his world is like this. Limbo has lived through several wars, a few of them nuclear, and has served as what is essentially cannon fodder in one of them. He also collects vinyl and likes to barbecue.

PROFESSION: Contract killer, criminal enforcer, mercenary, arsonist, general crook.

BODY TYPE: Dad bod, with a moderately toned upper body.

EYES: Brown

HAIR: Dark brown/black, though his hair is rarely seen. Limbo does not have facial hair, or eyebrows.

SKIN: Covered in gang/crime related tattoos. Notable ones are the Hebrew 666, eyes on each of his shoulder blades, and a large centipede that wraps around his torso.

POSTURE: Limbo is 40, but has the stance of a 19 year old line cook.

HEIGHT: 5’10” (his height isn't ever firm, i sometimes make him shorter than Tabby because its funny)

VOICE: This is the best example I can find. Limbo is soft-spoken, and his touchy voice synthesizer (implemented because he doesn't have a lower jaw) incentivizes him not to raise his voice. Limbo is not a booming, cocky villain, he's a tired guy who has seen too much.

SIGNATURE OUTFIT: In spite of his colleagues dressing up, Limbo's wardrobe is unusually blue-collar. He usually wears a long coat with a collar, under which is some variation of a button up shirt. Lately, it's been a Hawaiian shirt, though in the winter months its a sweatshirt, turtleneck, or a quarter zip. Limbo used to wear a suit, but he doesn't give a fuck about being dapper anymore. For pants, he usually wears basic black slacks, thick socks, and Doc Martens. He sometimes wears a watch, but lately he's been skipping it.

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Tabitha Overland, who he has been with for over ten years.

COMPANIONS: Noelle, Pari, Archer White (possibly), Michigan, Kira (unwilling), Spoons.

ANTAGONISTS: Most law enforcement agents, past or present, including Stan Norman and his own younger brother, Walter Limbo. He generally dislikes most other assassins, not because he sees them as competition, but because they see him as such. Limbo thinks most hired guns are tryhards.

STRENGTHS: Even though just about everything about him is macabre and violent, Limbo is relatively docile and polite. If you come to him in a crisis, there is a high chance that he will help you, and not expect anything in return.

WEAKNESSES: Limbo is treacherous, especially if he thinks his client is weak and could easily be defeated. If you hire him, that check better not bounce. Physically, he's not very good at fighting, preferring to surprise his enemies instead. On the mental side, Limbo struggles with a lot of concerning intrusive thoughts, and extreme paranoia. There is a storm in his brain, and, in spite of improving over the years, he is still deeply unstable.

FRUITS: Limbo cannot eat most fruits whole, but he drinks a lot of them as smoothies.

DRINKS: iced coffee, redbull, too little water

ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES: Limbo is a recovering alcoholic.

SMOKES: Weed

DRUGS: In the past, Limbo has tried everything. Stimulants, depressants, deliriants, psychedelics, designer, prescription...Legally, though, he is on a soup of anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, and the occasional pain medication to deal with physical and mental trauma. Weed is the only "illicit" drug he takes now.

DRIVER'S LICENSE: Limbo has one, and he drives fast as fuck.

tagged by @chronicparagon

tagging @cajunspoons @archerwhiterp @violeteyedkiller @distantpagesandpapercuts

once again, my brain is too tired to think of more people, so feel free to steal this as well

[ourpacificadventures]

We spent our last Hawaiian morning relaxing on Waikiki Beach and soaking up a last bit of sunshine before heading over to Canada!

In the afternoon, we headed across to the Bishop Museum which has really detailed exhibits on Hawaiian history and culture, as well as natural science and a planetarium.

The wooden carvings of ancient deities were really impressive, and stone carvings recovered in more recent years by excavations.

There was also a gallery dedicated to contemporary Hawaiian artists who are working to preserve traditional crafts today.

We finished up with a stop at the Cheesecake Factory for some amazing desserts 😍 before heading off to the airport for our flight!

[alolanlan]

i agree, people mourning places in maui lost to fires as vacation spots and not places where people have lived for generations is seriously fucked up. it shows a complete lack of empathy for those who lost their lives, who lost their homes, and/or who lost family and friends.

however, to the ones in the reblogs saying don’t visit hawai’i:

yes, tourism is bad. it’s had a History of fucking up hawai’i and its native culture and by no means do i condone it. you should definitely stay away while we’re in the midst of dealing with and recovering from the fires, both because we need the space to put up maui residents that evacuated here to oahu and because we need to give what resources we have to maui.

but you also have to acknowledge that the tourism industry is now the backbone of our economy. most locals work in the industry in some way and stopping tourism for hawai’i would mean the loss of jobs and overall revenue for our islands.

hawai’i was originally a sovereign land that was fine on its own. the native hawaiians didn’t want hawai’i to be taken over by the US or for it to be turned into a tourist spot. but this is our reality now. tourism is how we’re able to get by and make money and telling people to stop coming completely is just going to fix one problem only to create another.

what we actually need to do is do stuff like petition the local government to limit how many tourists there are at a time, ensure locals are prioritized resources-wise (because we fucking LIVE HERE, tourists can always go home), and set specific rules for tourists about places you can and cannot go and things you can and cannot do (and enforce these rules). those are just random ideas but the point is that we need to change what’s happening without bringing us economical hardship.

but anyway,

don’t forget to help maui residents however you can, whether that be spreading the news and information on where to donate, or by donating supplies (clothing, bags, food, money in the form of giftcards, health products, etc) yourself.

can white people stop boo-hooing about how they lost their favorite vacation spot because of the fires on maui? it’s vile. people lost their lives and their homes. no one gives a shit that your colonizing ass can’t go somewhere you were never welcome anyway

[zooterchet]

John Warren Freemasonic Temple

Issue Assigned: Gun Control.

Prerogative Reason: Columbine, shootings inspired by the murder of a Turkish Jewess, with sniper rifle.

Profile Identified: Kip Kinkel, earmarked as Uri Geller, Mossad MI-6.

Education: Tiger Mantis Pasha, sold to Israeli government for $30,000 dollars by father; reason, debt on Chevrolet Impala, in Saigon.

Murders:

Yeltsin Russia: Town founder ally of Hopkins, the Ludlows; Elizabethan, "Bailey". Carlin Sarkesian, found on toilet, covered in feces and semen, three Uziel machine pistols and one Armalite Colt Commando recovered; prior having marched, through Hopkinton Highschool, having summoned Ashley Fayden and Afton Pavletic, viewed as lesbian by Sonya Savdie at Holocaust Museum in New York City.

Netanyahu Israel: MUSH developer Alex Fleming, having opposed playership of "Rajura Doji", as Yakuza takeover of Japan, "Attack of the Clones"; played by "Mini-Peebo", 2003, the seizure of character as played superior. "Rungo" summoned, to hunt "Amano", Yakuza thieves dojo code, implanted into Hawaiian Navy, US Navy Coastal Defense of Megaman MUSH. Observed of police officers, having dumped own lunches unfinished, into dumpsters, in violation of OSHA code of local state.

Elizabethan Holland: Matthew Lennox, having joined High Times magazine coalition, against Reese, Doyle, and Elders, supporting Taylors and Colellas, favored for Charlebois family to support Hopkinton EON Gast, against forces of Elizabethans, Ludlows, "Spider"; print of common comics. Marine Corps elements, pinned down, in non-payer commune medicine, outside of Obama Care (ACA), through separate bankers brokers of Baker administration; found in sales of Oxycontins and Chlorozenpine, attempting to duplicate agent outside of police chief assistance.

Persian Mossad: Michael Charlebois, having sought to make son heterosexual in terms of "The Simpsons", episode marked and frauded to reveal as Anthony Parziale, common figure partnered to FBI agent Danielle Murr, on Clearchannel; Arkansas greater south radio, out of George W. Bush's office; offered as a clear tell, in cards, to reveal Bill Clinton as Little Rock killer, at expense of own reputation. Dr. Joshua Golden, as having purveyed Jewish practice, outside of FBI's knowledge, with son reporting for "Ashland News", felonious claims outside of Ashland's jurisdiction, by prior orders of assassin.

