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rattini · 4 days

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Counter Offer // [ x ]

[ part one ]

The Ghoul x named OC Set years before the Fallout TV Series.

With charisma ever on your side, you’ve managed to charm your way under the arm of another wastelander for protection. When you both return to town to restock on supplies, the ghoul who spared your life in the bar finds you once more. His growing amusement towards your flustered reaction elicits a brief game of cat and mouse, in which he foils your plans and strikes you a deal in place of them. You wonder if he always likes to toy with his food.

Warnings: canon-typical violence

In the passing weeks since the little bar shoot up you found yourself in the middle of, you’ve worked your charm on whatever scary looking fella is stupid enough to fall for the batting of your eyelashes. You had this down to an art, mostly. There had been a time where your charisma just didn’t quite cut it, either that or you’d gotten incredibly unlucky with your choice of men. The memories of being a tortured, caged animal are ones you actively block out instead of trying to heal, however. In turn, your current choices were to put yourself back into the same potential danger in order to keep yourself safe. Contradictory at best, but desperation is a bitch, “Enemy of my enemy”, and all that.

Either way, you’d managed to flirt your way under the arm of a rather large man lacking in functional brain cells, mercenary, or so you think. You weren’t particularly listening when he droned on about himself, but he was muscular and scary looking, so at least he would make a decent meat shield should trouble arise. As with the last greasy raider, all your efforts went in to playfully dodging their advances any which way you could. Another skill you had meticulously honed, ensuring you spent as little time underneath them as possible.

You had made a pit stop in town with him, going your separate ways for a while so he can purchase more ammo for his guns. You were looking to stock up on stimpacks and various chems to keep one foot out of reality. There were also a few ingredients you needed to craft a herbal antimicrobial balm, since the rope burns around your wrists and ankles didn’t seem to be healing and you were sick of dealing with the itch.

Standing at the counter with your pile of supplies on the desk, you spot a familiar figure in your peripheral. The ghoul from a few weeks back, skulking at the back of the shack with the brim of his hat covering most of his face. You turn to squint in his direction, to be sure, but you feel a certainty of his figure. The way he leans on one hip, a cockiness in his body language, you wonder what he’s brooding about this time. You don’t even notice the dealer calling to you, until their voice raises with a slam of a book on the counter to snap your attention back to them.

“Oi! That will be 65 caps, missy.” A gruff woman eyeballs you through the scratched lens of her glasses.

The impact of her log book has drawn the attention of the ghoul, whose gaze almost bores through the side of your face. Blood rushes to your cheeks in a familiar hot flush, as you feel your extremities begin to tremble instinctively. Focusing hard to shake the feeling, you swallow before responding.

“Oh sure, y-yeah here, sorry ma’am.”

Fumbling in your bag for the caps, you place most of them on the counter. The remainder end up on the floor in your nervous clumsiness. Quickly you dart down to collect them, not without daring to flash another look in the direction of the ghoul. As expected, he’s still looking at you with intent. It’s evident how bothered you are, which comes as great amusement to him. A fleeting glance and nod back at the merchant before you hurry away with your goods and your tail between your legs.

Outside, you’re able to regain your composure with a large intake of breath to reset your jittering heart and trembling limbs. The town is busier than usual this morning, mostly full of vagrants fighting amongst themselves in the centre of the square. You didn’t care to be perceived by any of them right now, already anticipating their leering or desire to rob you. Dodging a few scuffles you opt for a detour around the back of the stores, the closest thing to an alleyway a shanty town can get.

Rifling through your pockets to check your remaining caps, you fail to notice the figure lurking at the edge of the alleyway. The ghoul, nonchalantly polishing his knife on a piece of old cloth, leant against the rusted cladding. It seems as though he correctly predicted your every move.

“Well if it ain’t the little honey with her wrists bound and cheeks all red.” A rumble of his ever sultry southern drawl.

Stopping dead in your tracks, your gaze snaps up to the source of the voice. Finding your lips parted to bite back, but stunned into silence. Was he following you?

“Gotta be honest, I didn’t think you were gonna get very far with that dress hiked up yer ass.” His expression darkens, as a crooked grin creeps across his mouth.

The prod doesn’t go unnoticed, but his attempt to get a rise out of you fails this time. Sucking in your cheeks, you bite your tongue to prevent any loose lipped snark getting you into more trouble. You had discarded the unsavoury clothing from the bar at your earliest convenience, if you could call it clothing, it was hardly more than a rag used to cover your shame. Perhaps you weren’t making the most self-respectful choices out here, but survival is survival, right? You had witnessed far worse out there, perhaps manipulating the opposite sex to do all the work isn’t that bad. Or perhaps that’s just what you tell yourself to justify it.

Your lack of response causes his expression to drop from smarmy to feigned sadness. Sheathing his knife once more, he saunters towards you with exaggerated movements from his lazy hips.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Got jawlock?”

Your jaw clamps in response, biting down on your molars as a last attempt of self control. Jawlock? You hadn’t had your mouth anywhere near the unwashed dicks of men with one brain cell to share between them. That much you were proud of. Your brows furrow with increasing frustration, hoping a deep breath will provide the strength to calm you slightly.

“I am doing just fine. No thanks to you.” You almost spat in response. Blunt and sharp, a contradiction in itself, as were your thoughts on the whole ordeal.

“No thanks to me?” He scoffs in an exaggerated manner, “Darlin’, I just about saved your little ass from a whole lotta shotgun to the face.”

He grits his teeth as he takes another step towards you. “An’ if I’m rememberin’ correctly, you did thank me. All while quiverin’ with excitement, I reckon.”

You hated that he was right, but you’ve had time to collect your sober thoughts since then, and it’s left you feeling pissed off.

“I had a thing going, I was protected, you ruined that. Do you know what I had to do to get in with those…morons?”

He looks bemused. Your voice raises slightly to a hushed hiss. There is a rage in your eyes, one that you’re holding back for the sake of being in public.

“Because of you I had to cozy up to the next fucking wasteland idiot, listen to him talk about nothing but himself and pretend like I gave a singular fuck about his stupid stories.”

The ghoul’s eyes narrow, as he closes the gap between you and looms over you just as he did in the bar, your knees grow weak now just as they did that night. Your brazen attitude could only be held back so much when you were riled up, perhaps there was something about that he liked. You find yourself in the same position, peering up at him through your lashes, brows still furrowed but pupils dilating at the sight of him. He did enjoy you at this angle, almost a foot beneath him.

He leans one elbow against the wall above your head, while the other hand brings itself to grip your chin tightly.

“Just when I thought you had some manners.” He tuts in false disappointment, tilting your chin to the side to get a good look at your face and neck. That fluttering in your lower belly is back with a vengeance, far stronger than the last time you two were uncomfortably close. Your jaw falls slack in his hand, causing your lips to part slightly. You are unblinking, your eyes holding a subtle fury that fires him up even more. His persistent toying with you is becoming frustrating in more ways than one, there is an urge growing to thrash under his grip, partially in curiosity in how he would detain you further. You decide to not play dangerous games, however.

“What do you want?” You complain through gritted teeth. He looks as if deep in thought for a moment, feigning a contemplative expression as he tilts his head and juts out his bottom lip.

“Oh sugar, I want my bounty-“

Before you have a moment to ponder his words, he’s reached for his hand gun and drawn it on a large figure now looming at the edge of the small makeshift alley. With a swift movement of his free arm he swoops around your waist and hoists you against his hip, easily lifting your bodyweight on one arm. Forcibly turning with him to face the figure, who incidentally happens to be your new bodyguard. You were bait.

“Unfortunately for you, you seem to be choosin’ the guys I have on my hitlist.”

As the man yells out a confused and possessive “Hey! That’s mine-“ a bullet is lodged in his neck, and he’s left to gurgle on the blood flooding his windpipe.

“Not anymore.” The ghoul responds, in an almost singsong fashion. The thud of the heavy body dropping to the floor elicits a snicker from his curled lips.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You exclaim breathlessly, his python grip squeezing the air from your ribcage.

The ghoul holsters his gun and throws you over his shoulder without another word, roughly placing his palm on the small of your back to keep you in place. He hums a tune as he strolls over to the fresh corpse to retrieve whatever caps he had on him before spinning on his heel for a quiet exit from the scene. No amount of squirming frees you of his grip, as you’re carried outside of town.

Fuck’s sake.

***

Shacks and makeshift stalls pass by as you’re carried to the outskirts of town, your demeanour has turned to a sulk by now. When he finally releases you from his grip, you say nothing. You don’t run, after all, where are you going to go with limited supplies and without a weapon? He could track you down again with ease, if he wanted to. Instead you stand where he placed you, watching as he dusts the sand and dry mud from your boots off his front, and wait some sort of explanation.

“Now don’t be lookin’ at me like that.” He sneers, even though his back is to you, no doubt expecting to be on the receiving end of a sour face. There is a pause, but no answer from you, so he continues-

“See, darlin’, if you wanted someone with the skills to keep you breathin’, hell, you just had to ask.”

You raise an eyebrow, maintaining your expression of bemusement. Clearly he’s mocking you. You’re a small woman, you manipulate men to keep you safe and do unsavoury things to keep yourself alive, so what? You were good at it. If it ain't broken, don’t fix it, another mantra you were living by in the face of unprocessed trauma. He peers back at you after he gets no response again, an expectant expression growing on his face.

“Oh, what? And that’s you, is it? My hero, the murderer and kidnapper?” You snap back, your waning patience almost depleted.

The ghoul’s smirk returns, satisfied knowing he’s crawling under your skin again. “All in a day’s work.”

“Ha! And just how are you any different from the others?”

A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, and his tone turns sickly sweet. “Sweetie, there won’t be any others left when I’m good’n done.”

“See, you seem to have a particular taste for bad men.” He breaches the space between you again, oozing with that dark sexual charisma. He pulls his gun out, observing it as he speaks.

“Now it just so happens that my gun has the same kinda appetite, and my pockets sure do like the payout.” Your muscles tense up as he takes another step toward you.

“Little woman like you is a prime target for men like that, I reckon they’ll come crawling out of their holes to see what they can take from you…and that’s when I’ll get ‘em.” He acts out a gunshot, closing one eye to aim. “No more days o’ chasin’ me for me, no more feelin’ scared and lonely for you.”

It’s taking all your mental strength to remain unphased, you’d dealt with intimidating men before many a time, but this is the first time you’ve had to fight off feelings of arousal. Betrayed by your own body. “You’ve clearly thought this through.”

“I am meticulous.”

You consider his offer, although, you’re unsure why he was putting the effort in. You had heard wind of the escapades of a ghoul bounty hunter while in town, seeing as though you hadn’t seen any other ghoul tolerated by the merchants, you assumed it was him. Why would he bother intervening with your choices not once, but twice? He could’ve killed you, or left you for dead after the first encounter, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was bored. Perhaps his old, jaded soul had grown as lonely in the wasteland as yours had. Not that you’d admit it to anyone, or even yourself anymore.

You figure that the company of a literal bounty hunter might be more beneficial to you than that of unsavoury folks likely to be an eventual target of his, or someone else’s. Not to mention the electricity drumming between your legs, which if you weren’t suppressing for logic right now, would have you perched on his lap twirling your hair. But no, he hadn’t mentioned any form of payment, so you sure as hell weren’t going to.

Unwilling to fully let down your guard around him, you take a step closer to stand your ground.

“And if I hang around, you gonna have me on a leash? Bound and gagged?”

The ghoul lets out another deep, dirty laugh. “If that’s what you’re into darlin’, but I don’t see the need, not if you’re gonna behave.” He already knew he had you in the palm of his hand, his manipulative chivalry rivalled your girlish charm. Hang on, was he using your own tactic against you?

Batting off the growing flutters, you lay out your terms like a contract. Ensuring for yourself he didn’t have any funny little play on words to trap you into something absolutely awful. You had learned the hard way to not trust a man's word without clarification. You work your black widow magic on some unsuspecting outlaws, he takes them out. He gets paid, you get protection. Everybody wins. He scoffs at the notion, but doesn’t disagree at any point.

You hold out your hand to shake his, “Alright, deal.” He pauses,, before gripping it and roughly pulling you towards him, drastically closing the space between you both. That closeness that still rippled your body with a twinge of fear and excitement. A firm shake as he leans down to your face, smirking wider than before.

“Question is: are you gonna keep answerin’ to sweetie n’ darlin’, or do you got a name?”

“Minnow.” You say plainly.

His brows raise, he suspects that may not be your real name, but out here, who knows? “Damn you’re parents mustn’t’ve liked you, huh?”

With a swift shove to your upper back, he scoots you off in the direction of the ruins of a pre-war factory. “Well now, Minnow. We’re heading that way, let’s see if you’re as good at baitin’ as your name suggests.”

#my writing #the ghoul x oc #cooper howard x oc #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout #fallout oc #fallout amazon #fallout tv series #ocs #oc: minnow

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cupcakeslushie · 1 year

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Does Mikey try to prove himself? Since you said he’s scared that his family will not like him anymore like big mama?

MIKEY ASK TIME!!

@theartofeverything @lukasischillin

Mikey can be a total showboat during battles thanks to his time in the Battle Nexus, and he makes sure to be as useful as he can around the house because he’s got a similar mindset to Donnie in that he’s worried about his place in the family. Mikey is not an idiot, he knows Big Mama grew bored of him and that’s why he was put in the fighting pits. He grew up watching her toss the employees that disappointed her in there and thought he was special and that she would never throw him away—he was totally blindsided by her betrayal, and he won’t let that happen again. So he uses a lot of his energy into discovering new ways to be productive, be that cooking, helping the family with their trauma, or taking down bad guys. It’s not so much positive motivation but more desperation to be needed.

He’s always been great at reading emotions and picking up the self-help books and his research started as more of a way to handle his issues without alerting Splinter, Raph, or April to the fact that he was struggling with things. It was further luck then when Leo and Donnie show up, and he jumps at the chance to use his knowledge to help them as well—it makes him feel good to help them, but also if he’s not being useful he gets anxious.

Cooking is not something he necessarily enjoys at first, but he’s good at it…compared to Raph and Splinter, who are hopeless for the most part (Splinter can make like five or six dishes, but for the most part they order pizza or eat frozen meals or April will bring by take out). So Mikey seizes the opportunity to fill in yet another role. He does grow to love it the more experience he gets though.

Mikey is probably the worst at admitting he needs help after Leo. If he does have an episode or flashback of some kind which is bad enough that the others worry over him, he’ll manipulate his way out of being the center of attention and convince everyone he’s fine.

No one’s religious, but the idea of family and ancestry is important to them all connecting with each other!

@gumy-shark @snazzysa1amander

I talked before about how Big Mama got Mikey tutors for his education, one of which was an art tutor, so his style is more classical until he moves into the lair and he’s greeted with massive art block, for which April introduces him to street art and he falls in love with that. If you wanna know more on that check out this reply here!