Israeli Defense Forces: Eric Frein of Christian Identity Disorder, alias "Har Rosen", hunted by Alexandra Rhzanova, married name, through Matthew Lennox, Brian Monaghan, and David Charlebois; covered at FOX, through Sagat family, Kara Williamson, "Crux", given assassins muster to hunt all IDF Holocaust Museum historians, at arrest given hunts of police having been victims of genocide of Germany, and Italy, smoking marijuana as depicted by Harmony Korine; "swing kids", Jews, just like you.

Elie Wiesel: Theft of semen of DEA operative Zach Savell, given return of child to Savell family, Alfonse y Aragorn, inventor of roast beef and source of first democratically elected leader of world history, Barack Hussein Obama; al-Saffah, "the butcher", returning whiskey and pork to Middle East; clean Malay bitters, Jim Beam, the Fahds, and bacon pulled foot, the cold cuts; frying pans apparent in colloquiam, the answer to Uthman, Aragorn's line. Elie Wiesel, hunted at stadium parliament apartment, by George Soros, for theft of semen from David Charlebois, through Serbian dominatrix. A disturbance in the Force. The Emperor, Matthew Lennox, is displeased. But perhaps, something can be made of the child.

[kingjain]

Royal Australian Navy Hmas Adelaide (l01) Australia Day Cheap Hawaiian Shirt

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[belowtheharddeck]

wearing rooster’s hawaiian shirt while your secretly dating

a/n: my first attempt at a bullet point fic so sorry if it’s not the best. i didn’t have much time since i’m currently babysitting but i wanted to get something out until i can sit down and write the sequel to when we’re ready :)

you and bradley had been dating for almost 8 months now and none of your friends knew

you had caught his eye when you hadn’t even batted an eye and hangman’s obnoxious flirting and the rest was history

it took him awhile before he fully shared everything with you and let you wear his hawaiian shirts or his aviators cause those were things that connected him to his dad and were very important to him

but eventually he did, and it made him content, he knew his dad would have loved you and it made him happy to share pieces of his dad with you

once he started letting you wear them you did so all the time and it was like second nature

so you thought absolutely nothing of it when you wore one of his shirts to work today

you worked as a bartender at the hard deck and you had a rather long shift today and you wanted to be comfortable and you missed Bradley as he was currently away guest lecturing at another base

his shirt was comfortable since it was so big on you and it made you feel close to him so it was a win win

what you hadn’t thought about however was bradley’s friends recognizing the shirt

which they did, very quickly

almost as soon as phoenix walked in to the bar she had noticed it

she gave you a sarcastic “nice shirt” but left it at that

and that was pretty much all the rest of the group said as well if the elected to mention it

except for hangman

he wasn’t gonna let this go until you admitted you and bradley were dating

he started with the same “nice shirt” commented phoenix had used as he sat at the bar but added “where’d you get it?” at the end

your response was a simple “ i don’t know it’s not mine” and you hoped he would leave it at that

but he’s hangman so of course he didn’t

“it just looks familiar is all, like maybe it belongs to a certain navy pilot with a mustache? he wears shirts like that a lot”

“i don’t know what your talking about”

thoroughly tired of dealing with the man you said “ if i say yes will you leave me alone”

“so it is his! i knew it.”

“oh my god, it is. are you happy now?”

“very, thanks sweetheart”

he ordered another beer from you before finally leaving you alone in favor of bothering everyone else at the pool table

shortly after hangman left the bar phoenix made her way over

“so you and bradshaw, huh”

so hangman had told everyone over there about you and bradley, big shocker

deciding there was no point in denying now you answered her honestly “uh, yeah, for about 8 months now”

you continue to wipe glasses and serve a few people while you told phoenix all the details of your and bradley’s relationship

about half way through the night and your shift bradley showed up, surprising you since he wasn’t supposed to get back for a few more days

at this point you were sure the whole bar had been told you were together thanks to hangman’s big mouth

and you were so excited to see bradley, that after a nod of approval from penny you were running out from behind the bar and into bradley’s arms to pull him into a bruising kiss

he hesitated at first, slightly confused at this kind of greetting in such a public space but quickly recovered and and wrapped his arms around your waist to kiss you back just as hard

after pulling apart from the kiss to catch your breath, bradley rested his forehead against yours

“not that i didn’t love that greeting, baby, but i thought we were keeping this between us”

“well we were but i may have accidentally worn you shirt to work today and hangman and his big mouth found out”

rooster broke out in to a chuckle before he responded

“sounds like hangman, that’s okay though, it’s about time they found and and you look spectacular in my shirts and i can’t be mad at that”

you hummed in response before placing another, more delicate kiss on his lips

“plus now everyone knows your mine”

[pisupsala]

One for The History Books [Chapter 13] [Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw]

[Summary] You are an archivist at the Pentagon, sent on assignment to TOPGUN to catalog and report on a top secret mission. In the days under the Californian sun, a certain naval aviator puts your once orderly life in a tailspin that you might never recover from.

[Pairing] Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc

[Warnings] Mature content: swearing, (explicit) smut. 18+ only.

[Words]5k

[Index] All Chapters | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Epilogue

[Library]

One for The History Books - Chapter 13: High Tide

“This is cheating... you are cheating.” You glance sideways at Bradley. You are bent over the pool table of an increasingly crowded bar, trying to take a shot. You had been doing pretty well at the game up until Bradley decided to lean over you, casually running his hand over the curve of your ass. Yes, you did pick those jeans to wear tonight because you believe they make your butt look good. But not to have it used against you like this. “This isn't cheating, darlin'.” His voice, casual. You beg to differ as you try to focus on your shot again. “If I wanted to cheat...” His voice is suddenly close, his body enveloping yours. “I'd probably do something more like this...” His hand now gently pushed up the hem of your top, fingers dancing over your skin at the waistband of your jeans. Your ears are burning as Bradley's breath caresses the shell of your ear. His lips are brushing against the sensitive spot just behind your ear. “Come on, take the shot.” Bradley taunts playfully, caressing your spine. You look at him from the corner of your eye, keeping your hands perfectly still. He had that cocky grin on his face, the one where you don't know if you want to slap him or kiss him. Fuck it. You want to win this. Steel your spine, focus, and take the shot. The moment you move your cue stick, Bradley moves his under your shirt up to your ribs. The sensation of the calluses on your sensitive skin makes you jerk, only skimming the cue ball as a result, ruining your shot.

You shoot up, pushing Bradley off you. You can feel your cheeks are burning red. Bradley's cocky grin only gets broader, because he knows he got to you. “So close, darlin'.” You have to remind yourself: don't take the bait. “Of course.” You say airily, forcing a smile on your face. Casually, you grab your beer from the nearby table and slide onto the stool. Bradley's follows your movements with a bemused look on his face—clearly expecting you to retaliate or argue with him, which he likes you've noticed. But you're not going to humor him now and bide your time instead and enjoy the view in the meantime. Bradley is wearing that Hawaiian shirt and white wife beater combo that burned itself into your memory when you first saw him at the Hard Deck. The light wash jeans he's wearing with it look positively sinful on him as he bends over the pool table. Bradley moves to the other side of the table to take a shot. His eyes keep shooting at you, waiting for you to make a move. Unhurried, you lean back, resting your elbow on the table as you take another swig of your beer. Bradley plays pool more than fine—he doesn't need distraction tactics to win. Which means he uses it purely as a power play to annoy you. You'd be lying that you don't enjoy Bradley's attention on you—whether he is teasing you or not. But that does not mean you're going to let him get away with everything. You just have to play it smart and wait for the right opportunity. You watch Bradley make quick work of the lead you had on him, potting shot after shot. He's going to the penultimate shot when an opportunity to get back at him presents itself. He's moving back to your side of the table, where you are still lounging on the bar stool. Bradley is focused on the game now, good. He's close to beating you after all. And that will be your advantage. As he bends over to take the shot, the back of the cue stick jots out in your direction. Still leaning on your elbow to steady yourself, you carefully stretch out your leg, positioning the toe of your shoe just behind the cue stick. You flex your toes forward, so only about an inch remains. Bradley is oblivious. As he moves the cue stick back, it bumps into your shoe, jolting it back forward at an awkward angle. It sends the cue ball careening over the table in an uncontrolled trajectory. Score. For you. You quickly sit back into a natural position, dropping your leg back down, as Bradley spins around with an annoyed look on his face. You take a sip from your beer, feigning innocence as he stalks up to you. “So close, darlin'.” You mimic him, deadpan, as you get up and pluck the cue stick from his hand. Before you can make your way to the pool table, Bradley grabs your elbow and pulls you back to the table.