Art for Mikey is kind of the one thing he does that’s just for himself—it’s not of any use to the family, but something he enjoys, and when he shares his art work with Leo, April, or Raph, it never feels the same as when he’d show Big Mama his work and she would look it over and judge if it was good enough to hang up in her lobby. When Splinter puts his stuff on the fridge, or Donnie dedicates a wall of his lab for a cork-board that’s void of any blueprints and solely filled with the bright, colorful sketches that Mikey’s gifted him—it doesn’t feel like Mikey’s trading parts of himself to earn his keep. Instead it feels more like building himself back up. Each piece the family saves does more to convince Mikey he’s not going anywhere, more so than any other chore he’s checked off for the day.

Donnie still loves ear bleeding techno and heavy metal. Leo likes more meditative, calming stuff, but is secretly probably a BTS fan. Raph likes hip-hop and stuff you can dance to. Mikey likes songs that’ll really get you hyped and rap. April likes boy bands, but she also has a love of classic rock and early 2000s pop. I’ll actually probably make a playlist soon with a few songs I think they would like or that suits their stories, and also songs that’ve been sent to me (some of which I’m saving in my inbox so when I do finally make the playlist I can have all of them in one relevant post! Just know if you’ve sent me an ask that’s song related, I’ve seen it and appreciate all the ideas! Those songs will find their way to a playlist hopefully soon!)

Hmm I never even thought of 2012 Mikey’s kusarigama but you’re so right that it would work well for when Mikey has to make that killing blow. He does switch his weapons sometimes between fights to keep things interesting, but mostly uses nunchucks. I do however think having that secret blade in them would be pretty beneficial! But when he leaves those behind and Splinter gifts him the ones he’ll use from then on, I think he’d be happy to have the less lethal version.

@ver-444 @littleblueberryartist Human designs here

Mikey would wear a cloaking broach when out and about the lobby and even though he never attended school he’s most familar with the way things are done topside out of all the brothers. It makes him the least stealthy cause he’s just not used to hiding. I’ll probably draw Human Mikey at some point. Though since cloaking broaches are kind a mystery in how they work, I honestly don’t know what I’d do. If Big Mama was the one who got Mikey his cloaking broach I’d have to imagine she’s make him look like her, but in my head I do think the boys would look Asian seeing as they have Splinter’s DNA—with Mikey and Donnie having darker skin tones and Leo and Raph being just a bit lighter (to parallel how Leo and Raph are lighter greens and Donnie and Mikey are darker greens).

It’s a toss up on Mikey, but I do know if he ever got his own cloaking broach after the fact, he would totally make himself look like Lou Jitsu’s son and nothing like Big Mama, and he would have no problem including his scars!

Mikey has fought I’d say one to two battles a day, six days a week for a year in the Nexus, I’m not doing any further math than that, sorry 😜

Dr Delicate Touch does exist, but as I’ve said, with Mikey so desperate to help the family and be useful, I’d say Dr. Delicate touch has even less patience for tomfoolery

@uniqueness351217 Big Mama will have some scheming going on with Draxum! She’s cut her losses for now and will regroup!

Venus started as Big Mama’s assistant in the year after Mikey started in the Battle Nexus, she is going to be more connected to Three than with Mikey at first. They have caught sight of the other in the few times Big Mama visited Mikey to gift him his little prizes, but they’ve never spoken.

@raisondetre2012 Thank you I’m glad you liked it! And unfortunately Mikey will find out Donnie’s…association with the Battle Nexus and it will create a pretty intense divide between them but that’s all I’ll say for now!

Donnie has always seen physical strength as something valuable that he could never achieve (even though Donnie boy is no slouch. Draxum just sucks) so he does look up to Raph and Mikey in that regard!

Oh these are so getting saved to be sketched out later!

Also just a note! I know some of y’all are probably worried that your asks aren’t going through. I have to admit am very slow in answering asks! Some of these are from a month or longer ago. I just like to give each ask a good amount of thought so it makes replies slower (also lol now that there’s more lore established I have to double check that I’m not contradicting myself on things, like a doofus)!

I do apologize for taking so long for some of y’all, but I do have a pretty full inbox so I’d like to thank everyone for their patience! You guys are the best and I always love reading all y’all’s theories and questions!

❤️-Slushie

#ask slushie #rottmnt #separated au #rottmnt separated au #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise mikey #sep!au infodump

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maccreadysbaby · 6 months

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A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

… did you really think i was going to end bentley’s story so soon? i couldn’t abandon my boy! head over to the table of contents above for the lovely summary, otherwise, enjoy this cute little intro chapter

part one

❝ MIRACLE WORKER ❞

MONDAY — JULY 27 — 5:56PM

“DON’T GET FRUSTRATED. Try again,”

Bentley pulled himself off the black mats in the training room of the Batcave with a small huff. He was going to be woefully sore tomorrow.

Damian was standing in front of him, and Dick was behind him, near the wall. They’d been sparring for nearly an hour. Bentley thought he was finally getting good at the self defense techniques Dick had been teaching him. (Mixed Martial Arts is what he’d called it.) After all, he’d been training with him for almost six months now. He’d even taken Dick down a couple of times (he wasn’t sure if they were real or not — Dick went pretty easy on him.), but when pitted against the now twelve-year-old assassin who had more combat experience than nearly every living adult, he felt like a kitten picking a fight with a lion.

“You’re trying so hard to catch him telegraphing that you’re not focusing on your own movements. You have to find the right balance of observation and action,” Dick explained from behind, and Bentley could hear him pacing, his voice moving from one ear to the other. “You know your opponent, and you know he adapts to his foes. He can read you like a book. You need to be able to do that, too. Try again.”

Bentley took a breath. He thought he’d been good at paying attention to people’s movements, their mannerisms before, thanks to his father. But now it seemed nearly impossible. Trying to catch the slightest of shifts in Damian’s weight, the flick of his eye, the subtlest twitch of an anticipating fingertip. His movements were so fluid and calculated that Bentley hardly had a millisecond to respond, let alone counter them.

For a moment, they stood there in their fighting positions, and then Damian struck like some kind of cobra. Bentley was just fast enough to block one, two, three, four different strikes to his head before Damian landed a kick to his chest that sent him stumbling backwards. Dick grabbed him by the arms before he could fall and nudged him back toward the assassin.

“Watch his whole body. If you’re too busy blocking his arms you’re not going to be aware of his legs.”

He was trying. He really was trying. Damian was small, he didn’t even have that much body to watch. Even though Bentley had grown in his months with the Wayne’s, (nine months and twenty-seven days, actually.) Damian was still tracking about an inch and a half taller than him, maybe even two, now, and it made Bentley feel even tinier than he already was. (He was going to be eleven in a couple months, and he was still wearing clothes made for nine-year-olds. But hey, he was in a seven-year-old’s size last year, so he’d take it.)

He felt like he was having to block at the speed of light. He blocked four strikes and two kicks in a matter of seconds.

“If you stay on the defensive too long you’re going to wear yourself out. Strike back!”

Bentley blocked another hit to the head and managed to catch Damian’s arm just in time land a kick to his chest.

“Yes! Good job,”

Damian responded by capturing Bentley’s arm, locking their legs, and flipping him over his own body onto the mat with a thwack.

Bentley just laid there for a moment, breathing heavily and reveling in the slight coolness of the mat.

“I like fighting Dick better,” He muttered, staring up at the lights on the ceiling. Both Damian and Dick drifted into his vision, standing over him. They looked oddly similar in their training clothes.

“Of course you do; I am far superior in hand-to-hand combat,” Damian stated simply, holding a hand down toward him. Bentley took it and pulled himself out of the floor.

“Hey,” Dick whined with a frown.

Damian continued, ignoring his brother’s protests: “-Which is required for proper training — if someone is trying to kidnap or maim him, they are not going to go easy on him because he’s, quote-on-quote, cute, like you do.”

“I didn’t say that!” Dick argued, crossing his arms.

“Oh, sorry. Small and cute,”

Bentley snickered at Dick when he kept on grumbling, drifting over to a long bench that was attached to the wall to grab his water bottle from on top of it.

“Whatever, whatever. You did a good job today, kiddo,” Dick continued, making his way across the room just to ruffle Bentley’s hair.

Bentley took a sip of water and shrugged, briefly ducking his head away from the contact. “I spent most of it on the mat.”

Dick shrugged. “Yeah, but so did all of us, at first.”

Bentley saw Damian roll his eyes in his peripheral. “I did not.”

“Not everybody was raised by assassins, you little gremlin. I’m sure you spent time on the mat when you were younger,” Dick said, turning back toward Damian.

The twelve-year-old eyed both him and Bentley. “No I didn’t. Going down easily only earned punishment.”

Dick didn’t say anything else, but he did reach over and ruffle Damian’s hair, much to the assassin’s distaste.

Bentley wondered if the League of Assassin’s idea of punishment had been similar to his father’s.

“Oh, Bentley, B said he wanted to see you upstairs when we were done,” Dick said suddenly, changing the subject and attempting to change the mood. He made his way to the bench and grabbed his phone off of it.

“Oh, Okay,” Bentley replied, eager to change the mood as well.

He’d been getting better. At a lot of things, like carrying conversations, and asking for stuff, and not being so awkward. He was able to (sometimes) push away the parts of his mind that still told him he was a traitor, that if he made one wrong move they’d hate him. He was falling into a routine of normalcy. Different from the last one he was in, with the assurance of pain and fear, but a new one where he was just… living.

But he still had anxiety, and there was one certain thing coming up in a week that made it buzz under his skin like no other:

School.

Actual, real school. Not just computers and books like his father had made him read, but school with other kids and teachers and classrooms.

Gotham Academy, to be exact, the same private school that both Damian and Duke attended. They’d talked about it extensively. Bruce had offered up homeschooling in many different ways, or hiring a personal teacher to have one-on-one classes with him at the Manor, but Bentley chose Gotham Academy. Which he might have been starting to regret just a little, because the only other kid his age he (sort of) knew how to communicate with was Damian. But, now that he knew they were superheroes and he was allowed to talk about it with them, he wasn’t even sure the way he communicated with Damian would cut it at a real school.

But he assumed he needed it. He couldn’t just spend the rest of his life in Wayne Manor (No matter how badly he wanted to.), and what better crowd to start with than kids his own age, right?

Well, that’s what he told himself as the days passed faster and school drew nearer.

Damian and Dick stayed in the training room as he drifted into the other parts of the Batcave. Past the life-size dinosaur and giant Joker playing card, only sending a glance toward Tim, who seemed to be hibernating in the chair at the Batcomputer. (Bentley was sure he’d been there for a couple days now, at least.) There were three empty coffee cups and a pile of papers sprawled across the massive desk, and he seemed to be neck deep in some investigation or another.

He knew better than to bother Tim while he was working. He’d probably be nice to Bentley, but he didn’t really want to chance it. He’d nearly thrown a coffee cup at Jason two days prior for playing music too loudly while working on the Batmobile. (Not to mention that Tim had been benched from patrol for a while until a nasty bullet wound healed up, which only made him more irritable.)

So Bentley pushed himself up the stairs and into the elevator that led back up to the Manor.

He had to admit, though, life living with a houseful of superheroes was pretty awesome. Some nights he got to sit in the cave with Barbara at the Batcomputer and watch all of the vigilantes’ trackers move across Gotham. He found it insanely cool to listen to them over comms. They always went by their hero names on patrol, and he loved to listen to the way they planned for attacks and talked through dealing with each individual problem. (Even if it did get a little scary sometimes — like when Red Robin (Tim) had to call for urgent backup because he’d been shot about a week ago.)

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t kind of, at least a tiny bit, maybe one day want to be a superhero, too.

He was wondering if he’d be allowed to sit in on patrol again tonight as he drifted into the Manor from the door hidden in Bruce’s office. He made his way down the hall and into the entryway. The golden sunset was shining through the windows, turning the whole room a warm shade of gold, and Bruce was kneeling on the floor next to a big box, nicely dressed and pampered as always.

“Hey, Bentley!” He announced, pulling a pocketknife from his pocket and cutting the tape on top of the box. “Your backpack just came in.”

Bentley eyed the box, and after a few moments, determined that he could probably fit in it without bending his knees. “That looks… big.”

Bruce hummed. “Well, I ordered every color.”

Bentley snickered as he approached Bruce and the box. “We looked at the colors on your computer. I picked navy.”

“I know. But then I thought I should have some backups incase you didn’t like it when it came in,” He stated, unfolding the flaps to reveal a row of nicely packaged, multicolored backpacks. Twelve of them, to be exact. Red, brown, orange, yellow, black, green, blue, white, navy blue, army green, a rusty orange, and grey. “So, here we are.”

Bentley chuckled. “Thank you. But I still like the navy one.”

“That’s good. You just… have options. If you want to switch it up. Damian and Duke probably need new ones anyways,” He trailed off, folding the box closed again.

“Dick said you needed me when I came up,”

Bruce clapped his hands together. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I got you something else, since you’re about to start school. C’mere.”

Bruce rose from the floor and left the box at the door, heading back toward his office. Bentley followed behind warily.

“I know you need to go take a shower, so I won’t take forever,” He explained as he made his way into the room and to his desk, pulling a drawer open. “I think it’s very important that you’re able to stay in contact with us while you’re at school. So I went ahead and got you a phone, like Damian’s.”

He pulled a small box out of the drawer and set it on the desk, pushing it over toward Bentley, who stared at it.

Phones were a lot of money. (And Bruce Wayne was a millionaire, but Bentley’s brain didn’t seem to catch up enough for that.)

“…Are you sure?” He murmured, glaring at the little box like it had insulted him.

“Positive,” Bruce replied. “I’d like for you to have a way to stay connected with us without a teacher having to play monkey in the middle. Go ahead.”

Bentley eyeballed both Bruce and the box for a solid ten or twenty seconds before he made a move to touch it. The box was smooth under his fingers, and he pulled the top off to reveal a sleek, army green phone.

“Thank you, Bruce,”

“You don’t have to thank me, bud,” He reached over and ruffled his hair just like Dick did. “But, I was going to ask you to do something for me. You might be the only one in the house that can succeed.”

He glanced up at Bruce, whose blue eyes were shining. “Ask Tim to help you set it up; to get that poor kid away from the Batcomputer.”

A smile crept onto Bentley’s face, and he huffed out a laugh, closing the box and carefully dragging it into his hands. “I can do that.”

“Maybe you can even get him to ingest something other than coffee, while you’re at it. Or, like, sleep,”

Bentley snorted. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

Bentley smiled as Bruce’s chuckle floated out of the room behind him, heading upstairs for a well-deserved shower. He’d deal with Tim later.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @cademygod

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frogletscribe · 3 months

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Until It Doesn’t Hurt

Chapter 14: Consequences

Summary:

20 years since the RDA was pushed off of the moon of Pandora, they are back once more. The RDA thinks their only problem is the traitor Jake Sully and his family, but as it turns out, Jake wasn’t the only ‘problem’ left behind 20 years ago.