You frown at him, suppressing the smile that threatens to creep on your face.

“You act like you are all blushes and innocent smiles.” Bradley's voice has taken on a rough edge. “But you have some dirty tricks up your sleeve, don't you, darlin'?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” You mock offense. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a game to win.”

“You think I'll let you?” Bradley mocks back, still holding your elbow. “I know your weak spots.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, are you threatened?” You cannot hold back your teasing smile as your tone turns patronizing.

“By you, sweetheart? Never.” He replies arrogantly.

“Awesome, so you don't mind getting me another beer while I pot some shots?” You smile brightly.

Bradley pulls you into him, his face now close to yours.

“I don't mind teaching you some manners, miss Williams.” He growls. That got to him. Your smile widens—you are at the advantage now. But before you can goad Bradley further, a loud voice rings over the music, shattering the atmosphere.

“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.”

Bradley stills, his face turning actually serious now. You are more curious than anything, but as Bradley turns towards the voice, he shields your view with his body.

“Hangman.” Bradley's reply is curt. You are left wondering—Hangman? As in—lieutenant Seresin? Here? Why?

“A little birdy told me you had business at the Pentagon.” Seresin's voice jovial. “And as luck would have it: so do I!”

“Jesus...” Bradley groans under his breath.

“So here I am going down every titty bar in Arlington looking for you—one drink minimum at each one of them, thank you very much—because your phone is still busted...”

“It's fixed actually,” Bradley cuts in dryly. “I was ignoring you.”

“Rooster, that hurts.” Seresin mocks. It's clear he is a few drinks in, and you find your interest piqued—how well do these two actually know each other? And titty bars? You chuckle softly. Bradley shifts on his feet a little, like he's uncomfortable. Gently, you put your hand on his lower back, silently communicating calm. His shoulder relax a fraction, but he still doesn't move. “Why are you here, Hangman?” Bradley keeps his voice level, but you can hear the irritation. “What crawled up your snatch, Rooster?” Serenin's voice is suddenly a lot closer, although you still can't see him. “And who is kicking your ass in pool?” Bradley shifts as he follows Seresin who walking up to the pool table, but he doesn't respond. You can see him now. If you didn't already know Seresin was from Texas from his file, his attire would have given it away—the plaid shirt, jeans and big belt buckle. He pulls it off with his southern swagger, you have to give him that. He turns around to Bradley with a cocky grin, probably to fire off another mocking remark when he spots you. His eyes go wide for a second before he grins in recognition. Oh shit. “I've seen you before — you were at TOPGUN.” He is almost gleeful. “You were there with that corporal -” You can almost see the cogs turn in his head as he puts the pieces together. Your gut tells you nothing good will come from this. “Don't tell me you are Rooster's business at the Pentagon.”

You bristle. Seresin's patronizing tone and arrogant look as he stares you down makes you want to shrink into yourself. But what the fuck, he is the one intruding. You stare back at him, eyebrow slightly arched, hoping to quickly come up with a clever retort. “Back off.” Bradley's voice is sharp now—his shoulders set. Seresin hold his hands up in a mock gesture of peace. “Just curious.” Seresin says unfazed. “Besides, it's her corporal friend that summoned me here to testify.” “He's not my friend.” The words barrel out of you before you can stop yourself, offended someone would think you're friendly with Riks. You frown at Seresin.

“What do you mean you've been summoned to testify?” Bradley cuts in, incredulous. “About what?” “Unauthorized take-off and engaging with enemy fighters.” Seresin has grabbed a cue stick now and is eyeing up a shot. “To save your ass Rooster, if you care to remember.” He concludes with a martyred look on his face.

Okay, you've been hidden away in the storage for a while now, but you're not oblivious of what is happening in your department. There is no committee hearing testimonies about the mission right now, and Riks can't make people testify. Under oath. That would be a joke. “Are you sure you've been called to testify, lieutenant, or is it actually giving evidence?” You keep your voice light and tone pleasant. “There's a difference?” Seresin doesn't even look at you, but takes a shot instead, potting the ball effortlessly. Fucking asshole. “Well, if you're testifying you're probably a hair away from a court martial, but if you're giving evidence you're just being dramatic.” You shrug. “And I'm pretty sure it's the latter.” That catches Seresin's attention—he narrows his eyes at you as he straightens up. You don't feel half as confident as you just sounded, especially not when Seresin is clearly sizing you like that. “Well, Hangman does have a flair for the dramatic.” Bradley chuckles, turning to you a wrapping his arm around your shoulders. He has your back. Seresin ignores his jab though and grins at you instead. “Why don't you show what you're made of...” He motions to the pool table as he trails off. Oh. So he recognized you, but doesn't know your name. “Darcy. Williams.” You supply, deadpan. “Sure, miss Williams.” Seresin says vaguely as he starts re-racking the balls. You purse your lips in displeasure. “Darlin' -” Bradley's voice is soft in your ear. “Don't let Hangman get to you.” You turn to him, pressing a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Touching his arm and running your fingers down to his hand, you interlink your fingers. “Don't worry about me.” You smile. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, maybe you misjudged how competitive both Bradley and Seresin were, and might have you allowed your own competitiveness catch up with you. You had held your own pretty well until Seresin suggested to up the ante. Bradley readily agreed, so did you. A tray of tequila shots made it to your table, and disappeared at a steady pace, as you a pretty sure the rules of the drinking game Bradley and Seresin dragged you into are changing by the minute. First it was every foul, then it was every miss, then it was every round you don't pot a ball—you're pretty sure you've collectively arrived at the point where everyone just haves to take a drink when it's their turn period. Unfortunately, you are not a muscled six-foot something fighter pilot, and your accuracy takes a dive after taking your third shot for an infraction that you are pretty sure Seresin made up on the spot. Ultimately, it's how you find yourself on the losing end of another game of pool.

You let out a frustrated sigh as you put away your cue stick. The boys can fight this one out among themselves.

“Oh, no, no, no—you're not done yet.” Seresin stops you with a grin can at this point only describe as almost evil.

“Oh yeah, I am.” You reply, with a sardonic smile and leaving no room for argument in your tone, you hope. But you are done with the shots—you're (kind of) cool with losing a game of pool, but you're not looking to get blind drunk.

“There are consequences for losing.” Seresin continues coolly.

“That's enough, Hangman.” Bradley, who had been prepping a new game, is suddenly next to you, his hand on your hip and steering you away.

“No, tell your girl losing doesn't go unpunished.”

You just go blank at that moment. Heat creeping up your neck, you cannot focus on any part of the conversation happening around you.

Your girl, Seresin said.

Are you Bradley's girl?

You want to be. God, you want to.

Out of the corner of your eye, you try to sneak a look at Bradley. Did he react to it any way? Did he even register it? You think you spot a tinge of red on the tip of his ears. Although it might be the alcohol.

A can of beer being forced into your hands breaks you out of your reverie.

“So?” Seresin looks at you questioningly.