Anthe was a child soldier, stolen from their home and forced to learn the ways of the humans, erasing any of their connections to the Na’vi from before. Finally free from the RDA’s hold after being trapped in cryosleep, they're about to make themselves everyone's problem.

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Trouble brewing on the horizon

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Pairing: Aged Up!Neteyam X Nonbinary!Na'vi!OC (OC and Neteyam are both around 20)

Warnings: Mentions of Past Violence, Mentions of Past Trauma, Mild Claustrophobia, No Use of Y/N, Blood, Self-depreciation, Neglectful Parenting, Suggestive Themes, Mutual Pining, Hurt-Comfort, Found Family

WC: 2500 words. AO3 Link Here

A/N: This ones kinda short, but im fighting my way out of an art/writing block rn so its something!

{ } indicate speaking Na'vi

Masterlist

Previous Next

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“What in the hell do you mean they’re gone?!” Quaritch was irate, hissing and spitting at anyone and everyone who dared even look at him. Spider felt sick, still reeling from the horror that was the Tulkun hunt. The image of Scorsby and the recoms smiling and laughing as they gunned down both mother and calf burning fresh behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

All things considered he had gotten lucky, the humans and recom’s alike so preoccupied with the hunt, no one had even noticed Anthe was gone until several hours later, after the evening's eclipse had set in and it was too late for a real search. Spider stood with his arms crossed, away from the group of soldiers arguing about his friend's disappearance, resolutely silent. Next to him stood the scientist, Garvin, not so subtly watching Spider out of the corner of his eye, but he too remained quiet.

“We searched the whole ship sir, there’s no sign of them.” A soldier reported, doing his best not to seem absolutely terrified in front of the imposing figure that was the Colonel.

“How the hell so you lose an eight foot tall bright-fuckin’-blue alien?!” Quaritch slammed his fist down on the table, making the nearby humans flinch back. “What the hell kinda setup is this, Scorsby? Where’s your security system, I want your security footage yesterday.”

“What’s the big deal? Why do you care so much about one soldier?” Scorsby grumbled back, though he still complied, moving the conversation away from the holomap table at the center of the room towards one of the computer terminals. The RDA officer at the station was already pulling up the SeaDragons footage as Quartich follows.

“Because,” Quaritch hissed, “in my experience, one soldier is all it takes.”

Spider tried to swallow his nerves, anxiety roiling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel himself getting fidgetting, nervous energy bouncing him on the balls of his bare feet, unable to keep totally still. Garvin’s staring wasn't helping either, making Spider’s skin itch under his gaze. Had Garvin seen Spider and Anthe leave? Did he notice when Spider came back to the bridge but Anthe hadn’t? If he had, why hasn’t he said anything? Compared to others on the SeaDragon, the marine biologist didn’t seem so bad, but that didn’t mean he was trustworthy.

“Maybe they fell off the ship?” Lyle offered unhelpfully, scratching the back of his head with a shrug.

“Lyle, shut the fuck up.” Quaritch snapped back at his second in command, having no patience for his lieutenants usual antics.

The Colonel loomed heavily over the RDA officer manning the security station, watching the glowing screens for any sign of where Anthe had gone. Spider had to crane his neck to see around the Colonel's large blue body, not daring to move from his spot. The officer sped back the footage from over the last several hours, the small figures on the screens scurrying around like stagfly ants.

“Wait- There!” Quaritch points to one monitor, and Spider just makes out Anthe’s lythe form crossing the picture plain. The officer focuses in, clearing other screens and replacing them with feeds from adjacent cameras. Soon enough there is a very clear path laid out, and Spider sucks in an anxious breath as he watches his past self follow Anthe down the cold halls of the SeaDragon. They move across screens, camera to camera, in quick succession, Anthe’s tense yet determined stride followed quickly by Spider’s shorter, more frantic hustle to keep up with them. He can feel eyes on him, Lyle, or maybe Mansk behind his sunglasses, casting accusatory glances his way. Still, Spider’s own gaze remains glued to the screens, unable to look away.

His past self grabs at Anthe, just out of frame. Spider knows what happened next, watching himself argue with his ever anxious friend, but the camera is just too far, only catching Spider’s back and the occasional flash of Anthe’s tail.

“Get me a better angle. And audio!” Quaritch’s voice is gruff, his back is still to Spider, but the furious whip of his tail and pinned back ears are all the younger man needs to know that things are not boding well for him.

“Um, there is no audio, sir.” The officer cringes at the growl that erupts above them, but adds quickly, “But I think I can find an angle.” The screens shift again, a straight shot down the hall as Anthe and Spider enter the scene again.

The camera’s angle is high and Spider’s back is to it as he tugs Anthe’s tail, but it's easy to see Anthe, their pure distress visible even on the choppy security cam footage. There are even more eyes on him now, whispers from the recoms as they glance between Spider and the footage. Garvin audibly swallows besides him, as if he's just as guilty as Spider, as if he already knows what's next. There is no audio, but it is easy to tell there is a frantic argument happening, Anthe’s agitation is clear as day though the thrashing of their tail and panicked flicking ears. In the past, Anthe clings to Spider, not wanting to leave him alone with the RDA but he pushes them away, pushes them to go.

And they do.

The officer fiddles again with the camera’s, but Anthe’s form does not reappear.

“They must have gone to the upper decks outside, we don’t have cameras out there.” The officer explains, preemptively shrinking from the recom leader's response, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he straightens , slowly turning back towards the holomap table. Back towards Spider.

“Spider.” Quaritch’s voice is a warning growl, ears pinned tightly to the sides of his head. Spider does not answer, staying defiantly silent in the face of his biological fathers ghost. Anthe seemed so sure that Quaritch wouldn’t hurt him, but Spider isn’t as sure. Still, he had grown to begrudgingly like Quaritch and the Recoms, at least up until they decided to torch an innocent village and murder defenseless Tulkun. It was a sobering reminder that Spider was, in fact, still a captive, and the RDA wanted his family dead.

“Spider.” Quaritch repeats, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he rounds the table to where Spider is standing. “Where is Anthe?” The Colonel's tone of voice is strained, trying to ‘be nice’ despite his obvious upset. Spider pretends to think, making an exaggerated show of scratching his chin in and tilting his head to the side in contemplation before shrugging vaguely.

“Dunno’” Spider watches another flash of anger cross Quaritch’s face and he struggles not to visibly flinch. He is already in trouble, but that doesn’t mean he's going to make things easy.

“Dammit boy- What the hell were you talking with them about, huh?! Have you two little shits been colluding with the enemy?! Fuckin’ liars, you’ve known where Sully is this whole time don’t you! Always whispering to each other in Na’vi-”

“We haven’t been colluding with shit, you old fuck!” Spider spat back just as fiercely. “Maybe, Anthe just got sick of taking orders from a asshole like you! You burned that village for no reason! Murdered Tulkun for nothing!!” Quaritch hissed, clearly done with Spider’s insubordination. Spider hissed right back, his own anger overtaking his sense of caution for the situation. Fuming, the Colonel grabbed Spider by the biceps, easily dragging him off of his feet to be almost nose to nose with the massive recom soldier.

“This what you want, boy? To be a traitor to mankind?”

“I can’t be a traitor if I was never on your side to begin with, asshole.”

“You want to play it that way? Fine. You’ll get a frontrow seat when we catch your little Na’vi friends, and burn them to the fucking ground.” Quaritch sneered, unceremoniously shoving Spider to the floor by Lyle’s feet.

“Lock him in a hole somewhere he can’t get in the way. We’ve got traitors to kill.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

It was a dark overcast in the village at Awa’atlu, storm clouds crowding in over the horizon, threatening a downpour at any moment. Anthe had struggled to sleep, anxious thoughts swirling too violently in their head to be fully comforted by Neteyam’s arms wrapped firmly around them. So much had happened all at once, between running away, revelations about Tenak, and reuniting with Neteyam. It was too much.

Anthe hesitated to let themselves fully relax. They had kept their promise to warn Jake and his family of the incoming danger, all they could do now was wait for Jake’s decision on what to do next and follow his lead, even if they weren’t actually very keen on the former Olo’ektan. Spider had told Anthe too many stories, too many times Jake had failed him, from never defending him from Neytiri’s hatred to trying to get him to leave Pandora with other humans. Treating Spider as if he was just some unwanted pet his children had dragged in, and was ready to be rid of at a moment's notice. Was it really any wonder why Spider had come to enjoy Quaritch’s company? But now was not the time to be critiquing Jake’s parenting skills, least of all when Anthe couldn’t even remember their own parents. For now Anthe could only wait, and see when the danger might finally reach the Metkayina clans shores.

After Anthe had changed, Jake had brought them to speak with the Olo’ektan of the Metkayina, Tonowari, to pass on what they knew of the RDA’s movements. Neteyam had wanted to come with them, reluctant to let Anthe out of his sight, but Jake had made him stay back with his siblings, though the man still gave his son a sympathetic look as he led Anthe away.

Tonowari took in Anthe’s warnings with a quiet ferocity they weren’t accustomed to, nodding sternly as they recounted the attack to the Ta’unui clan, and the RDA’s plans to hunt Tulkun in the area. Part of Anthe regretted leaving when they did, if only to try and get more information on the hunt itself, but doing so would have been more likely to keep them trapped with the RDA for longer, rather than actually doing any good. At least this way, the Na’vi had some time to prepare.

“{I’m not sure where they were planning to hunt, or what sort of method they use, but nothing the sky people come up with for that sort of thing is ever good.}” Anthe swallowed, remembering the massive harpoon guns being prepped as they had left the SeaDragon. Silently, they wished Jake had let Neteyam come with them, if only so that they might have something to cling to lessen the shaking in their hands. Instead, they gripped their tail tightly in their lap, though it gave little comfort.

“{I see…}” The Olo’eyktan nodded again, clearly mulling over Anthe’s words. Despite his massive stature, Tonowari was not quite as intimidating as Anthe had originally thought. He spoke with Anthe calmly, almost warmly, in a way that eased the overwhelming sense of dread into something a bit more bearable. Never once did he lash out at them in frustration or anger, and if he did, it was never directed towards them, but the greater evil that was the RDA. His wife and Tsahik of the clan, Ronal, on the other hand, was terrifying and Anthe found themselves shriveling under her critical gaze.

“{You should rest, child.}” The clan leader said finally, resting a large hand on Anthe’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “{Your warning is noted, and appreciated. Jakesulli, I think there is much we need to discuss.}”

“{Of course.}” Jake sounded tense, wound tight at the notion that his family was so closely pursued. Anthe had left out the part where the RDA was notified by way of rogue helicopter, as it was more likely to get the family in more trouble rather than help. “{Anthe, can you get back to the marui on your own?}”

Anthe returned to the rest of the Sully family on their own, quick to let Neteyam drag them into his lap by the fire once more. The rest of the evening was spent with Anthe catching up with Neteyam and his siblings, sharing what had gone on in the past several months with Spider and the Recoms. In turn the Sully children shared their own stories, learning the ways of the new clan they found themselves a part of.

That led back to now, Anthe curled up tight with Neteyam in his sleeping hammock, trying to let his roaming hands push back the growing feeling of dread in their chest. There had not been many chores that morning, and with everyone warned away from the waters by the oncoming storm, so staying comfortably in bed seemed like the next best option. Anthe laid with their head on Neteyams chest, listening to the rythmic thumping of his heart and feeling his fingers card through their hair.

Jake and Neytiri had been summoned away by the Olo’eyktan just as the first drops of rain began to fall, and it had been hours since then with no word. Anthe’s thoughts kept going back to Spider and the SeaDragon, over and over again. Was he safe? Had he gotten in trouble for them leaving? Today was the last day of Ardmore’s deadline, and with any luck the Colonel was no closer than he had been to finding Jake, but he had very little left to lose anymore. Would he even listen if Ardmore called him back?

Beneath them, Neteyam mumbled something, the soft sound pulling Anthe from their thoughts, his lips pressing gentle kisses into their forehead. Anthe hadn’t even noticed his hands still, resting at the back of their neck and holding their hand that laid across the broadness of his chest.

“{Huh?}”

“{You’re pouting.}” A lazy smile was painting itself across his face.

“{I am not!}”

“{You very much are!}” Neteyam was grinning now, his hands cupping Anthe’s jaw as they shifted themselves next to him to be more eyelevel. Anthe made no move away from him, only scowling, or really pouting, at him harder.

“{I don’t pout.}”

“{No? What’s this then?}” Neteyam chuckled, holding Anthe’s face close to his own, their noses barely touching. It was almost embarrassing how quickly Anthe melted under his soft gaze, their composure crumbling into nothing as heat flooded their cheeks. Anthe could feel Neteyams laugh vibrate through his chest as they dropped their face into the crook of his neck, in a vain effort to hide. They didn’t want to be thinking about everything that could go wrong anymore, they just wanted this. This was good and safe and far less stressful than anything else in their life. Anthe could almost convince themselves it would last - right up until they heard the call of a horn in the distance, marking the Olo’eyktan’s party return home.

#avatar way of water #atwow #avatar the way of water #froglet writes fics #james cameron avatar #neteyam x oc #neteyam sully #atwow fanfiction

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ghostlycorvid · 4 months

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2023 Introspective

This year started with cutting off a toxic person who had already shut me out of mutual friend spaces but kept stringing me along with "maybe in a few more months I'll let you back in". 2022 was rough on its own, especially pre-antidepressants, but a huge part of it was stuff involving this person. Blocking them and finally accepting that it was not worth trying to repair what little relationship was left was the most freeing thing I've ever done and helped me to continue that with any other rude unpleasant individual I've had to share spaces with. It's been genuinely wonderful to realize I don't have to sit there and listen to bad takes or people who are needlessly mean, so I'm glad something came out of that friendship nightmare scenario.

It still took a lot of time to not sit there in anger and frustration spirals over the way things ended up, but in February I got permission from my bosses to bring my dog Chili to work with me due to needing to keep him and our other dog from playing while she was recovering from her spay. I ended up realizing that even though Chili is a huge anxiety baby, having him with me legitimately was helping distract me from negative thoughts spirals and gave me something positive to focus on when I was getting frustrated by work-related stuff in the moment. He ended up helping a couple coworkers come down from panic attacks later in the year too. My boss likes how "calm" he is enough that he gave me permission to bring Chili to work all the time (within reason), so he's come with me on most non-event days. His progress has been slow, but he's also been improving from the regular socialization!

I finally started to really focus on my own art and developing my own products and designs, both for my personal shop and for the shop at work. I've come out the other side of this year with 9 new enamel pin designs between the two! (A couple I haven't shared yet! ;D)

I was finally given an Adderall prescription which magically solved my problem where I couldn't stay awake during the day no matter how much sleep I'd gotten! And also it started helping me focus a little better too, but genuinely the non-sleepy thing was the most lifechanging part of the medication for me. The pit in my stomach when I was told that person felt like I was stalking and surveilling them if I was quiet in a call or stream despite years of me communicating that I was constantly struggling to even stay conscious was... HOO BOY. After years of fighting for my life to stay awake in college and sometimes even while DRIVING TO AND FROM WORK,,,,,,,, I really thought something was seriously wrong with me (besides the ADHD since I didn't realize it was a symptom of that)

With toxic people removed from my social spaces and general perception, I've finally started to join group calls with my friends again without anxiety or fear of not being welcome. It's helped me start to get back into playing games again, and I've been able to get into a few that either have built in accessibility features to avoid hand strain, or I've been able to modify my hardware setup to help with issues I was running into before. I've finally managed to pick up Warframe again, and I'm bouncing between that and Path of Titans without being hopelessly deep in a hyperfocus.

I officially got promoted at my job to Retail & Visitor Services manager (and got a $3 raise in Nov!!). While I'm struggling with finding help to ease my increased workload, I'm definitely way better off than before we hired on extra staff. It's given me a lot of networking opportunities (and excuses to go on field trips on the clock for ~*networking*~) and I've been juuuust starting to poke my head into local groups. One is a monthly artists crafting meetup right by work that starts right when I clock out! :D

I had the energy and free time to start branching out and trying other arts and crafts hobbies that had been interesting me! Ended up getting a serger machine to help really tidy up clothes that I make! I got into linocut & block printing, and have been having a lot of fun working on designs for that kind of printing. I even made a few printed shirts! And of course there was Andromeda, the first puppet I've ever made, and pretty much my proudest achievement in all my years of art so far.

I've honestly been spending less time on social media proper, usually forgetting to check tumblr for days or weeks at a time. Which has been good and bad, but overall better for me to stop feeling like I HAVE to fully backlog everything ever.

I got my first tattoo this year after wanting one for years and years! And that opened up a whole new can of worms and now I'm ending the year with 5 tattoos and 2 more scheduled in the next couple months oops! My first tattoo was Joltik, with my first ever pet spide!

I started keeping spiders this year after years of being too concerned about keeping pets that required live feeding! That also was a slippery slope. I picked up Indrid my red-backed jumper and Autumn my pumpkin patch t at the end of January, and now I have them, a regal jumper, a red-knee t, and a togo starburst t. You'd never guess that less than a decade ago I was scared shitless of all spiders. :> Especially now that I will occasionally free-handle wild spiders that need relocation to someplace safer. (Mostly still just jumpers tho)

Things aren't perfect by any means and I still have a lot of areas I want to personally improve myself in, but I feel like overall this has been a really really good year for me and I want to keep that momentum going into 2024! More art! More projects just for me! More time with friends! More enjoying games! More tidying my space literally and metaphorically!

#in fairness re: driving it only was a danger when i was seriously sleep deprived on top of the adhd understimulation #i am fine now if i am seriously sleep deprived but taking my medicine. that's normal levels of sleepy

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zahri-melitor · 4 months

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Newish Comics:

Batman and Robin #4: I see we are having yet another flashback to Damian's Terrible Childhood (TM). Also narrowing my eyes at Kirk here. Apparently we are back in our Man-Bat being morally ambiguous era (when will my son, Aaron Langstrom, return from the pit on non-existence??)

Look I don't care what reason Williamson comes up with to convince Damian to go to school I'm just happy to see him attending school! He needs it!

Outsiders #2: I still so very much wish they'd used a different title for this comic. Anyway, underwater submersible adventures! Someone had fun reading all the ways the Titan could have been built better, I think.

Speed Force #2: this remains cute and devoted to fun and continuity (aside from the tragic continued squishing of generations together).

Wesley Dodds: The Sandman #3: I think having this as my introductory Riley Rossmo comic is going really well, as I do actually love the dynamism of the art in how this story is told. Also Tom Napolitano as letterer is doing a BUNCH of work even if there's no hand lettering. It's appreciated! Oh the story? I'm enjoying it. I'm reasonably light on JSA knowledge so I'm just enjoying the ride here.

Action Comics #1060: Etrigan! *kicky feet* Also I really do enjoy Otho-Ra. The B and C plots here are both event stories, if I read this right? Events I'm not reading yet.

World’s Finest Teen Titans #6: I love everyone at this bar. I love Roy and Ollie having a moment. I love Wally threatening to start using trick arrows (to Roy’s outrage). I love Garth breaking my heart and Donna comforting him. I love Karen and Mal being adorable together.

And I love Dick’s speech.

You killed once, you’ll do it again. ... But this ‘end always justifies the means’ crap is your Achilles heel.

Love your work, Dick Grayson.

The Warlord #30: This week in Skartaris the Theran Army is invading Shamballah! But Travis is delayed in telling anyone as he has to fight a leopard in a tree! Then his horse has run off and he swims through a bog, where he gets eaten by a marine dinosaur (he escapes via the power of being The Warlord and stabbing his sword through the dino while in its stomach).

Anyway Travis starts swinging between trees in his race to warn Shamballah, when the tree he's in falls down because a forester cut it down. He convinces the forester to help him spread the warning (though the forester is worried about his family nearby)

They warn the villages, get back together, the Therans are coming, Travis blocks a narrow bridge, and the forester runs back to warn his family...including his very familiar son!

HELLO JOSHUA! I SUSPECT YOU ARE THE REAL JOSHUA AND NOT THE CLONE EVEN THOUGH THE STORY TRIED TO TELL ME YOU WERE THE CLONE. (Having read wikis I also know this is true, but it was also...obvious. From the writing)

Look! Joshua even has his watch armband so there is no way you can confuse him for any other red headed child called Joshua. (Also...great job there Deimos and Deimos' minions, hiding Joshua...right under Tara's nose literally in the surrounding forest of Shamballah. Truly a difficult place to find him).

Oh so we are FULL retconning the 'that's the clone' theory now are we? I mean it was bullshit from the start but you know.

Anyway the forester then tries to save Travis in his final stand by sending a logjam of logs down the stream to knock out Travis' opponents! And there we leave it.

Honestly I don't know why I bother to read any comic that is not The Warlord, it's the greatest. Even though Mike Grell didn't draw any bondage this week.

#z canon read throughs #newish comics

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pinertrendy · 2 years

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Mos speedrun cover art5

This time Mos has learned some awesome new abilities: Swing on ropes, swim through jelly, push blocks, wall jump, and fight through spider webs to reach the end of a level. Wall-jump to victory through 30 mysterious, action packed levels! If you’ve found yourself enjoying the many other platforming games in the App Store, and you’re intrigued by the speed run aspect and the retro style of this title, then don’t hesitate to give Mos Speedrun a try.Mos is back, in her biggest and most exciting adventure ever! Plus, despite not having a huge number of levels, the ones that are there will put up a good fight and are a joy to play through. The levels are interesting, the controls are spot on, and the game uses adorable pixel art graphics and an awesome chiptune soundtrack. Mos Speedrun is definitely another solid entry in the iOS platforming genre. Some players in our forums really seem to enjoy the ghost aspect though, so your mileage may vary with this particular feature. They can be turned off, but I’d like to see options for seeing just the ghost for your current best run or maybe even a single previous attempt rather than all of them at once. There’s also the ability to unlock special levels by visiting certain links through the Safari browser on your device, but I haven’t had a chance to try out this feature yet.Īnother point about Mos Speedrun is that while the ghost aspect is a neat idea, I didn’t really feel like it added anything to the game and in fact found them to be distracting most of the time. Still, I can’t help but wish for more levels, and the developer has confirmed that more are on the way in future updates. The second half of the game ramps up quite a bit in difficulty though, and while you’ll likely be able to at least complete each level doing so within the required time limit will be a real challenge. The first half of the game won’t take long to breeze through, including earning every goal for each level. The only other negative I can think of for Mos Speedrun is that there just isn’t enough of it. My one small criticism is that I feel the area around the jump button could be enlarged, as I occasionally will fat-thumb it and miss the button altogether, but it’s not really a huge issue. This scheme works great, and approaches the tightness and responsiveness of the current King of platformer virtual controls League of Evil. My much preferred control scheme is a simple virtual button setup, with left and right arrows for movement and a single button for jumping. Personally, though, I just could not wrap my head around it. I can see the value of this particular control scheme, as with some practice it would likely offer you quicker reaction times than standard virtual controls. The default scheme is a quirky setup where you touch anywhere on the left side of the screen to move left, anywhere on the right side of the screen to move right, and touch them both together to jump. Thankfully, the controls in Mos Speedrun are great. It’s actually nice to have such an uncomplicated take on platforming, but it wouldn’t mean anything if the controls didn’t work. There’s even extensive underwater portions, which harken back to classic Sonic the Hedgehog levels where you must keep an eye on your oxygen meter and search out bubble areas to breathe from. There’s only movement and jumping to worry about, and in this way Mos Speedrun is platforming distilled to its purest form. You can’t kill enemies, and a single touch to an enemy or hazard will kill your little guy and end your current run. There’s environmental hazards like laval pits and spikes as well as various enemy types which must be avoided. The levels in Mos Speedrun are well designed, with all the usual trappings of a typical platform game. Once you have a good feel for a level, you can easily go back on a different try and attempt the speed run with a better idea of what to expect. You can leisurely explore a level collecting coins and looking for the hidden skull, but this also gives you a chance to familiarize yourself with its layout. The different goals are a great design decision, and give reason to play each level multiple times. There’s simply completing the level, completing the level within the specified time goal, collecting every coin in the level, and searching out and collecting a hidden skull. Mos Speedrun contains 20 levels, each with 4 distinct goals to attain. Today Mos Speedrun is finally available, and it’s every bit as much fun as we’d hoped it would be. Mos Speedrun looked unique with its emphasis on completing levels as quickly as possible, and for its use of the ghosts from previous failed attempts running along with you in the background. Last month we checked out the video for Mos Speedrun, a new platformer from developer Physmos.

#Mos speedrun cover art5

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greenhappyseed · 3 years

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Things are getting dark in the BNHA manga, so I wanted to return to brighter times and do a post on Inko Midoriya and her many parallels with All Might. Their interactions are some of my favorites in BNHA, not as a ship (although I am multi-ship friendly) but as two adult humans with little in common and no overlapping life experiences that nonetheless become co-parents because of deep empathy and one determined kid with a knack for bringing people together. The canon Inko-All Might interactions are short, but they occur at critical points in the story and touch on almost all major themes of the series.

The main chapter where All Might and Inko meet starts with them depicted as adversaries, facing off for a fight. #1 hero vs mama bear! Except...they don’t actually fight. They talk through what they each want for Izuku and come to a mutual understanding. These characters really see and trust each other in a way that contrasts with the Todoroki “watch me” story. Before I dive deep, check out the difference between the beginning and the end of Chapter 97, because this art is everything:

Ok, now for the good stuff.

1. In a story about succession and what we owe future generations, Inko is All Might’s predecessor with respect to Izuku. If Nana Shimura gave him OFA and made him a hero, Inko gives him a second life and unofficially-but-actually-officially makes him a “dad.”

2. Much like how All Might can’t be the sole pillar supporting society, Inko can’t be the sole pillar supporting Izuku. The difference is that we watch Inko arrive at this conclusion in the span of one chapter while All Might and, uh, society, aren’t there yet. When Inko truly sees how much Izuku is driven to become a hero, and how much he NEEDS something she can’t give, she starts to back down. Unlike Endeavor, she knows her son’s future is not about her.

Izuku wants this so much he won’t stay with Inko and will “go wherever”.... and it’s almost like All Might will follow to help Izuku be that hero...

3. Speaking of, allowing Izuku to move out at 15 and having All Might “raise” him is an incredible sacrifice on Inko’s part. She’s unexpectedly “retiring” as an active day-to-day parent and letting go of the one thing she spent her life building and protecting. Trusting your life’s work in someone else’s hands is really, really hard, but she does it. (Can All Might?)

After the Overhaul arc, we see Inko acknowledging the progress Izuku has made, which includes All Might by extension (because she’s clearly thinking about him too). Seeing how Izuku can grow without her, Inko is slowly getting comfortable with her decision to “retire.” (Can All Might?)

4. Inko’s weight gain parallels All Might’s weight loss in that both characters neglect themselves to help others (parenting and hero-ing) and they PARTICULARLY ignore themselves when worrying about Izuku.

5. Izuku, Inko, and All Might all seem to know when people need a little saving. Starting with Inko...when All Might flexes into his iconic muscle form and performs dogeza (and then poofs down to his true form), he’s not merely apologizing — he’s showing deference to Inko. She has power over All Might AND she’s not sold on the bloody reality of her son becoming a hero, even if she supports his dream. From here, she could block the next symbol of peace. She could take away the child All Might loves. She could extract whatever she wanted from the longtime #1 hero. Just think about what some other, less charitable characters might do.

But Inko doesn’t take anything from All Might. Instead, Inko sees how much Izuku and All Might need each other (I mean, LOOK AT THEIR FACES when they think she’s saying no!!!). She moves to reassure All Might that Izuku needs him, that she doesn’t hate UA (even though she railed against the school minutes earlier), and that she doesn’t want an big, heroic sacrifice. Inko trusts he will help Izuku “walk a path” different from his bloody one. She just wants a happy child, and All Might is integral to that because these 2 boys are a bonded pair. Izuku lives for All Might and All Might lives for Izuku. All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall. Inko sees how deeply All Might respects and cares for Izuku, to the point that the next symbol of peace is secondary (unlike Endeavor, who is invested in Shoto carrying on his legacy above all else).

Oh hey, 200 chapters later, it turns out All Might IS willing to follow Izuku anywhere, because he just can’t be apart from his boy. And, after Inko and All Might built mutual respect in Chapter 97, we see in Chapter 309 that All Might is not afraid to cry in front of Inko and show his real concern about Izuku. (He doesn’t cry in Chapter 97, but he readily lets the waterworks flow in Chapter 309.)

Now, we don’t see Inko’s reaction to All Might beyond the second panel below, but we know she previously decided to trust the boys despite her own fears. It’s not out of character for her to trust them again. In fact, it’s kinda sweet to see them both reassure her [while still clinging to their dumb plans, sigh]. Izuku makes clear he’s not intending to sacrifice his life, and All Might won’t let Izuku go alone. Of course, both of these promises will be...challenged...in chapters 310+, but the intent is there and that’s all Inko can ask for (I mean, that was all she originally asked of All Might in exchange for her consent — no sacrifice + “look after” Izuku.)