“I- no - what?” You stumble over your words, looking down at the can. Where that it even come from?

“Do you know how to shotgun a beer?” Seresin repeats slowly.

You are so stunned, you cannot even reply immediately. Why in the college fuck is this? Shotgunning a beer in a bar? Bradley assumes your failure to reply means you either don't know or are maybe too drunk. He goes to pluck the can from your hand.

“Cut it out, Hangman, she's not even a fucking patch.” He sounds annoyed again. Fuck, now Bradley's going to think you're a total lightweight and Seresin will think you'll hide behind Bradley and that you're a civilian to get out of it.

“Rooster, don't be a bitch and let the lady answer.” Seresin is too pushy. Too abrasive. It's putting you on edge, and you want him to shut the fuck up already. It's the mix of wanting to prove yourself—having just about your fill of rude officers making assumptions about your person, and just... being a few drinks in. Not the best combination when making choices.

“I can shotgun a fucking beer.” You bite out, probably more forcefully than you intended, but this is getting on your nerves now. “Gimme back that can.”

Seresin looks positively gleeful. Bradley pulls you back into him as you reach of the can in his hand.

“You don't have to do it.” His voice low and eyes are boring into yours. “Don't let him goad you into doing something stupid.”

You lean into him with a smile, brushing your lips against his teasingly.

“Sounds like you have personal experience with that.”

“I mean it.” His voice still has a sharp edge to it. Instead of replying verbally, you press your lips against his and grab the can back from him. You'll be fine. Probably. Surely. Right?

No going back now.

Grabbing the key Seresin holds out to you, you puncture a hole near the bottom of the can. Fuck, you haven't done this since college. Who even does this in a bar. Idiots, that's who. And you're about to join their ranks. You don't even really dare to look at Bradley—you might actually chicken out if he looks annoyed or worried. You don't want him to worry.

Deep breath.

In one fell swoop, you put the can to your mouth, tilting your head back and open the tab at the top.

Relax.

The beer starts pouring, and you swallow quickly, letting it pour down your throat. It'll be over in seconds, but they are important seconds, not to make yourself look like a complete tool. Screwing your eyes shut, you keep reminding yourself to keep calm. You can feel some beer trickling from the side of your mouth onto your chin, dripping onto your chest. Fuck. Can't stop now.

The sides of the can pop lightly inwards under your fingers—you're almost there. Just a few more gulps. Mercifully, the can finally empties, the aluminum crinkling in your hands as you crush the sides.

You are almost out of breath as you use the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. Your eyes finally meet Bradley's. He half sitting on a stool with his arms crossed, while his mouth hangs slightly open in surprise, but his eyes are darkened with unrestrained desire.

Maybe it's because you're drunk, or you're feeling emboldened by pulling that move off, or it's that look of pure lust in Bradley's eyes and impressed expression on his face. But he's absolutely never looked more attractive to you—it's making your fingers itch to reach out to him and kiss him—and you wish he would never stop looking at you like that. The small annoying voice of insecurity in your head rings out: it's because you finally feel like you are worthy of his attention, but you quickly push it away.

You swallow thickly, the gas from the beer threatening to bubble up for a second. God, you feel really full right now.

You turn to Seresin, and unceremoniously push the crushed can against his chest.

“Happy?” You ask sarcastically.

“Rooster is a lucky man.” Seresin still looks like a cat that got the cream as he grabs the can from you.

You shoot Seresin a disgusted look. Bradley was probably right to ignore him, you think venomously.

Okay, now, don't stumble as you walk to a seat. Bradley reaches his hand out to you and steers you to him. You wrap your arms around his neck—all your senses are dulled, but somehow also sharper. You can smell his cologne. The hairs at the nape of his neck are soft against the skin of your underarms.

“You okay, sweetheart?” You can feel his breath against your collarbone. You just hum affirmatively, enjoying feeling Bradley against you.

“Good.” He falls silent for a second. “Because that was fucking hot.”

“I aim to please.” You giggle, pressing yourself into him. Bradley's hand moves shamelessly over your ass, squeezing it. Everything about him is so intoxicating right now. His hands on you, his lazy smile, his eyes burning for you. Threading your fingers through his hair, you crush your lips against his.

For a few beats, Bradley doesn't react, stunned by your sudden fervor. But then his hand is on your rib cage, pulling him closer to you and deepening the kiss. You gently rake your nails through Bradley's hair, tilting his head for better access to his mouth. Bradley lets you lead, enjoying your sudden confidence and obvious lust it sparked. You break away first, gasping for breath. You feel lightheaded—from the alcohol, the kiss, the combination of both. Bradley looks like he just had the breath knocked out of him—glassy eyed looking up at you, cheeks lightly flushed. You feel a spark of pride: you did this to him. You are making him feel this way. Slowly, Bradley gets up and gently sets you down on the stool he'd been sitting on. “Hold that thought, sweetheart.” His voice takes on a deep timbre that you swear you can feel reverberate in the pit of your stomach. He lingers for a moment, not touching you, but just close enough for you to feel him. Fuck. The promise of his words and his proximity are enough to put your mind in overdrive. Too soon, he turns away and joins Seresin at the pool table a few feet away, who rolls his eyes obnoxiously at Bradley. You can't make out the jabs and insults they throw each other's way over the music and noise of the bar. Checking your phone, you squint one eye shut to focus your vision on the screen. Shit, you are really sauced. It's somewhere around 2 AM. The bar is pretty full, with people crowding around the bar. “Be a doll, and get us some more beers, won't you?” Seresin's voice suddenly rings out. You shoot him a look of disgust, which is exactly the reaction he's going for. He just smirks and sarcastically winks at you. You roll your eyes. There's no use in arguing with the likes of him. “She has a name.” You hear Bradley admonish Seresin as you get up on your feet while stuffing your phone into the back pocket of your jeans. “Pff, it's not like you use it.” Seresin counters easily. You don't hear the rest as you make your way to the crowded bar. Making your way through the mass of people, you find a spot to wait your turn at the bar. Clearly, the majority of the people around you are in the armed forces—lots of high and tight haircuts, jargon getting thrown around, and just... lots of testosterone.

Patiently, you wait your turn to order while people push past you without much grace. You glance back towards the pool table, but you can't see it from where you're standing, vision obscured by the people around you. Oh shit, it's your turn to order. The bartender is grabbing the bucket of beers for you when you realize you should really try to sober up a little. “Can I get a coke too, please? Regular.” Your voice feels raw from all the drinking and loud talking of the night. The bartender nods, fills a glass for you. Handing him cash for the drinks, you decide to hang out for a second to drink some of your coke. It's so stupid, but you don't feel like being made fun of for getting a soda, and you're sure Seresin will zero in on that. Unfortunately, your senses are so dulled by the alcohol, you don't pay much attention to your surroundings. You don't notice the scuffle breaking out behind you until it's too late, and the sound of yelling and shattering glass explodes without any warning to you. By then it's too late and the movement of the crowd sends you stumbling forward a few steps, banging your shin on a fallen barstool. Ignoring the pain, you try to gather your wits: you need to move from here. People are milling around in panic and anger, yelling and pushing. But before you can gather your bearings, a wave of cold beer hits your back, soaking your shirt. Fuck. It does the trick of sobering you up enough to start pushing your way away from the bar to where you think the pool table is, but you can hardly get through the crush of people rushing towards the fight. It's the moment where you consider giving up and just hoping nothing happens to you in the crush of people, a hand grabs your wrist painfully. You yelp in as much fear as pain, and try to pull away, but your back is against the bar. What the fuck. What the fuck. For a split second, the pressure on your wrist releases. A hand shoots out and grabs your elbow with the same vice-like grip. Involuntarily, a whimper escapes you before you look down. That G-shock watch looks familiar. Fighter pilots wear those.

Before you can complete the thought that's forming in your alcohol impaired brain, your feet leave the ground as you essentially get rag dolled through the air and out of your predicament.