Finally, note how All Might stands throughout the scene, projecting a large, protective presence because it’s his turn to give back. Izuku extends his hand to his mother; All Might extends his height above them both. For all of 309 he’s high above Inko and Izuku; in 97, he’s shown equal to or below Inko except the brief moment he looms over them just before kneeling to the floor.

6. Inko and All Might only interact twice in the manga, but both times are critical turning points between acts AND both times are shortly after encounters with villains — Shigaraki/AFO in particular. The first is in the immediate aftermath of Kamino and All Might’s retirement (literally, All Might retires at the beginning of Chapter 96 and he meets Inko at the end). The second Inko-All Might interaction is in the immediate aftermath of the war and jailbreak (Chapter 309). At a meta-level, Inko’s character page is at the end of Chapter 94, right after we see Izuku & Shigaraki with AFO saying “it’s your turn.”

Interestingly there are TWO earlier near-interactions in canon. The first is in the School Briefs light novel, taking place just after the internships/Stain arc and before final exams. TL;DR: There’s a Parents Day at UA that involves a villain kidnapping 1A’s parents (spoiler: it’s really a rational deception by Aizawa and the parents are in on it). But things go awry and Inko nearly falls into a fire pit for real. A playing-the-villain-but-actually-in-his-true-form All Might swoops in to save her, of course! Afterwards, Inko runs over to thank him, thinking she’s talking to a local theater actor. :)

Lastly, in Chapter 70, right after Izuku runs into Shigaraki at the mall, Inko and All Might are both near Izuku at the police station. However, neither one speaks to or acknowledges the other, and the art doesn’t even show them together. The closest we get is the bottom right panel:

Despite both All Might and Izuku knowing about these two near-meetings, neither one tells Inko. My head canon is that they do this to avoid embarrassing her — she’s obviously terrified when All Might visits her home, so All Might saying, “we’ve met but you didn’t know” would be impolite. Likewise, if she at all remembered All Might from the police station, she doesn’t say so. Kindness all around!

I don’t know if it’s likely, but I’m really hopeful that a “found family” with most (all?) of these characters will happen in the end (maybe with Shigaraki too??)....I enjoy them way too much!!

#bhna #mha #my hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #all might #mha all might #mha inko #bnha inko #bnha all might #bnha meta #inko midoriya #midoriya inko #yagi toshinori #mha toshinori #toshinori yagi

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

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El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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whatifxwereyou · 3 years

Text

The Oncoming Storm Part 6: Blood and Ink

Liu Kang x Reader and Kung Lao x Reader (gonna do both, two paths!)

Yay! Two days in a row! Next post will be Saturday. I had extra time today!! Enjoy some Kung Lao! As always, open to suggestions. Thanks again. You guys are the best.

Part 5 Part 7 Chapter Index

The sky was still dim with the rising of the sun somewhere far beyond your window. You woke to find that you had been placed in your bed and tucked in. This time, however, Liu had left no note on your bedside table. You had been thankful to dream of nothing for the remainder of the night but were curious to know how long Liu Kang had stayed. You liked to think that it had been for a while.

You cleaned yourself up, got dressed into a white gi, ate, and then went to the infirmary to have your wounds cared for. The wound on your right arm was healing far better than your left thanks to Liu’s fire. Then you made your way to the fight pit though there was no one there waiting for you this time. It was pretty early, and you had both been up late, so you weren’t terribly surprised. It was remarkable that you were awake and had so much energy now that you thought about it. You walked through the sand and made your way across the pit, climbing atop the shortest wall on the other side. You sat on the platform there and meditated, grateful to finally have your rebellious imagination under control.

Footsteps approached the pit and leapt into the sand but the energy that accompanied them was not the fiery and familiar Liu Kang.

“Y/N!” Kung Lao called, and you snapped your eyes open in surprise. He approached with wide strides from across the pit, so you jumped down from the platform to meet him. He held a wide-brimmed hat under his arm and tossed it into the air behind him as he got closer.

“Kung Lao!” You couldn’t believe how happy you were to see him. It was odd, to have rekindled a bond with someone that you had thought long since dead. You hadn’t gotten to speak much or discuss anything, really, but the more you’d remembered of him the more fondly you’d thought of him. Much to your surprise, he lifted you right from the ground into a hug. You laughed and returned the gesture and when he set you down, you dusted off your gi. “It’s been ages.”

“Sorry about that. I had an important errand to run for Raiden but I’m back now for a time. I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. You got lucky.” He turned and much to your surprise, he caught the hat that he’d tossed behind him and then slipped it back on his head, tucking the strap under his chin securely. “I heard you’re in need of a training buddy today.”

You couldn’t hide your surprise. Were you in need of a training buddy? Did Kung Lao really need to wear those straps around his biceps? There were no right answers.

“We just started training yesterday. Liu Kang was supposed to meet me here this morning.”

“And your arcana? Anything yet?” He adjusted the armor on his shoulders.

“Nothing yet.” You sighed and he nodded in understanding. “What’s yours? I asked Liu but he wouldn’t tell me. Said he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“It’s… complicated.” He tapped his hat, and you heard the metal beneath his fingertips. The brim was, in fact, a deadly sharp blade.

“…it’s not the hat, right? Arcana can’t be just a hat.”

“To my credit, it’s a very special hat.” He winked and then looked you over from head to toe which startled you immensely. You hadn’t gotten much of a chance to get to know each other again but he had been so careful that first night that you had misjudged him. He was much more the boy you remembered than you expected. “How are you feeling? Your arms are still bandaged.” He picked up your hand and turned it over so he could observe the bandages.

“It’s been slow going. That poison was… brutal. I was very well taken care of but I’m still on the mend. Liu cauterized the other arm yesterday during training so that’s a bit better off.”

“I told him that it was important that you were cared for.” Kung Lao let go of your hand and then took a step back. “Well, we better get to work then.”

“What about Liu? I’m supposed to meet him. Wouldn’t it be rude?”

“He’s not here. I am.” Kung Lao brushed his fingers over the brim of his hat, and you could hear the sound of metal against flesh which made you shiver. “Either you keep waiting of we get started.”

You felt guilty starting without Liu, but it would be good for you to spend some time with someone other than him. The two of you had become inseparable and you thought that maybe it would do your brain some good to be out of that mindset. It had become especially difficult to maintain any healthy distance since you’d left the infirmary. At least then you’d had the monks to chat with. You had clung to him in your time of need, and he had embraced you and reciprocated. It wasn’t a bad thing, but it would be good to lift your head and breathe something other than his intoxicating air every so often.

“I suppose that we’ll get started then.”

“Good.” Kung Lao walked away from you. “Ready?” He was very much that young boy all grown up into a man. He had the same confidence and charisma. It was wild for you to think that it had been the same person before but now there was no doubt left in your mind.

“Of course.” You readied your stance and he turned toward you, stepping carefully into a stance of his own and one that was incredibly familiar to you. Wing Chun was the very same martial art that your father had been proficient in. Kung Lao’s hat obscured much of his face from view and in that moment, he was incredibly attractive.

Unlike Liu Kang, Kung Lao didn’t seem afraid to strike. He rushed toward you and you dodged to the side. He turned and punched you quickly and repeatedly, but you blocked with your arms up and slid back from the force of the blows. Your wounds ached but there was little time to focus on it. You slid back further and ducked beneath his strike then stepped around him and slammed your palm hard into his back. He flipped around and kicked high so you ducked beneath him. He flipped back and then grasped you around the waist and wrestled you to the ground.

You yelped in surprise and panicked very briefly. You even heard Kung Lao laugh under his breath. You had to switch mindsets. You struggled and he pinned you. There was no way you would break from his grapple with your usual wushu. He was too big in comparison. So instead, you swung your arm over your head to force his grasp around you to release, and then gripped his palm, twisted his wrist, and pushed him from where he’d held his weight. When you got to your knees, you stepped further into his space and flipped him onto his back with a shout. He coughed on the ground and sat up quickly.

“Aikido? Really?”

“How else am I supposed to flip a guy so much bigger than me?”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

You backed up and bounced back into your stance. Kung Lao flipped onto his feet and then with a twist, he disappeared into the ground in a blazing white light.

“Oh.” You dropped your stance.

His arcana. It was complicated. You saw that now. With a deep breath you calmed your raging thoughts and searched for his energy. It was like Liu had said the night before. There was something tangible about your energy. It had to be the dragon marking. You turned just as he rose from the ground in a spin and a spray of white light. You were knocked back and rolled out of the way as he struck the ground then stomped toward you. You grabbed his leg, twisted, and flipped him onto his back.

He leapt back to his feet, pulled off his hat, and swung it toward you like a blade. You kicked it back and tried to knock him off balance, but he and the hat were one. He twisted back and you watched as he threw the hat. It zipped around the pit and you spun out of the way and ducked low. It stopped and turned back toward you, so you waited for it to get closer before jumping aside. You misjudged the throw and it sliced through your gi and left your right side bloodied. Kung Lao caught the hat and hurried toward you.

“Are you o-“

You switched stances and didn’t let him finish. You kicked then threw blow after blow, forcing him on the offensive. He used his hat to block the blows and your fists rattled to the clang against metal. You had to get behind him and knock him off his balance. He was too steady and stable. His guard would never be broken before you were worn out.

You stepped back and made to kick high then instead made to duck and roll around him but as you kicked, you were surrounded by a flurry of something dark and when it cleared, you were behind Kung Lao. On instinct, you kicked and made contact with his neck and knocked him to the ground with great control. Then you returned to your stance. It had happened so fast that you weren’t quite sure what had happened, and Kung Lao didn’t seem to, either. You tried again to will that aggressive energy back to you and your fists were at once covered in something dark and tangible. It wasn’t like smoke; it was like liquid and you could feel it whipping about your fists though it didn’t hurt you. It splattered against your skin and surrounded your forearms and elbows.

Instead of attacking, you held your palms up and willed the dark puddles to float above your hands. There they formed into magnificent orbs of shadow.

It was ink. At least you thought it was.

With a smile you willed the puddles of ink to dance between your hands. Kung Lao dusted himself off and approached you, slowly clapping, and tilting his head as if impressed, a small smirk on his face. He then placed his hat back atop his head. You let the magic go and watched as it faded before dripping to the ground. Your arms and hands were stained black and your gi was a mess. Kung Lao was stained with ink along his neck and back. You beamed with pride and punched the air happily.

You’d done it! You’d done it on accident and then on purpose. That was huge progress.

“Cousin? You’re back?” Liu Kang’s voice broke the happy silence and he stepped into the fight pit. Kung Lao walked to Liu Kang and grasped his arm in greeting.

“Got back this morning. Heard you were busy.”

Liu Kang looked him over in surprise and scrunched up his nose at the sight of the ink. “What is this?”

“Y/N found her arcana.” Kung Lao gestured toward you and you waved happily. Liu’s brow furrowed as he looked from Kung Lao and back to you. Then he approached you curiously.

“Is it fire? That would be odd.”

“No!” You smiled and made to explain but Kung Lao interrupted.

“Tonight, we celebrate your success!” He beamed with pride.

“If not soot then what is this?”

“I’ll show you.” You eagerly met him halfway in the pit. You held your palm facing upward and focused. It was more difficult to conjure out of combat and for a second, you weren’t sure you could do it, but then you manifested a small wave of magic above your hand. “It’s ink. At least I think that it is.” Liu reached to touch the wave curiously and as you admired his reach, the ink took the form of his hand and imitated his motions. You were startled and almost lost your grasp on it.

“Remarkable.” He was in wonder of your gift just as you had been of his. You turned as Kung Lao approached you and tossed the glob of ink right at him. It splashed and splattered over his chest and face harmlessly. He stared at you in mock offense.

“Now we’re even.”

“Be careful or I might just start a real fight, Y/N.” He laughed.

“As far as I’m concerned? I won that last one.”

“Not a chance.” He tapped the brim of his hat.

“Kung Lao? I need a word.” Raiden’s voice interrupted, commanding from the hall outside the fight pit. Kung Lao bowed to them both and then rushed out of the fight pit, taking the steps two at a time. You watched as he disappeared behind the pillars to speak with Raiden.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t show up this morning.” Liu bowed and you returned your attention to him. “There were urgent matters that I had to attend to. I had asked Lord Raiden to send someone to let you know that I would be late.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’d both been up late, and I knew that you had to be doing something important to not show up. Besides, Kung Lao was there to help me.”

“How did that go? Are you hurt at all?” He gently took your wrist and tried to look over the gauze on your arms, but you pulled your am free and swatted at his hand as he reached for you again. He laughed in disbelief. “You’re covered in ink! I can’t tell.”

“I’m fine. I promise.”

“That hat of his is much more difficult to control the damage of than my fire. And he can be a bit careless in such matters. I can’t tell you how many scars I have from that thing.”

“I’m really fine. Just a few bruises and scrapes, I think.”

“Good.” Liu gestured toward the platform that you’d sat upon earlier. “Come meditate with me.” He sat down and patted the ground next to him as you had often done for him. You joined him but sat in front of him instead. “Let’s see just how much you can manipulate your arcana. You mimicked me very well before, so let’s try that.” Together they sat and he coached you through the familiar breathing and grounding exercises but as soon as he held his hands in front of him and summoned his flames, your calm was gone. All that meditation went right out the window. His arcana was beautiful, and you briefly forgot that you were supposed to be imitating it. “Can you do it again? Mimic me?”

“I’ll try my best.” You wouldn’t admit that you had gotten distracted. You took slow careful breaths and focused on your own energy. It coursed not only through you but around you, much like that flickering lamplight Liu Kang had described it as the night before. You smiled as you were able to summon the ink above your hands just as Liu had done with his fire. It moved in slower and less controlled motions than Liu’s fire, but you managed. The more you did it, however, the weaker you felt.

You felt your posture failing and held a hand to steady yourself against the ground, the other focused on your magic.

“Take it slow, Y/N.” Liu soothed you and then closed his eyes. You followed along with him but were suddenly aware of eyes on you from the other side of the fight pit. Kung Lao was approaching you, and he was fixed on your magic. Your stomach fluttered with confused butterflies and you mentally threatened to drown them in ink.

Much to your surprise, there was a surge of heat and fire rose from Liu’s hands and spread up his arms and behind him, taking the shape of a magnificent dragon. It roared and breathed fire from fire before swimming in the air behind its maker. You leaned back on your hand and stared, awestruck. Liu opened his eyes, reflecting the reds and oranges of his fiery dragon.

“Show off.” You heard Kung Lao mutter.

“Don’t give up, Y/N.” Liu Kang urged but the sheer magnificence and power of what he was capable of had you overwhelmed. “Try. For me.”

Correcting your posture, you felt the weight of exhaustion on you. Your arms would not stay upright on their own, so you rested them against your knees. Even though you wished to give up, you breathed through the exhaustion and discomfort. You urged your arcana forth. Despite your willing it to, it couldn’t find a form like Liu’s, but a wave of ink flew through the air and followed the dragon’s graceful path. Ink splattered and hissed as it fell upon the dragon, but it did not extinguish Liu’s arcana. Each drip stained the ground black. You watched, bewitched by the beauty of this thing that you had created from nothing but your energy. The way that the darkness intertwined with the flames made you forget about all other things.

Applause broke you from your reverie. Kung Lao was smiling at you both. You gasped for breath and dropped onto your back with a thud where you laughed in exhaustion. The ink fell in a puddle and soaked you, making you only laugh harder. Above you the sky was a brilliant blue speckled with white and you were mystified by the beauty and complexity of the world. As tired and conflicted as you were in so many other ways, you felt at peace with this one thing. You’d done it. With any luck your arcana would give you the strength and skill to be a warrior worthy of Mortal Kombat.

Kung Lao’s face appeared above yours, blocking your view of the sky, but you didn’t mind. He extended a hand to help you up. He and Liu Kang had been talking but you hadn’t heard their words. You didn’t need to. You took Kung Lao’s outstretched hand and got to your feet with his help. Then you laughed at the sight of yourself. You were drenched in ink. Every bit of you was stained. Kung Lao wiped at your face and shook his head in disapproval.

“What a mess.” He looked you over and then looked to Liu Kang who had returned to the fight pit. “I think she’s earned a trip to the hot springs.”

“There have been hot springs here this whole time and no one told me about them?” You pouted. All this time you’d been missing baths and proper showers and there were hot springs? Liu bowed as you joined him in the pit.

“They slipped my mind. I don’t think of them often. My apologies.” He smiled softly at you, a look of pride in his eyes. You couldn’t help but be filled with glee to think that you were the source of that pride. “But Kung Lao is right. You have more than earned them and I fear you’ll never be clean without them. I’ll happily escort you.”

“I don’t mind.” Kung Lao folded his arms over his chest. “As long as you don’t throw anymore ink at me.”

“Well, don’t do anything to deserve it then.” In truth, you were so tired that you were certain you couldn’t have done it if you had tried. Liu bowed to you.

“Study later then?”

“After we celebrate.” Kung Lao interrupted.

“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.”

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hellyeahheroes · 3 years

Text

Robin(2021) #1 Review

Opening this comic with an assessment of a character that I have no choice but to agree with is a cheap way to score points with me.

Anyways, we caught heat for being unfair to this story since it was announced because all of us wanted it to be a Cass story since forever. And it became yet another thing Damian absorbs. I mostly ignored it because I’ve always been open about my disdain for the character and his fandom for nearly a decade. I never liked Damian because put these characteristics on a non-white passing character, they’d be dead inside of year. Then again I hate almost all of Grant Morrison monstrosities.

Regardless, new story who dis is in full effect here. We open this bad boy up with Damian gone missing and the Batfamily searching for him. Nightwing tried asking Damian’s old Teen Titans team and they obviously don’t know and probably hope Damian is dead. Tim checked Arkham Ruins(???) and Damian wasn’t there. I honestly don’t think Tim was trying to find Damian. Steph and Cass checked Damian’s farm and Steph concluded Damian has been there at least because while Damian may be a little shit, he loves his dog and pet bat dragon. Barbara checked facial recognition pings and his transactions and dude is an IRS nightmare.

Damian is missing. Bruce is worried that maybe making a violent murderous preteen Robin raised in a cabal of killers to be chief murderer was a bad idea and is worried. Barbara ensures him that they will find his son and we cut to Damian fighting Snake guy in some musty ass fight put somewhere. Because of course it’s a musty ass fight pit because while the story is well drawn, it never claimed to be not cliche.

Damian hands the scrub his ass and it turns out Damian is trying to earn a marker to participate in some tournament. I liked this panel.

Not because of the artist flex of changing the art style, but it establishes Damian with a relatable hobby, reading manga. And not just a Shounen as you expect him to read but a slice of life manga which kind of puts his life in perspective. Also the lesson in the manga is reflective of what happens in the comic. Damian’s mastery is reflective of how he sees Hana. Hana decides to go beyond what her masters taught her. She decides to innovate and make her art her own. And that’s indicative of another flaw of Damian: Damian leans of the prestige of his teachers. He is the student that replicates the style 1:1. He wants to inherit Batman’s mantle, but doesn’t want to shed his teachings that he is proud of. And it comes down to this idea that Damian refuses to innovate and adapt because he is hiding behind his masters.

This panel saved the story so good job.

And after a talk with dead Alfred, it’s revealed that Damian is on this journey as a way to mirror Bruce’s journey into becoming Batman. It’s his way to iron his resolve without a catalyst to find a need to. It highlights his naïveté. He thinks that he can just simply copy the steps and get the same results.

Regardless what happens next simultaneously undermines the story or the impact of it.

Okay, when you think of Martial artists in DC, you immediately think Batman, Shiva, Deathstroke, Black Canary, Bronze Tiger, Richard Dragon, and Shiva. Why I said Shiva twice? Because Shiva is the pinnacle.

So to reveal that three premier martial artists in the universe are not only not participating but they were paid off to not participate, cheated out, or were subbed in as an entry replacement, it undermines the promotion. It’s like going to a Beyonce Concert only to find out that between the words in small print Beyonce and Concert was ‘s Sister’s and now you are watching Grammy award winning Solange. Sure, it’s an unique experience but it ain’t Beyonce.

And also, there is no amount in the world that would keep Shiva away from this tournament if it’s as prestigious as it’s led to be. Let’s be real. If anything, it’s far more likely that she saw the roster of scrubs and decided to make some scratch.

There are two characters that I recognize: Connor Hawke and Rose Wilson. I am not familiar with Connor so I am not sure if he is out of place. Rose is fine but y’know, scrub. I’m sorry Rose Wilson got her ass handed to her by Cass in the previous universe. There is no universe where I take her seriously in a fighting tournament to crown greatest fighter because the ass stomp was so thorough that Cass was beating Slade’s ego by proxy.

Back to the comic, Damian interrupts the host and basically is the fighting tournament trope of overly confident disrespectful guy with too many accolades which he will proudly tell you about them. What I like about this is the nice nod to the previous manga panel. Damian is not a great fighter. There I said it. Damian’s ability hinges on the idea that he was trained by the greatest killers and Batman but the issue is that name prestige doesn’t make great fighters. Too many times, comic books overly rely on this idea of fighting being a what you know and not being a game of not getting hit and getting hits in. It does not matter if Damian is trained by the League and Batman and it’s questionable as to how much Batman taught him in the first place. Hence why we see Damian with a sword or staff to compliment his lack of range. Damian can’t read muscle twitches like a Cass or Shiva so he has a normal reactive response and comics never highlighted his ability. The most impressive thing I’ve seen Damian do is catch a Batarang which is something I’ve seen Tim do. Damian overly relies on the idea that his teachers taught him to be the best when they simply taught him to survive in a fight.

“But why does Cass get away with it?,” you ask. Cass has this broken hax that is reading muscle twitch and immediately knowing the instant of what you are going to do before you do it or decide to do. Cass doesn’t need range because to her, you are screaming your intentions. She doesn’t need to block an attack when she can just parry. She doesn’t need to step back when she can just step forward while slipping all attacks. She is an autistic savant at fighting with an absolute defense. Damian is just another badass teen in a world of badass adults.

And the humbling of Damian begins...again.

Pros:

-Damian’s new costume. I like that he is branching out and starting to own his own colors. It’s nice.

-Using a character flaw to make it a theme. I like Chekhov’s gun via teachable moment. In tournament arcs, what separates the good ones and the bad ones is the idea that the hero simply must overcome their opponents and not their own self. This is why Yuyu Hakusho is awesome.

- Great art and nice continuity. It’s nice that Damian’s past wasn’t ignored for once and they didn’t just throw his Teen Titans characterization down the tubes. Say what you want, but it was arguably Damian’s longest run in spite of his fans hating it. And contrary to what they believe, it was very much in character for him. My fear going into this that Damian would not face any fallout and lo and behold he ran away.

- it’s a good start for a Damian story. Say what you want, but it’s unique in that the little shit gets his comeuppance immediately. And not that just by losing, but by dying. Damian has killed before and readily justifies it because he never realizes the weight of taking someone’s life. He’s been killed before but those were painted in a way that he is valiant. Here, this is death caused by his own arrogance. He mocks a fighter for talking shit and gets murked while talking shit. He spouts names of his own teachers and expects people to care or be weary as if Rose Wilson and Connor aren’t there. It’s a tournament sponsored by the League of Assassins, Damian. They have been taught by the league too.

Cons:

-Look I get promotion. No promoter is going to undermine their product but the fact that this tournament reeks like ABA is killing my interest to give a shit. It’s a convenient caveat to say that, “Well, a character won this so they can have the title but the title doesn’t mean anything.” I know of regardless of whom wins this, they aren’t the best. Go ham or don’t at all.

-not enough emphasis of the importance of this arc. Why even have this tournament? What’s the prize? What’s even the point?

-While the art is nice, the action is framed poorly. I like physical action like this to be nearly choreographed in a way I can see and piece movement in my head. The two fight scenes we get are somewhat disjointed in that it’s just poses. For example, Flatline’s first kick makes no sense at all and I don’t get her follow up. Trying to picture the movement hurts my head and in an action concept like this, it’s best to frame action scenes as more than doing poses. Here is a good example:

This only emphasizes the action and gets the reader to acknowledge that this a tournament of great fighters or at least a great fighting story.

All in all, do I think this story is off to a good start? Yes. Is it going to change my opinion on Damian? Hell no. My reaction to Damian getting his ass handed to him was this.

The issue is that it never sticks. Damian can learn and be a better person but the development never sticks. It becomes a cyclical series of events because whoever writes him next will just keep writing him as this shitty entitled murder rich kid who never learns anything and gets validated somehow. It’s been over a decade and I’m tired of the same excuses of his shitty behavior. I am tired of writers validating it or excusing it.

Damian losing isn’t an outcome I care for because it’s wasted on him. Honestly I am more interested in Connor and Rose being there. I have no faith that it will stick nor does it undo the shitty idea of the character. I have never wanted to see Damian fight. It’s never been fun to read about nor has the impetus of his character emphasized the ability or style. Placing Damian in an Enter the Dragon style tournament lacks the pizzazz of Cass doing the same thing. For example, let’s try Marvel.

Let’s say someone pitches an idea of a tournament arc styled after Game of Death. Immediately you think Martial Artists non-powered. Danny Rand, Daredevil, Elektra, Shang-Chi, Pei and Colleen Wing. Okay, instead of giving those characters the honor, you give the story to Black Cat. Honestly, I’d read it because Felicia could sell me a documentary on grass and I’d buy it but the point stands, why does Damian have this Bruce Lee inspired Martial Arts story versus the actual Chinese or East Asian Martial Arts focused member of the Batfamily, Cassandra Cain?

But this has nothing to do with what could have been. It’s a fun beginning of a possibly fun arc. In that regard, it delivers but what’s the point?

Like I said, fun story.

@ubernegro

#dc #robin #damian wayne #batman and robin #batman #tim drake #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #batgirl #barbara gordon #oracle #dick grayson #batfamily

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pangtasias-atelier · 3 years

Text

Taking it Natural

Well I can never fully stick to an outline lmao. But, I did manage a lil fic involving just some simple stuff between Cormag and Artur.

Kink stuff is more on the lesser end, cause I wanted to focus a bit more on dialogue and also wanted to write something on the smaller scale of sizes. Also was just fun to write a shorter, simpler story and also one not set in Askr which I need to do more lol

"I am perfectly fine doing the dishes," Artur lightly hums to himself. He scrubs away at the bits and remnants of the day's finished meal. A few pots and pans already on the drying rack alongside the ladles, said dishes preemptively cleaned before dinner had even been eaten, he washes the clutter of used dinnerware. His back facing Cormag, his partner currently sits at the couch.

"I'll go check on Genarog then," His voice comes out strained. Completely leaning against the couch, Cormag's stomach continues its prolonged harassment towards its owner. His stomach is a cacophony of churning and gurgling noises, the overworked, stuffed gut letting it's discomfort be known. Despite his declaration of performing a chore, he simply remains seated with his head leaning back. His lips are parted as he languidly recovers enough energy to catch his breath.

"I already fed him and made sure he's comfortable in his stable," Arthur places a plate on the drying rack beside the just washed cutlery and glassware. His still soapy hands reach for the next plate to scrub at.

"Ah," Cormag's strenuous breathing remains the same. He keeps his eyes closed as a way to block out any possible external discomfort besides his tumultuous tummy. "Then I'll…" Cormag trails off with a groan. A few extra pants and wheezes come out as his gut seems to give him an extra angry complaint. "Then I'll-"

"You can wait on the couch. I am fine, Cormag," The last plate cleaned and set aside to dry, he dries his hands on a dish towel, the damp cloth adorned with miniature wyverns. Turning around, he smiles as he gets an eyeful of Cormag's sorry stuffed state.

Cormag retiring from being a soldier, he had instead taken up woodworking once he and Artur decided to live together. His new line of work requiring a different, less intensive set of skills, the sudden change of constant routines and fighting to meticulous, long periods of time sitting while carving was a sudden change for his metabolism and appetite. The lack of much activity affecting his physique was only compounded by Artur's task of taking care of the house's chores. Cormag had already been aware of Artur's proficiency in the culinary arts through their occasional picnics back when the two had first begun a relationship, yet the latter's constant practice through cooking everyday left his prowess in the kitchen to something to truly be proud of. Cormag having a generous fill of food every meal of the day, his indulgence of Artur's cooking hadn't moved quite past an extra helping or two every go around. Although, even those generous extra helpings helped plump and widen his waistline to a body type rather past stocky and into fat guy territory.

Clothes upsized just as his body upsized, his maroon t-shirt does a sufficient job in covering Cormag’s sun kissed skin. His compact yet soft pile of squishy fat for a stomach curves outwards as it ever so gently slots itself on top of his doughy thighs. Pressed up against his shirt, the malleable tummy barely covers any of Cormag’s lap, enough space for Artur to be comfortably seated atop him still. The two fleshy legs seem even wider as he sits, the bunched up fat splaying a slightly extra amount from resting on the couch. Cormag’s pants do their best in perfectly covering the two, the waistband even widened as well to not uncomfortably squish against Cormag’s hips. The center of his gut juts out more than his squeezable love handles, Cormag’s rotundness more pronounced. The stuffed mass seems to taunt Artur, his eyes finding themselves often drifting back towards the perfectly rubbably surface. Cormag’s sizable chest makes itself comfortable on top of his stomach, the handful of breasts splaying a bit to the side from the accumulation of fat. His pronounced chest only helps make Cormag seem extra wide, Artur always feeling rather twiggish next to his plump teddy bear of a husband. Though the lightly tanned moobs are offered enough room from Cormag’s spacious shirt to not be so confined and pressed up against the fabric. Cormag’s biceps are no more, the somewhat, albeit nicely, defined biceps coated in a plush, warm layer of fat. The plump appendaged perfect for a nice, crushing yet comforting hug, Cormag’s arms had always been a secret favorite of Artur’s. Cormag rests his arms on the cushiony back pillows, the bottom heft of his arms squishing ever so slightly against the surface. His face at the very center of his arm span, Artur can only see the fleshy double chin connected to Cormag’s lovably wonderful kissable face. Though he can very much hear his love’s taxed breathing even over the angered grumbling coming from his gut.