You unceremoniously crash into Bradley, who sets you on your feet and immediately pushes you behind him, not letting go of your elbow. He and Seresin stand side by side, pulled up to their full heights as they square off with another man, who in the chaos decided to pick a fight with them.

“Back the fuck up!” Bradley sounds beyond angry, barking out each word with such force it makes you almost shrink back. Seresin is yelling too, forming a solid block with Bradley against the aggressor. They might not like each other, but clearly the Naval pilots stick together against outsiders. You don't want things to escalate, but you also really don't want to get in the middle of three big angry dudes in the middle of a bar fight going on.

As fast as it started, the crowd starts dissipating. New voices come into the mix. Police. Oh, fucking hell. Bradley is already leading you away, finally letting go of your elbow and reaching for your lower back.

“Oh jesus -” He immediately retracts his hand. Your shirt is still soaking at the back, sticking to your skin.

“Sorry - it - it's really disgusting.” Eyes downcast, you shiver and the nasty sticky sensation and the now nauseating smell of beer. “I feel disgusting. Can we go home, please?”

You don't mean to sound pathetic. But you're done with this night.

Bradley stops walking and turns you towards him. He tilts up your head by gently grabbing your chin. You feel strangely embarrassed. It's not your fault, but being covered in beer does not exactly scream attractive. 

“Are you hurt?” His voice is soft, worried. The edge in his voice makes you look up. Bradley looks serious, his faced etched with worry.

“Just my pride.” You force a small smile on your face, not wanting him to needlessly worry. Bradley looks you over like he doesn't really believe you.

“I mean it.” You smile encouragingly. “But I do want to get out of here.”

You have a light jacket with you, which you guess will keep you until you get home. Ugh, you hope a taxi or uber will even take you in this state.

“You need to get changed.” Bradley states. You want to ask what he means, when he shrugs off his Hawaiian shirt and starts steering you to the ladies room.

“Change into this, or you'll catch your death outside.” He says simply.

“What about you?” You shamelessly let your eyes roam over his tanned muscular arms. The white shirt makes the contrast all the more delicious. Should you be leaving him by himself out here?

“Humor me, darlin'.” He sounds pretty humorless as he jerks his head towards the bathroom door. Grabbing the shirt, you enter and find yourself a free and not too disgusting stall. You shiver as you peel your soaking shirt from your skin. You try to use the dry parts to pat yourself dry as much as possible. The vague smell of beer still sticks to your skin. You wring out your shirt above the toilet.

Ew.

Bradley's shirt smells like him. The soft fabric feels almost alien against your skin as you button it up. It feels like you're swimming in the fabric. Scrunching up your dirty shirt in your first, you exit the stall to check yourself out in the mirror as you wash your hands. Your cheeks are flushed and hair looks mussed. The shoulders of Bradley's shirt are too broad for your frame, pulling the collar askew to one side, revealing your collarbone.

You tuck the front of the shirt in the waistband of your jeans, hoping it looks less like you're drowning in the garment. Deciding to fix yourself a bit more, you pull your hair from the braid you put in when starting the first game of pool, and combs your fingers through the new waves it formed. Ugh, the beer caught some strands of your hair too. You look kind of tired, kind of drunk, but at least you don't look like drowned rat anymore. You feel strange wearing his shirt like that in public, like you're broadcasting something deeply intimate. Hyperaware of the fabric on your skin, it fills you with a deep feeling of warm comfort. Best not leave Bradley waiting too long. He's probably itching to get home too. When you exit the bathroom, the bar's regular lights are turned on, music muted and people are filing out. You spot Bradley and Seresin standing near a table. Two undeniably gorgeous girls are laughing at something Seresin said, who has a broad smile on his face, while Bradley stands with his back turned to your direction. Even in the harsh lighting, his skin appears sun kissed. The shirt brings out the muscles on his arms and back—his shoulders look even broader like this. You falter as you walk in their direction, unease settling in your stomach. There's no reason for your discomfort, you tell yourself. Fuck. It's a bar, people strike up conversations. Especially good-looking girls with good-looking guys. You fist your shirt in your hand, mind going a mile a minute. God, you wish the alcohol could have at least dulled your anxiety for a bit longer. Just walk up. And try not look intimidated? Or insecure? He's here with you. Even though you haven't put a label on what ever it is you're doing. One of the girls turns to say something to Bradley, who then turns a quarter turn away from her, not really responding and clearly preoccupied with his phone, mouth set in a hard line. It looks out of character, even Seresin cocks an eyebrow. The moment Bradley locks eyes with you, his expression softens. He holds his hand out for you, guiding you to his side. “Put in your home address, sweetheart.” He says softly, kissing the side of your head while handing you his phone. “I'm ordering us an uber.”

You nod mutely, and enter the information. “There's one only 5 minutes out, babe.” You reply, voice quiet, like you didn't want anyone to intrude on your mutual intimacy. Bradley just nods, confirms the pickup. Wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head against his chest, you close your eyes for a second to enjoy his warmth. Seresin is still talking to girls, but they seem a bit less enthusiastic. “I grabbed your jacket and purse.” He mumbles into your hair. “Did you have anything else with you?” You just shake your head and untangle yourself from him. Stuffing your dirty shirt into your purse, you grab your jacket and hold it in your arms. “You're not leaving already, are you?” Seresin seems genuinely surprised. “I've seen enough tonight.” Bradley replies without hesitation. “I'm taking my girl home.” You are pretty sure you floated home that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[note] ugh, I've been writing for my job so much, it's been a challenge to actually sit down and write more after a work day. My brain has just been feeling so depleted of...well, words. Annoyingly, it also means that I get new energy to write around midnight, and actually manage to write good chunks in one go... if only I didn't have to go to sleep for my job! Oh well. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

[taglist] @ponyboys-sunsets | @thatchickwiththecamera | @littlewhiterose | @katieshook02 | @straightforwardly | @zazzysseoul | @rororo06 | @datingbtr | @notalxx | @fresh-new-yoik-watah | @gretagerwigsmuse  | @swthxrry | @joshkiskasbunion | @caelipartem | @blackbrownie | @yanak324 | @unluckymonaghan | @letusbewildflowers | @ticklish-leafy-plant | @alana4610 | @eg-dr3amer3 | @turningtoclown | @mell-bell | @mak-32 |@avis15

[miraculousluvbug]

WINGLESS | Ch. 11

***New to Wingless? Start at Chapter 1!

CH. SUMMARY: So the cat's out of the bag and the milk's been spilled and it kind of feels like the sky is falling, but at least these three doofuses have each other.

Murder was the only thing on Alya’s mind after Chat Noir’s detransformation left behind one Adrien Agreste. In fact, she had never wanted to murder anyone so badly. Not even Chloe.

But the “Guardian” Marinette spoke of? The one who chose two kids from the same school and forced them to keep secrets from everyone they loved and who loved them? The one who pressured them into being child soldiers before their brains were fully developed with crap about being “chosen?” Who put the fate of Paris in the hands of two adolescents not even allowed inside the R-rated section at a movie rental but were apparently allowed to fight until they were bruised, battered, and traumatized?

Yeah, she was willing to go to jail for manslaughter.

Her heart broke for Marinette, whose biggest problem should have been whether she completed her history report on time or if she was going to be able to parallel park for her driver’s test without bumping an unsuspecting car, not if her choice to love and be loved led to the apocalypse.

“I cannot wait to strangle that Hawaiian-shirt-loving Master of Unnecessary Manipulation.”

On the other side of the camera, Adrien was sweating buckets. Alya just saw him detransform! Not even one person was supposed to know, but now two people knew?! And why did she want to strangle a Hawaiian-shirt-loving Master--

“Wait--” Adrien said, eyebrows furrowed as his single brain cell tried to fit a square block in the circle slot of a shape puzzle. He only knew one Hawaiian-shirt-loving Master, but he didn’t think Alya should know about him.