“Oh, Artur,” Cormag’s arms wobble for a few moments; the two doughy appendages struggle as he tries to push himself up despite his body’s protests. “Give me, hah, a minute,” His rotund body expands with each great, deep breath he takes.

“No worries,” Artur sits himself beside Cormag. His lap calling to him, he’d feel like a monster causing him anymore discomfort. “I’ll wait beside you,” Artur pats Cormag’s thigh.

“Heh,” Cormag lets out a small chuckle, the only response he can give before he has to take a few more breaths to help relieve the heavy pit of pain resting in his gut. “I really ate like a pig,”

The faint warm onset of a blush on Artur’s face blossoms on his face, the healer always getting a tinge of embarrassment whenever Cormag even offhandedly mentions his size or eating habits. “Perhaps. But, I should learn to stop cooking so much. I just think of something nice for us to share and so I kinda just make it,” Artur tosses a noncommittal shrug at the end, a few awkward laughs thrown in as well as if he hadn’t confessed his unique admiration in the way Cormag’s body plumped out. A few extra pounds looking rather dashing on his tall figure which would only look more handsome if those few extra pounds swelled into a dozen or perhaps even a hundred before Cormag was resting at a sizable 300 pounder of a man.

“Maybe. Guess we both should learn some restraint,”

“Perhaps,,,” Artur nearly reaches for Cormag’s aching gut to soothe the beast before thinking better of it. “I have a salve that should help,” Without waiting for any confirmation, Artur goes to the closet full of his supplies. Herbs able to help cure maladies unlike staves, he rummages through the several jars and boxes he has. Though only Artur would consider his neat, organized setup a mess requiring rummaging, Lute always interested in his tidy organizational skill. Having fetched the ointment, he stands in front of the seated Cormag. “This has to go directly on your skin,” He tosses the lower hem of Cormag’s shirt up. Applying a dollop of the ointment on his hands, he wastes no time in getting them all over Cormag’s stomach.

“You’ve never needed an excuse to do this stuff before,” The salve immediately begins to work its magic on Cormag. His labored breathing slowly begins to take on a more natural pace and the evident discomfort on his face washes away. “You sure do know your way around there,” Cormag even shifts around on the couch, his stomach no longer threatening to self-destruct from the slightest jostle.

Artur drops his head in mirthful laughter, Cormag’s surprising silly teasing always getting to him. “I have rubbed your stomach how many times, Cormag?” His hands drift on over to Cormag’s love handles. Standing above Cormag, he grabs on to the chunky handles as he leans down for a kiss.

“Not enough, knowing you,” Cormag whispers as they part.

“Then you truly do know me,” Artur retorts. Cormag’s stomach is no longer a ticking time bomb, so he figures it’d be fine to sit in his favorite spot. He gently lowers himself down onto Cormag’s lap. His soft squishy, tummy rests comfortably against his back.

“If you had this kind of stuff laying around, why use it only now?”

“Well- I,,,” Artur considers his next words for a moment. “I felt bad with how much I stuffed you tonight. I may have gone overboard so-”

Cormag promptly cuts him off with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t force me to do anything. You’re cooking is great. I tell all my clients about your cooking. They kept hounding me about your recipe for those cookies you always make to butter them up,”

“Ah,” Artur turns bright red as he recalls the high praises from all of Cormag’s clients, a few even inadvertently referring to Cormag’s weight upon said praises. “Well, I also didn’t use this because I didn’t want you to feel like I only cared about stuffing you and getting you fatter,”

“I’m gonna have to get up for this one,” Rising up, Cormag makes sure to help Artur up first. “Look at me,” He grabs Artur’s shoulders. Artur shorter by a few inches, he feels miniscule right now. “If I ever have any problems with my weight, you are going to be the first person I tell. We’ve known each other for years before I started gaining weight,” Cormag brings Artur to him, wrapping him in a bear hug. Artur’s arms are ensnared by Cormag’s own doughy arms. Though he knows his arms wouldn’t be able to wrap around him regardless. His feet rise off a few inches from the ground as Cormag holds on to him. Cormag begins to chuckle, his heart always aflutter with Artur in his arms. The ring of laughter catches onto Artur, the two laughing together. They remain like so for a few minutes, neither speaking.

Eventually, Cormag lets Arthur back down. A hefty sigh escapes his lips from the minimal amount of activity. “And if you ever have any problems with my weight, then let me know,” Cormag holds onto Artur’s hands, rubbing the palm of them with his thumb.

“Of course. But I don’t think I could ever have a problem having such a handsome husband.”

“Unfortunately for you, my husband is more handsome than yours,” Artur snorts from Cormag’s reply. His hands find their way to Cormag’s arm for a light slap.

“I guess you win then. But, thank you. Neither of us have done this, so I wanted to make sure we’re going at a natural pace for the both of us,”

“Taking it nice and slow is my preference. Enjoying the travel is just as important as the destination or however you say it,” An idea sparking in his brain, Cormag devilishly grins, his plump cheeks dimpling. “Let’s enjoy the scenic route some more,” Cormag leans slightly down. He gently whispers in Artur’s ears before resting his lips on his partner’s.

Artur grinning, he merely murmurs in hushed agreement as Cormag kisses him, the crackle of joy feeling just as natural as their first kiss, the two ready to indeed enjoy Cormag’s current size and take things naturally, wherever it might lead.

#Cormag is kinda hard to write but I hope this is somewhat close #I just imagine him eing actually kinda dorkish with someone he's comfortable lol #my writing #fat fiction #fat!Cormag #fat!Sacred Stones #maleweightgain #male weight gain

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thepartyresponsible · 3 years

Note

Ooh! Frankroyjason?

oh man, this one. so it was supposed to be a casual hookup fic about jason todd and roy harper, fresh from surviving another apocalypse, picking up frank castle in a bar.

i got about 1800 words into a planned 2-3k and realized it actually wants to be a 20k fic about three people sleeping together a lot and slowly figuring out they have, you know. feelings.

—

It’s a shitty bar, but it’s somewhere to be. Frank’s been having some difficulty lately with losing time. He sets reminders on his phone, little alarms that beep at him to tell him he needs to surface. Needs to eat, to sleep, to go to work.

He leaves notes in his phone, on scribbled pieces of paper. Timelines, check-ins.

He doesn’t have anything to fill the time he’s missing, so it’s not so much of a loss. It’s just that he’s a weapon, if he’s anything, and weapons left unmonitored represent a threat to everyone around them.

If he stays around other people, he’s too keyed-up to fade out.

So, bars. Dive bars, mostly. In rougher areas of town.

People leave him alone. Nothing about him says he has anything worth trying to take. And he’s self-aware enough to know that he always looks like he’s just waiting for somebody to give him a reason.

Not worth the effort, not worth the risk.

The two men who just emptied in off the street look like both.

One of them, the redhead, is pale and lean, his bones cutting a hollow, hungry shape under the lanky curve of his muscles. He rubs at his chest as they beeline for the bar, and he wheezes a little into the shoulder of his t-shirt, coughs like it’s an afterthought, an empty gesture.

The other one is bigger, sturdier. Still pretty, though. Like Russo. Dark-haired, sharp-featured, bright white teeth.

Nobody in this bar looks like them. Nobody in this bar can stop looking at them.

The redhead leans over the bar and smiles sweetly at the bartender, who looks back at him like he wants to punch him in the face just for breathing.

Well, Frank can’t blame him. They’re going to cause trouble. Nobody wants to be the designated lifeguard at the shark pit when somebody starts throwing blood in the water.

The dark-haired one’s looking around the bar like a bored shopper selecting from an array of unimpressive offerings at the deli counter. When his eyes land on Frank, they stick. After a long beat of staring, he starts to smile.

Frank cuts his eyes away. There’s something in his head that wants to wake up, wants to answer. It’s better for everyone if he keeps that part of him shut down.

He drinks his beer, gets another. Drinks that one, too. People move around him like he’s a mannequin at a mall.

The redhead can’t breathe right. He wheezes; he coughs. He finds the meanest guy in the bar, and he hustles him at pool so easily and so cheerfully that he might as well have introduced himself by spitting in his face.

The man – big, bigger than the redhead’s friend, bigger than Frank – grabs the redhead by the collar of his shirt and shoves him back against the pool table. The shirt tugs down to reveal the arch of collarbone, and the ugly purple bruise stained across it.

Frank’s still getting to his feet when the other one manifests right behind his friend. And now Frank understands why he looked at this guy and thought of Russo. There’s a look on his face like Christmas just came early, like he’s completely, endlessly thrilled by this turn of events. His eyes go from the man’s hands on his friend to the man’s face, and he smiles.

It’s unusual, that combination. The dimples and the smile, the laughter sparking at the very back of his dead, hungry eyes.

Frank grabs the big guy and shoves him away. “Fuck off,” he says. “Get out of here.”

“That little piece of shit--”

Frank doesn’t say anything else. He moves toward him, and the man backs off.

“You should keep him on a tighter leash,” he says, as he stomps out of the bar. Frank can’t call who he’s talking to.

“Wow,” the dark-haired one says. He’s handsome and harmless again, all that danger packed away. “Really didn’t need you to do that.”

“You ruined his whole night,” the redhead says. There’s that wheeze again, the catch in his breath between whole and night.

“I don’t need a mess here,” Frank says. “I’m trying to relax.”

The redhead and his friend look at each other. It’s just a beat, one shared sideways glance, and then they both look back at him, and Frank feels something he tried to bury in the desert shiver awake and look at them through his eyes.

“So are we,” the dark-haired one says. “Wanna help?”

—

They take him to an apartment a few blocks away. When they’re out in the hallway, the dark-haired one – Jason – pushes him up against the wall and kisses him. He’s handsy, and intent, and it’s almost enough for Frank to miss the sounds, the quiet electronic beep and the rattling of locks.

He checks the door when Jason pulls him through it. Wooden finish over a steel core, three visible locks, sensors blinking near the frame.

It’s a small apartment in a rundown neighborhood. Frank thinks, if he had to, he could get through that door with C-4. Maybe. Probably easier to go through a wall.

“Jay,” the redhead says. Roy, Frank thinks, although he mumbled his name with his mouth pressed to Frank’s, so it could be something else. “Jay, my turn.”

“Sure,” Jason says.

He pulls away from Frank, and Roy immediately take his place, puts one hand on the back of Frank’s neck, tugs him down.

Of the two of them, Frank’s pretty sure Roy’s the one who likes this most. Roy’s probably the reason he’s here. Seems like Jason would’ve been happier with a fight.

Roy kisses like he’s starving for it, pulls Frank closer when Frank bites his lip. But he’s breathless when he pulls back, a little dazed around the eyes. His hands are holding tight, and Frank thinks it’s mostly because he wants Frank close, but also because he’s dizzy.

“Roy,” Jason says, and he shoulders Frank back. It’s been a while since anybody could move Frank like that. “You fucking idiot.”

The way he says it is so sweet and fond that Frank can’t look at them anymore. He looks at the Glock on top of the fridge, the shotgun someone’s propped up in a corner. The artful arrangement of knives on the wall, the jumble of arrows on the floor.

“Hey,” Jason says. He’s in front of Frank suddenly, taking up all of his attention. “You have to be careful with Roy. He fucked up his lungs.”

“Careful,” Roy says. His laugh is almost a giggle. He rolls his eyes and looks at Frank like they’re supposed to be in this together.

“It’s not funny,” Jason says. And he’s talking to Roy, but he’s looking at Frank, and there’s that nightmare from the bar again, looking at Frank through those pretty blue eyes. But he’s not smiling this time, so it’s not a taunt. It’s a warning.

“Got it,” Frank says.

“He’s got it,” Roy says, and he gets his hand in Frank’s, tangles their fingers together in a knot Frank can’t quite bring himself to undo. “C’mon, bed’s this way.”

They pass an axe on the way, resting casually against a wall. Jason pats it like a dog as they pass.

Frank thinks they probably aren’t good people. But, if that’s true, then there aren’t any good people in the room. So. No one to worry about.

Roy’s sweet, though. Sweet, eager, desperate. Keeps rushing things along like he expects Frank to get up and leave without warning. Frank slows things down, a little to be contrary, but mostly because Roy keeps breathing like he’s going to make himself pass out.

When he marks up Roy’s neck with his teeth and his lips, he can hear the way his breath catches, can feel the way his hands shake when Frank pushes them back against the bed.

“You sure you’re good for this?” Frank asks. He doesn’t mean to check. He keeps telling himself not to care.

It’s just that Roy’s got a tattoo on his shoulder that says Poison, and Frank thinks, if he were inclined to be more honest, he’d have something similar carved into his face.

“Yeah,” Roy says. He grins up at him. He has the marks Frank put on him, and then bruises on his arms, his ribs, his collarbone. Scars scattered on his chest. “I fucking lived,” he says, like that’s what counts as victory. Like it’s something he wants to prove.

Frank kisses him, and Roy makes a pleased noise that drops into an open-mouthed moan when Frank runs his hand down his chest and into his pants.

“I swear to God,” Jason says. He’s not touching Frank at all, back to the headboard, Roy sprawled in his lap. “If you pass out, we’re stopping this.”

Frank scrapes his teeth along Roy’s jaw, tries not to get offended that Jason thinks he’d let it go that far.

It’s not like either of them know him. They probably picked him because they thought he looked like the type who’d let things go as far as he could push. Maybe this is the kind of compromise they make, when Roy wants to fuck and Jason wants to fight. Maybe they find someone who’ll let them have both.

But maybe Frank’s sick of being a bullet in a chamber, waiting for a target. Maybe he’s tired of the way people look at him, tired of being exactly what they think he is.

He used to be something else, too.

Roy makes a noise, a half-hummed question. He runs a hand down Frank’s back. His touch is light, hesitant.

Roy doesn’t seem scared of him. Neither one of them has even once seemed scared of him. But Jason touches him like he’s doing opposition research for a fight he plans to win later, and Roy touches him like he thinks he’s getting away with something, like he expects Frank to push him away.

There’s a part of Frank that died in Kandahar. The problem is that it won’t stay dead, no matter how many times Frank drowns it in blood.