Having recovered from his shock and utterly lacking the ability to read the room, Nino clapped a hand on Adrien’s shoulder and squeezed. “Dude, this is so cool! I can’t believe we’ve been fighting crime together this whole time!”

“NINO!” Alya protested to deaf ears from the laptop.

Adrien gulped. “We?” He surveyed Nino from head to toe once more, taking in his Rena Rouge pajamas with fresh eyes. The Rena Rouge posters plastering his walls were suddenly searing into his retinas. Can the Miraculous change your gender? he pondered.

The devil worked hard, but his one brain cell worked harder.

“Oh, right. I forgot Chat doesn’t know. I’m Carapace, dude!”

Adrien whipped his head so fast he felt faint. Nino grinned at him dopily from beneath the spots in his vision, not a single hint of regret at revealing his secret marring his features. On the contrary, he seemed extremely pleased with himself.

“Y-you’re Carapace?” Adrien’s eyes were blown so wide Alya wondered if they could get any bigger, and that was saying something from the other side of a screen.

While Adrien was stunned speechless by the news, the effects of sharing such intimate secrets among his closest friends settled over him like a comfort blanket until the shock melted into a sweet contentedness, one as velvety and rich as a dark chocolate ganache.

“You’re Carapace,” Adrien sighed, crushing Nino in a hug.

“And you’re that flirty cat throwing himself into danger all the time,” Nino quipped. “Here, I thought you were an innocent duckling. My little baby’s got game!” As the two chuckled, Adrien caught a glimpse of an agitated Alya from over Nino’s shoulder.

Is she disappointed that one of her heroes is just me? he asked himself, his smile giving way to a frown.

Wait.

Alya didn’t look at all surprised by the news that her own boyfriend was a superhero.

Had she already known?

Images of a turtle and fox hero snuggling up to each other once or twice when they thought no one was looking played in his mind like a film reel. Adrien released Nino, not quite taking his eyes off the redhead. “You know, I always thought Carapace and Rena Rouge had a thing going on, but that’s not possible because you and Alya--”

As Adrien stared at Alya, her agitation resolving to worry in the creasing of her brow and pursing of her lips, the recognition bumbled into place, so much slower and clumsier than it had with Nino’s clean confession. His brain had to fight the barrier of the Miraculous magic and--he wasn’t gonna lie--it kind of hurt what with the way his synapses fired and his eyes strained to mentally peel away a magical mask from the image of Rena Rouge in his mind. Rena’s hair was a much more vivid red-orange, her hairstyle way more intricate than Alya’s everyday curls, and Adrien even had to wonder if her lips changed colors when transformed, but . . .

Well, true as the sky was blue, so too was the fact that the girl staring back at him from the computer screen was his other teammate.

“You’re Rena Rouge.”

Alya rubbed the temples of her forehead in an attempt to dissuade the oncoming tension headache. She was counting her lucky ladybugs that Marinette was out of the house, not even wanting to imagine how different this conversation could have gone had she been there. Perhaps she’d serve a plate full of supernova-level panic attacks with a side of catastrophizing and a sprig of heroic guilt for good measure.

“Nino,” she sighed. “The point of a secret identity is to keep it secret. Because, you know--” she waved her hands around wildly and scrunched her nose, reminding Adrien of someone else he knew “--Shadow Moth!”

“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t about to lie to my best bud after he shared his alter ego with me.”

“You’re Rena Rouge,” Adrien whispered dazedly, pointing at Alya first, then Nino, “and you’re Carapace.” He looked his friend up and down again, recalling his own cache of Ladybug-themed nightwear hiding in his armoire. “Well, that explains the pajamas. You know each other’s identities. You’re dating and you know each other’s identities.”

He felt like his legs were going to stop working any second then. He backed away until his calves hit Nino’s bed board and promptly fell back onto the mattress.

“Ladybug let you know each other’s identities.”

Plagg, who had stayed out of sight for the duration of this conversation, drifted to Adrien’s lap and curled up on his thigh. Adrien absentmindedly stroked his kwami to calm himself, but he abruptly stopped when another realization crashed down on him with the full force of an akumatized Tom Dupain-Cheng.

“If you’re Rena Rouge, then you know who Ladybug is,” Adrien said, his voice sounding far away even to himself.

Nino’s eyes bulged out of his sockets. “You know Ladybug’s identity?!” he shouted before clapping his hands over his mouth, praying to Allah that none of his neighbors heard his outburst.

Alya could not pick up her jaw from the floor even if she had tried. The volume inside of this bus was astronomical. Secrets. Secrets spilled everywhere. This was The Office now, and her chili pot had spilled all over the floor. How could she even begin to salvage this situation? Was Bunnyx going to pop out of her burrow hole any time soon? Was this going to lead to Chat Blanc again somehow? Right in front of her salad?!

With a start, Alya noticed both boys had been staring at her and she had yet to answer them. Her head was spinning. She tried to swallow her nervousness and silently wished the Earth would swallow her instead. “Yes,” she eventually confirmed, voice low. She spoke slowly, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. “I do, and it’s not my secret to share.”

Adrien bore a pained expression, and yet again, Alya wanted to commit murder.

Suddenly, the blonde boy jumped to his feet and approached the computer screen in three short strides before placing his hands firmly on the desk and inspecting Alya’s background. “Wait, Alya, you’re in Marinette’s room.”

Alya wanted to die.

“Is Marinette there?” Adrien asked her. “Did she hear everything? Does she know I’m Chat Noir?”

Alya opened her mouth to respond but paused long enough to observe the speck of desire in his eyes. If she could sense his affection for Marinette from the other side of this screen, she speculated what she might have been able to pick up on had they been having this conversation in person. And, well, if there were dials in her brain labeled “Supportive Friend” and “Meddling Friend,” she imagined a mini Alya in her cranial cavity cranking the latter up a couple hundred notches.

She leaned forward, a smirk on her lips and her eyes hooded just a tad. “Why? Do you want her to know you’re Chat Noir, balcony boy?” Alya couldn’t help retorting, waggling her eyebrows. His reaction was immediate.

So he’s not as dense as I thought.

He blushed and tried to hide his cheeks in the collar of his shirt. Alya stifled a laugh. “Oh, yeah. She told me all about your candlelit balcony meant for Ladybug.”

“Smooth,” Nino complimented.

The praise would have boosted Adrien’s ego had it not been for one microscopic, little detail. “It didn’t work,” Adrien muttered, making Alya want to strangle Master Fu once more. For the love of all that was Holy, these two were pining after each other and she wanted to frickin’ yeet herself off a building.

She sighed. “To answer your question: no. My girl’s not here.”

Adrien tried to hide his disappointment, but Alya saw right through him.

They all sat in silence, each member of the team working through their own feelings about the revelations thrust upon them that night.

Adrien turned his back and headed for the door. “Plagg, claws out.”

“Wait, bro, you’re leaving?”

“I came here to tell you I’m Chat Noir. I did that. I wasn’t expecting Alya to know, too. I wasn’t expecting you to be Carapace. I wasn’t expecting Alya to be the person Ladybug trusted with her identity over me. And honestly?” He spared a glance at her over his shoulder. He could feel the sympathy coming off her in waves through the screen. He offered her a smile, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes or touch his heart, but it would have to be enough for now. “I don’t even know if I have the energy to be jealous over that because Alya’s a great friend.”

Thanks, sunshine. You’ll think I’m a superb friend after I’m done working my magic, Alya promised him with the resolve of a vengeful Best Friend (which is a very strong resolve indeed).

“Anyways, I’m pretty exhausted. I just hope Lila’s off the premises by the time I get home.”

Alya’s feathers ruffled. “Lila?”

Chat Noir grimaced. “Yeah. She was chatting up Father when I got home and . . . suffice it to say, the sight made me sick.”

“It’d make me sick, too,” Alya agreed. “Anti-Lila club, anyone?” Both boys tilted their heads at her like two Golden Retrievers. This was the first time either of them had ever heard Alya express distaste toward Lila.

“Wait, I thought you liked Lila. Marinette seemed to be the only one who saw through her lies.”

Alya cringed at that. “Well, some new information came my way that made me see the light, I guess. Like, say, she couldn’t possibly be best friends with Ladybug.”

“Tell me about it. Ladybug loathes her,” Chat Noir chuckled, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Absolutely despises her.”

Nino felt like he was missing a large piece of this puzzle.

“You know, when Lila first came to town, she tried to tell me she was the owner of the fox Miraculous. She had a fake from the Gabriel line and everything. That was when Ladybug swooped in and told me she had been lying about their ‘friendship.’”

Nino still wasn’t following. “Lila was trying to impress Chat Noir?”

“Well, actually, I was Adrien me when that happened,” Chat replied, rubbing his neck in the same fashion he would have as the timid boy beneath the mask. Alya blinked. No wonder Marinette hadn’t pieced together his identity. It was bizarre seeing Chat Noir do that.

“So Ladybug didn’t want Lila impressing Adrien,” Nino surmised, nodding in approval. “Nice. Good for you, man.”

Chat Noir spluttered. “I don’t think it was like that at all. She just hates liars.”

“She must really hate being Ladybug then,” Nino mused aloud.

“Yeah . . .” Chat Noir trailed off, recalling his last meeting with Ladybug just a little under five hours ago.

“All of the secrets were too much. I think--I think I was depressed. I went to bed sad and woke up sad. Akumas were coming for me left and right. So I made the decision to tell Rena.”

Chat Noir had been so focused on the fact that Ladybug had shared her identity with someone other than him that he hadn’t really processed the why. Even as she told him that she trusted him, it didn’t line up with what he knew to be true: she had a habit of withholding information from him. And he couldn’t fathom why her default decision was always to leave him out of the loop. Would Ladybug have ever even told him that Rena knew had Alya not slipped up?

Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing since what was done was done. C’est la vie and all that. Yet, somehow, it always came back to that one fundamental difference between Adrien and Ladybug. Adrien adored his role as Chat Noir. His alter ego was the only freedom he had from his otherwise suffocating life. Ladybug was his only friend to know him without all the bells and whistles that followed the Agreste name. But did the girl behind the spots not feel the same way as him? Could she actually hate being Ladybug?

He supposed he would have to ask her.

When Chat Noir lifted his gaze from the floor, he discovered both of his friends watching him, patiently waiting. He half expected them to chastise him for wasting their time, but he had to remind himself that they weren’t Father and let the subsequent sorry dissolve on his tongue. Catching the hint that Chat was ready to depart, Nino escorted him to the balcony.

As Chat fiddled with the sliding glass door lock (clawed gloves really didn’t help with such coordinated tasks), Nino pulled him into a bear hug.

“Thanks for telling me, bro. I’m here for you, you know that.”

After a moment, Chat returned the embrace.

“I know.”

Reaching past Chat, Nino easily unlocked the sliding glass door for his best friend and watched with a proud smile as the Black Cat of Paris vaulted away into the night. The chilly night air sent shivers down Nino’s spine, so he was quick to close the door and robotically meandered back to his room, his girlfriend waiting for him on the screen. He sank into his computer chair and slid his hat over his face, allowing himself to simmer beneath its darkness for a beat or two.

“Sorry, Alya, but I’m a LadyNoir shipper now.”

Alya couldn’t have stopped the snort that came out of her even if she’d tried. “And what makes you say that?”

“Marinette’s my friend and all, but my boy has his sights set on the bug. I’ve gotta support him, you know? Bros before--” the unamused glare Alya had pinned on him burned a hole through his hat “--not bros.”

“Right. Well, don’t count my girl out yet. Why don’t you just get back to writing your script?”

And so he did. For the rest of their Skype call, the two heard from neither Marinette nor Adrien. Alya worked on a blog piece while Nino brainstormed his film idea, and all was relatively peaceful (well, as peaceful as it could be after finding out your best friend was a spandex-wearing cat boy).

That is, until Nino received a Discord message from Adrien.

22:47

adrienagreste

You’ll never believe who I just bumped into at the park

All alone

Talking to a Chat Noir doll

Nino cocked a brow. Wasn’t Adrien supposed to have gone straight home? Also, hadn’t Alya mentioned something about Marinette going to the park? In fact, he was in the middle of typing Marinette’s name when Adrien’s next text came in. And all this text contained was a single emoji . . .

Just now

adrienagreste

🐞

Who knew an emoji would be all it took?

“So you weren’t gonna tell me being an Adrienette shipper is being a LadyNoir shipper?” Nino spun to face Alya with the smuggest smirk on his lips and his arms folded pompously over his Rena Rouge pajama shirt.

Alya froze. Slowly, she craned her head toward the camera, abandoning her article completely. The two of them stared at each other as well as one could through a screen, sizing the other up, waiting to see who would make the first move. Nino already started the game, but now it was Alya’s choice how to play.

Knowing Nino, however, she knew that hubris in his shoulders and that gleam in his eye meant her efforts would be futile. The mask already slipped off Ladybug in his mind, and there was literally no possible way for her to tie it back on. She slumped.

“How did you figure it out?”

Nino whooped and spun himself around in his rolly chair. “These two idiots have got it so bad for each other and they don’t even know it! This is awesome. It’s like a--a love triangle! No, wait . . . A love square!”

Suddenly, he slammed his hand on his desk. The chair immediately stopped spinning. “Alya, it’s a love square.”

“I know.”

Nino dropped his head onto his table like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Oh, this ain’t it, chief. They could’ve known each other this whole friggin’ time, Alya. Whoever did this is a monster, straight up. Who’d do this to ’em? To our sweet, little hopeless romantic ducklings? Only a monster!” he wailed.

“There, there,” Alya offered, aware that Nino must be cycling through the same realizations she had just thirty minutes ago after learning Adrien was Chat Noir. She would have been patting his back had they been in the same room.

“Wait. Why don’t we just tell them?” Nino sat up, and Alya was surprised to find actual wetness on his cheeks. Upon seeing the look on Alya’s face, he continued, “We could do it. We could just tell them!”

Alya shook her head. “They’re fighting a guy who infects your mind and manipulates you. Chat Noir throws himself in the line of fire all the time, and he’s even been mind controlled to fight her. Marinette says if either one of them knew who the other was and Shadow Moth akumatized them, he would be able to get both their Miraculous.”

She considered telling Nino about Chat Blanc, but that experience was traumatizing enough for Marinette. The least her best friend deserved was control over who knew about it. Besides, the story wasn’t really Alya’s to tell. After a moment, she added, “And no one even knows what he plans to do with them.”

“Something evil, I bet.”

“Probably.” Alya sighed.

“But, Alya . . . now we know both their identities.”

Nino didn’t finish his question, but the implication hung heavy in the air, nonetheless. So what if we get akumatized?

Alya smirked, a deadly thing when cast in his direction. “I’ve broken out of an akuma’s control before.”

Nino’s jaw dropped to the floor. “You have?!”

“Mhm. Shadow Moo has nothing on your girl,” Alya contended, puffing out her chest in a superhero pose. The stars in Nino’s eyes that were placed there by the sheer awesomeness of his girlfriend sparkled.

“You must teach me your ways, Master Alya.”

They both chuckled and settled back into their chairs, letting a comfortable silence wash over them. When Nino spoke again, his voice was small, tentative.

“Still . . . I wish we could tell them.”

Alya silently watched her boyfriend pause to compose himself as if he were taking a bomb that could blow up the entire world and carefully placing it into a microwave to prevent an explosion. It would always be there, the bomb, reminding him to watch where he stepped lest he knock the microwave over and bring his friends down with him, but now? Now, it was manageable. Languidly, he returned to his script.

Alya followed his example, turning her attention back to her abandoned article but not before she confided, “Me, too, Nino.”