“Hey,” Roy says. And he’s so fucking sweet. All that concern in his voice, the way he touches Frank’s face.

There are callouses on his fingers that catch on Frank’s skin. Frank knows how you get callouses like that; he has them too.

“Don’t fuck up your breathing,” Frank tells him. Roy tips his chin like he’s going to challenge that, and Frank shakes his head. “I’ll leave,” he says.

Roy blinks and then settles back against Jason, makes a show of stretching himself out, long and lean, takes a deep, even breath. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m great.”

Jason’s still watching him like he’s a live bomb Roy’s playing with. Frank doesn’t mind. It’s comforting, somehow, to have Jason’s eyes on him like that. A failsafe, some external regulation. The safety on a loaded gun.

Frank used to be more than a weapon. And no matter how many times he clears the weeds in his head, there’s some part of him that always wants to grow back soft.

#writing #fic

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Martial Arts.”

Had this lined up for today based on two requested ideas given to me by readers. I hope you like it and have a great day!

“I think you’re really going to like this.”

“So I assume it involves beating the ever-loving shit out of someone.”

Adam grinned, “Exactly.”

Sunny cheered and Krill sighed, “Why do you two always insist on having the most violent pastimes.”

“I promise today is ALSO educational. Now stop being a stick in the mud. I am sure you will find use for yourself today.”

Krill sighed but allowed them to continue on. The Admiral was wearing a duffel bag over one shoulder, and the tennis shoes he was wearing, alone with the shots suggested that he intended to participate in some sort of physical activity. The same shades of blue light flickered over his prosthetic leg and those that licked over hers, and even from here, he could hear the soft whirring of the machine.

Sunny craned her neck at the city around them trying to figure out where they were being taken, and neither of them figured it out until the admiral cut right and shouldered open the door to a large building.

Stepping inside they were greeted with a waft of warm, humid air. The ground under their feet was squishy, made of some sort of synthetic material, and all around the room humans in various stages of physical activity dominated the landscape.

The predominant sound was that of flesh impacting padded bags as humans -- both bare knuckled -- and wearing padded gloves punched and kicked and violently strove to beat the ever loving shit out of inanimate hanging objects. Krill wanted in surprise and -- what would have been horror if he wasn’t so used to being appalled-- as two humans sparred together in a ring lined with three large ropes.

They were padded, with gloves and face masks and helmets of some sort, but that gave them free reign to punch and kick each other silly, until one of the humans grabbed the other by the arm and flipped backwards throwing them both to the ground with a violent thud.

Across the room, humans wearing strange white uniforms tied with colorful belts moved in synchronization to the call of a master. He'd punch and then kick and then block venting air by way of shouts.

Sunny turned in a tight circle, her eyes wide as they fell on another padded platform, this time in an octagonal shape, and bounded by a chain link energy cage.

Inside two women were roused to blood, fighting with nothing but barely padded gloves and the clothes on their back.

One of the women managed to throw the other to the ground and for a second they were a mass of tangled limbs before she had her arms around the other’s neck squeezing tight. Krill stepped forward but a sharp tap on the arm of one woman to the other caused the winner to let go, and the fighters to return to their feet, one rubbing her soar neck..

“What is this place?” Sunny asked, in absolute awe

Adam grinned, “This, my fine friend is what humans call a dojo. Not exactly sure where the word comes from per say, but I am pretty sure it originated in asia more than two thousand years ago and basically means a location where people train in the art of hand to hand combat.

Sunny turned her head again eyes wide as another two men grappled each other to the floor hands gripping onto each other’s uniforms tugging and pulling and trying to swipe with their feet.

“It all looks so… different.”

Adam nodded, “That's because it is. There are hundreds of different fighting systems developed by humanity over the years, sort of like how you have different spear stances in your culture fire versus water, accept these ones work on different principals.

He motioned to the square ring, “Boxing for instance focuses a lot of its attention on punches specifically. Historically the rules required that you couldn't use elbows knees or kicks, and your punches had to land above the belt, or at least that’s what I remember. He turned to point at the other side of the room where the men and women in white were still busy in their forms. Stuff like Karate Kung Fu and others are sort of more about forms and techniques. I would say that that sort of fighting is more of a philosophy or a way of life than anything, and very ancient.”

He then turned to look at the two men still wrestling on the floor, “Then there is Jiu Jitsu, a form of combat that relies on submission and grappling. USe the weakness of an enemies body against them, use their weight, use the weakness of their wrists and elbows and knees and neck. Jiu Jitsu is likely to always end up on the ground. It is similar to wrestling, though wrestling requires than you pin the other person’s shoulders to the ground.

Krill turned to look at Sunny’s face and would have rolled his eyes at the giddy expression she had if it weren't for his inability to actually roll his eyes.

“Why are there so many types?’

Adam paused tapping his chin, “Well, humanity has always been working to find a system that works best. In many cases it started with a philosophy of some kind. IN certain cases it was poise, or focus or any number of things. Monks dedicated their entire lives to the mastery and perfection of a single art of combat. In a way it was almost like meditation that could be used in times of need. Some martial arts required steal or quick movement which spawned stuff like Ninjitsu and still live son in spots like parkour despite it not being a combat sport.”

He lend them further into the room, “A lot of them spawned out of the fact that humans just love to fight, we love to see who is physically better. It made it’s way to the olympics, and then into popular culture. Wrestling, while a great athletic endeavor was just as much a theater production as it was anything else and requires an understanding between two parties to put on the most dramatic show possible.”

He walked over a few feet pausing before the octagon, “Then someone had the idea of what would happen if you put the different martial arts up against each other in a contest of who is better hence Mixed Martial Arts fought in an octagon just like this. At first practitioners of one discipline were pitted against each other to see who was better.” He rested his hand against one of the braces, “In the end it ended up weeding out a lot of the older forms of martial arts which were more a form of art than actual fighting. Philosophy wasn’t exactly helpful in the octagon, and many of the flashier forms, while they looked cool in practice turned out to be impractical in the ring.

He dropped his bag to the floor, reaching in to take out a pair of gloves, “The idea became that the more brutal straight to the point contact sports were most superior.”

Sunny crossed her arms, “So what is it, which martial art is more superior?”

Adam grinned, “That’s the catch… all of them are.”

“What do you mean.”

“All of them are assuming you put them together. Fighters that were well versed in multiple styles of fighting were the most victorious.” he fell into a standard human fighting posture feet shoulder width one foot before the other hands up and loose before his face neck down, “If you can punch like a boxer, Kick like a Muay Thai fighter, grapple like a Jiu Jitsu master and put all of it together, you may have more than a chance of winning.” he patted the side of the cage, “The general consensus is that the best kind of fighting is one that doesnt just take focus from one discipline, it is someone who can take the best things from all the disciplines and put them together all at once.”

Sunny looked on rather hungrily at the ring.

“Let’s do it.”

He grinned back, “I thought you might be interested.

Krill just shook his head and backed away, leave it to the drev and the human to find one of the most dangerous pastimes in the world. Who would have thought that philosophy could span a better way to kick the shit out of someone.

Kril Turned his head to look around the room and was surprised at all the thighs he saw. He may not have agreed with the martial arts necessarily, but there was something to be said about the variety, and the sort of human that came out of it. The men and women he could see practicing were, without a doubt some of the fittest humans he had ever laid eyes on, and he spent his time with a crew that wasn’t likely to shirt their physical health.

Men and women alike glistened with lean muscle sharp and prominent against their sweat glazed skin. Hands punched bags over and over and over again. In certain cases he watched as men and women kicked wooden poles repeatedly ramming their shins against the unforgiving surface their faces barely showing any hint of pain,

The feats of acrobatics which they managed, and the way they utilized their center of gravity was astonishing. He saw a five foot woman throw a two hundred pound man over her head simply by throwing herself to her back and kicking the other man over.

While weight and size seemed to matter to some degree there were a few humans here who didn’t seem to care.

Sunny and Adam were on the other side of the room Adam explaining the idea of kinetic linking to sunny, how by moving your body, you could force the power from your feet, all the way up through your legs hips and back and into a single punch making it more powerful.

Krill could see, on a physiological standpoint where that was true.

He even watched for a few sessions as Sunny and Adam went a few rounds Adam winning a surprising amount of times for someone who was so small, but often using the techniques that Krill was seeing around the room.

It was only after they had taken a break and were gearing up to go again that Krill noticed another human walk onto the floor. He was an older human, the pigment having faded from his hair long ago, bleaching him silver. Despite that, the man had the body of someone half his age, lean and sinuous, veins crawling up his arms like the vines of a tree.

Adam was just pulling on his gloves when the man stepped up.

“Excuse me, son.”

Adam lifted his head standing when the man approached, “Can I help you.”

The man set down his bag. Based on his voice, the man was clearly an older gentlemen though Krill had trouble guessing. Either way he had the opinion that this guy probably should take it easier than this palace suggested.

“I hate to ask, but My sparring partner is sick today, and I was wondering if you might consider a round or two. You look spry enough.”

Adam blinked in surprise but then shrugged, “Yeah sure I guess.” The way his ione eye traveled over the man suggested he was having the same thoughts as krill. He seemed like he was a bit too old to be doing something like this. Krill worried that he could potential break or tear something , but no one said a word as the man set down his bag and took a few minutes to stretch.

Krill was a bit more than surprised at the flexibility of the old man who managed a full split in both directions after warming up.

Adam seemed a little less sure of himself upon seeing that.

He definitely could not do that.

The old guy’s face was lined with delicate wrinkles through the skin, the body becoming less taught with age, but when the two of them hopped up into the ring, the older man seemed just as energetic as Adam, which seemed surprising.

No matter though, as old as he was, he would probably tire pretty easily.

“What do you say, no crotch shots and no eye gouging.” Adam announced and the old man agreed as they moved into position.

Krill and Sunny came to the side of the cage to watch as the two men squared off.

Adam kept his hands a bit relaxed, still guarded but not too concerned.

The older man didn’t keeping tight and low as they circled for a bit.

“You’ll want to keep up your guard, son.” The man chided, and adam smiled but pulled his hands in tighter.

Krill tapped his fingers.

Sunny smirked as if she knew something he didn’t

They exchanged a few blows, Adam going eas and the old guy, well being old and slow as Krill had expected. Adam’s guard began to drop again, and then all of a sudden out of absolutely nowhere there was a sharp blur of motion and a loud THWACK.

Adam hit the ground hard dazed and confused as the old man stood over him.

Sunny ohhhhed in absolute glee.

Krill hissed in pain.

Adam had just been round kicked to the head.

“I told you to keep your guard up.” The old man said, reaching down a hand to help Adam to his feet, “probably also a good idea not to underestimate senior citizens.”

Adam rubbed his head, “Ok, ok I deserved that. Let's go another round.”

“You sure, you got your memory jogged kind of hard there.”

Adam shook himself and squared back up, his guard tight this time, “bring it on grandpa.”

The old man smiled and fell back into his stance. This time Adam was not smoking, and his expression was hard as he stared at the old man. Adam came forward with a jab which the man blocked and they exchanged a few punches catching each other only grazing blows as they hit.

Adam got a kick to the upper leg,, the old man took a body shot that should have downed him, but by the staggering way Adam moved to the side suggested he had kicked something as hard as a brick wall.

The old man moved forward and the two of them were suddenly head to head, hands gripping shoulders, fingers digging into shirts, before any of them knew what happened Adam was thrown to the ground his wrist held tightly in the other man’s hands,

He tried to get up but the old man leaped down after him throwing his legs over Adams chest and positioning his elbow over his hips.

He arched his back subtly which had Adam tapping one of his legs frantically.

He let go and the two disengaged.

Sunny cheered.

Adam rubbed his elbow, “Armbar?”

The old man smiled, “I’m old boy, not an invalid.”

Adam raised an eyebrow, “I can see that. How about another round.”

With a teasing smile the old human winked a grey eye, “Only if you want to get beat again.”

Adam snorted, “yeah not so sure about that.” he squared up, “Besides, today’s early bird special is on a knuckle sandwich.”

The old man wiggled his head mockingly, “Oh a wise guy eh.”

Once Upon a time Krill would have assumed they were being aggressive in their words, but the cadence and the smiles on their faces assured him that, despite their actions, this was a friendly fight.

And how strange it was to see someone like the old man holding up so well against someone less than twice his age. By all rights Adam should have beaten him easily, but this old human despite his looks was more than what he appeared. Krill was going to have to do some more research on human aging processes, for there was something he felt he was missing.

The two had squared up again, dancing around in a circle as they came in repeatedly for attacks. Adam tried to get the upper hand with a sudden flurry of blows but the old man weathered it using precision to his advantage with precis body shots that had Adam packing off huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.

At some point Adam did something neither of them had ever see, grabbing the man under his arms and turning, flipping the man over the fulcrum of his hips and sending him flowing into the ground. Adam jumped after trying to claim full mount but the old man somehow flipped him to the side and reversed it catching Adam around the back of the neck with a forearm.

The flat of his forearm went across Adam’s throat, his legs wrapped around his middle, and his opposite hand grabbed onto his wrist. As he squeezed, he also elongated his body..

Krill stepped forward hand out afraid the man was going to pop his cervical spine apart until Adam tapped falling to the ground with a grunt.

“Ok ok, ONE more time.” Adam said wobbling to his feet

The old man followed after grinning, “Whatever you say.”

This last fight went much like the one before it. An exchange up top and a sudden move onto the ground, though this time the man trapped adam using his legs, thighs constricting around the side of his neck.

Adam was still breathing just fine, until his body slumped to the side.

Krill leaped forward in shock and confusion thinking that the man had somehow injured his neck, killed him. But almost as soon as the man let go Adam twitched and then sat up looking groggy.

“What the.”

“You were supposed to tap before passing out.”

Adam rubbed his head, “Was that a triangle choke… didn’t even feel like I was choking.”

Krill stormed forward, “What happened! Adam are you alright. Do I need to call the police.”

Adam waved him off, “It was a blood choke krill, he temporarily cut off blood supply to my brain, no big deal.”

“No big deal!” Krill shreakied, “How is it having blood in your brain NOT a big deal.’

Sunny cheered with glee behind Krill’s protests leaping up into the ring and towards the old man, “Can you teach me.”

The old man seemed surprised, but agreed and glanced oer at Adam, “Someone needs some extra lessons anyway.”

Adam snorted and rolled his eyes but otherwise took it with good humor.

Krill sat fuming in the corner.

Humans, frigging humans always finding ways to hurt themselves. Crushing each other’s windpipes and cutting off carotid arteries, and bending joints that weren't supposed to be bent, and all for what because it was FUN to look STRONGER. He couldn't believe this.

Stupid

Stupid humans.

He was going to have to tell someone. He was going to have to rant.

He was…..

Probably going to write an academic paper, though he was going to be angry while doing it.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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