Although she hadn’t meant to learn Chat Noir’s secret identity, she didn’t have it in her to regret her slow fingers, to regret the spilling of their chili pot. Like fate, it had led to this, to her and her boyfriend sharing in the weight that Marinette and Adrien had been carrying on their shoulders alone for so long now. And even if they didn’t know they weren’t alone anymore, even if Alya and Nino were just supporting them from behind like little weight-spotter fairies . . .

Alya didn’t regret it, not one little bit.

-----------------------------------

23:14

ladyblogger

So u wanna 🔪 who did this to them??

DJLahiffe

ADSHF

WAIT

hol up

u kno eho made them keep their identities secret??? 👀

who*

ladyblogger

black_lady_chewing_with_knife.gif

Eye do

DJLahiffe

kombucha_girl.gif

i’m listening, babe

ladyblogger

Mhmm

And how do i kno u have it in u?

It’s an old man

Whose entire wardrobe is Hawaiian button-ups

DJLahiffe

say less

i’ll hide the body

🧍🏽‍♂️

—–

Heya! Wow! Two chapters in one day :D Only for you, dear reader ❤ Check out my Instagram for Wingless updates. I’m also posting pieces of a Wingless cover with each chapter update! We’re so close to finishing.

(11/?) Previous | Next

[codename-adler]

foxes + onesies (7/9)

based off of that one post i saw and don’t remember, where people once caught Allison wandering around Fox Tower in a giraffe onesie, and i absolutely melted for her. here is the Foxes’ journey to getting a onesie each!

Andrew

TW: mentions/implications of sexual abuse

Andrew does not get a onesie

instead, he watches Lilo & Stitch, alone, in his bed, on his laptop

the first time he saw the movie, it was in theaters

he was 4 or 5, maybe

it was with one of his first foster families, who cared for three other foster kids, all around Andrew’s age: Claire, Kelly and Ben

sometimes he wonders where they are now, but he doesn’t care: it’s just a fleeting thought

Lilo & Stitch marked him for life

something about Nani and Lilo’s relationship, something about family struck him deep

something about it broke his little heart, and he never recovered

and yeah, the aliens were pretty cool too

but Andrew never said anything about it to anyone

except for the year before he turned seven

he was still with the same foster family that had brought him to the movies

for Christmas, instead of asking for the usual necessities like clothes or the very unnecessary candies… Andrew asked for Lilo & Stitch

and he got it

he got the brand new VHS

he kept it under his pillow for a few months, untouched, unopened

at night, he would run his little fingers along the edges of the box, and play the movie in his head

because yes, in one viewing, Andrew had memorized the entire movie and could now remember it scene by scene, eyes closed

Lilo & Stitch was one of the first things he actively committed to his memory

Andrew only put the VHS on when the other kids were out of the house

which, didn’t happen a lot

he watched it maybe three or four times before moving into another foster family

Andrew didn’t care that he left this one, as long as he could keep Lilo & Stitch

the next few foster homes he moved into were packed with kids

like, 8 kids and counting

all his foster parents were either greedy, exhausted, overworked or deeply uncaring

by the time he was 7, Andrew had rewatched his VHS less than five times

he was always so careful with it, he never let anyone touch it, and he often threw hands with whoever dared lay a hand on it

which is part of why, by the time he was 7, Andrew had been through 4 more foster homes

he remembers the night he lost his VHS, though

and he remembers exactly where he left it

he was in a home with 9 other kids ranging from 7 months to 13 years old

the foster mother was a lazy woman, but very stressed out and impatient

the 7-months-old that had just joined them 2 weeks ago was giving everyone migraines

one night, the woman couldn’t take it anymore; she had to get rid of some kids

but instead of calling child services to take away the baby, she told them to come pick up “three cases”

Andrew knew he was one of them, somehow

he slipped out the backdoor and into the garden

he dug a hole in the far back, with his bare hands

he buried Lilo & Stitch right there and then

he slipped into the house again, unnoticed

he washed his hands of the cold, wet, black dirt without a second thought

child services came that night and left with Andrew and the other two oldest kids

Andrew didn’t care, he just thought that the woman was stupid

Andrew wasn’t fun, wasn’t cute, wasn’t nice

but at least he didn’t talk, didn’t cry, took care of himself

after that home, he was transferred to a new one, where he was alone

a middle-aged couple took him in, Sandra and Harvey Whittaker

it was that home

Andrew was glad his VHS never touched a thing from that dirty house

the rest, as they say, was history

Andrew never saw the movie again

he never once closed his eyes to recall every minute of Lilo and Stitch’s adventures, never uttered a word about it, never even glanced at anything resembling a blue little alien or a red hawaiian pattern

until Palmetto

it was totally by accident

Andrew had gone on his usual convenience store runs to buy ice cream

(he was thinking bubble gum or peanut butter rocky road)

and right there, next to the register, a DVD stand

with all the Fast & Furious, the Marvel movies, Stuart Little…

and Lilo & Stitch

Andrew bought it on a whim

he went back to his dorms with his movie and his pints of ice cream, and locked himself in his room

he put it on his laptop, and watched

it was still the same

it was still good

it was still Lilo, and Stitch, and Nani

(David was, well, quite good-looking now, though)

(but why did he have to be called David? that was Wymack’s name, it was an ugly name, a boner-killing name. why.)

as the credits rolled, Andrew removed the DVD from his laptop, put in back into its box and hid it in his desk

Andrew went on with his life as if nothing had happened

but that wasn’t… nothing

and so now, in present-day Fox Tower, the Foxes had got it into their heads to make one Neil Josten watch the Disney classics

mind you, Neil didn’t care at all

action movies or intense movies could keep his attention long enough, but “baby movies”, as he called them, did nothing for him

but these Disney nights served as bonding time for the Foxes, and Neil could sneak a nap in the back of the room while Andrew played with his hair

however, one night, when Matt had suggested they watch Lilo & Stitch next, Andrew had left the room without a word

which, not unusual per se, but Neil could tell it didn’t mean nothing

he didn’t follow Andrew, nobody did, but Neil waited until half the movie to go looking for him

he found him in his room, in his bed, his laptop illuminating his face

Neil went to stand at the end of the bed

Neil: Yes or no?

Andrew: …Yes.

Neil got into Andrew’s bed and laid down beside Andrew, face smushed into the pillows, a foot of space between their bodies

Neil angled his head backwards to glimpse at the screen

and right there

Lilo & Stitch

Neil looked up at Andrew, then back at the screen, then again at Andrew

he didn’t smile

he didn’t tease

he didn’t move

he didn’t say a word

he just looked at Andrew, and looked, and looked and looked and looked…

Andrew: Staring.

Neil stopped, then, and curled himself on his side, eyes trained on the screen

Andrew removed his earbuds, lowered the volume of his laptop and put on the subtitles for Neil, because he knew that would give him something more to focus on

they watched the whole movie together

Neil stayed awake

Andrew stayed put

Neil stayed

Andrew stayed

it’s a month later, when Neil comes back from class and checks their P.O. box

it’s there

he goes up to the girls’ dorm and asks Renee for her Post-Its

he then goes back to his dorm, where Andrew is sitting on his bed, with his laptop

Neil simply chucks him the package but doesn’t wait for Andrew’s reaction

on the plastic bag, a single orange Post-It with Neil’s terrible handwriting

Ohana

Andrew knows what it is

he’s seen the others

with their ugly-ass wannabe pajamas

he rips the plastic open nonetheless, because it’s a package, it demands to be opened

and yeah, it is what he knew it was

an oversized, velvety blue onesie

it’s Stitch

it grants Neil a 399%

so, maybe Andrew wears it, maybe he doesn’t

because he didn’t want a onesie

and, technically, Andrew did not get a onesie

but Neil did

yet, Andrew keeps it, and the Post-It

because maybe he did want a onesie

because it’s Stitch

because it’s from Neil

because Ohana