#Replacing clutch in bikes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cheesus-doodles · 4 months

Text

Going Home: Chapter 4

Yandere Platonic Toman + Time Leaper Darling

Masterlist

‎

Going Home: Chapter 1 | 2 | 3

I kept my promise!! Editing tmr, I'm dead on my feet rn

The neighborhood that Takemichi and Naoto found themselves in was a far cry from the dazzling city lights of Shibuya City that Draken once called home: a suburb outside of the bustling city, where houses and apartments alike that lined the streets as far as the eye can see with the occasional shop breaking the facade. Yet even with the shop entrance nestled off on a side alley, the roads still noticeably buzzed with life as the time drew closer to noon, the hustle and bustle of non-stop traffic and office workers swarming through town that Takemichi remembered had instead been replaced smaller, livelier groups of students filing past with nay a glance at the duo, too caught up in their chatter and gossip of the day.

It was jarring, the former Toman member had to admit, watching the rest of the world go by uncaringly at its own relaxed pace when compared against the urgency of the sticky situation he was in the midst of. Whatever time he spent in the present was time that he couldn’t spend twelve years in the past fixing the future after all. Blue eyes nervously glanced around at every passing soul, before they turned to meet gray ones for the umpteenth time. “Are you sure this is the right place?” The former delinquent asked again, anxiously wringing his hands. He couldn’t help himself, even if Naoto’s sympathetic look had long given way to an annoyed frown. “Maybe we should ring again?”

"No, just give it a minute."

Something felt wrong, yet this ordinary bike shop was precisely where the detective’s digging had pointed him too, the name on the business license unmistakable. So why did it feel so strange? So out-of-place? Takemichi glanced at the shop sign again, the unlit signboard ominously looming over the small alley.

The questions quickly faded as footsteps started to thunder down what must have been a flight of steps after the doorbell announced their presence outside the nondescript motorcycle shop, the sound of annoyed mumbling growing louder as the footsteps approached. Takemichi held his breath. The door rattled for a brief moment before it was yanked open.

"What?"

The single word was growled out before the figure behind the door was fully visible, and Takemichi’s soul nearly left his body as he came face to face with a clearly pissed off Draken. The former Vice Captain of Toman had only grown taller and more intimidating with every passed year, and now twelve years in the future, he made for one formidable figure, blond hair now back to its natural black. A minute of silence as Draken looked between the two, before recognition sparked behind those abyss eyes. “Takemichi?”

“It’s me,” was all said man managed to squeak back.

Letting out a sigh, the bike mechanic dressed in overalls visibly relaxed, the hand clutching a wrench dropping to hang loosely by his side. “It’s been years.”

"It has been," Takemichi nervously laughed, before waving over to a very calm Naoto. “This is Naoto, a friend of mine.”

"So what do the two of you want?"

Straight to the point huh. The time leaper took a gulp of air, steeling his nerves. “W-well, um, Draken-kun, we actually wanted to ask about the… seventh founding member of Toman.” They wanted to ask about you was, what Takemichi wanted to say, but all those instances of being drilled again and again by Chifuyu to avoid saying your name at all costs twelve years ago stopped his heavy tongue from spitting it out.

Another pause as the larger man stared him down, and this time, the stillness was palpable. Takemichi could feel the sweat rolling down the side of his head, waiting for a reaction. His gut only churned more. This was not good,

Quicker than he could see, the next thing the time traveller could process was him being lifted cleanly off the ground by the front of his shirt, his face suddenly leveled with a furious Draken’s. “What?” The Toman founder hissed, the vein on his forehead throbbing. “Wanna repeat that?”

Fuck.

ㅤ

Slamming the door shut behind him, the once-Toman Vice President cursed under his breath as he stormed out from the back room. How fucking dare he. How dare Takemichi come asking for information on you. He had been inches from turning that turd face into a smear on the ground for soiling the memory of you with his thoughts.

Yet for all the anger smeared across his face in plain sight for customers and passers-by alike to see, it was an uncomfortable turmoil that brewed in the base of his gut, one that Draken knew came from a lack of closure. Of course he had been keeping his ear to the ground all these years - how could he not, when you meant and still mean the world to him - but the last thing he expected to happen today would be to be reminded of you and your sudden disappearance twelve years ago and the quick downfall of everything else that followed. You had always been the center of the Tokyo Manji Gang, after all.

In a vain attempt to distract himself from the sudden flurry of memories and thoughts, the former delinquent picked up a socket wrench and pulled out a stool. There was nothing more he could do at the moment, Draken tried to convince himself, busying his hands with loosening the bolts of a motorcycle engine; all Takemichi and his detective friend had brought were more questions instead of answers, but he was certain that he would have heard of any news regarding you.

A buzz as the bell to the backroom door went off once more, and every last shred of concentration the man with the dragon tattoo had left instantly went down the gutter. His mind leapt straight back to Takemichi as the vulgarities and curses started to flow once more. If it was that bastard again with his questions, he swears- “What?!” He barked out as the door flew open once more with a bang, not sparing a second glance as to who it was.

But it wasn’t the two black mobs of hair he had expected to see standing outside, instead being greeted by an awfully familiar swish of a ponytail that Draken hadn’t seen in years, the green of an apron with the logo of a pet shop striking against the backdrop of a dull, gray alley. Those distinct yellow eyes of Baji, once sharp and methodical, were instead completely blown wide with panic, the other shoving the screen of a smartphone straight at him. “It’s- it’s-” The words died away before they could leave his tongue; the former Toman’s First Division Captain clearly too shocked by something to say a hello or even notice Draken’s foul mood. And the temperamental pet shop delinquent would have never let that kind of tone drop without a fight.

The motorcycle engineer simply snatched up the phone to take a better look himself. “What am I looking at?” A pause, a sudden silence as Draken continued to squint at the screen while Baji collected his thoughts and emotions.

“It’s her.”

Draken almost dropped the phone as soon as the other blurted out those two laden words. “What?” The man muttered, his voice lost to disbelief. He knew, of course, who Baji was referring to. “That’s not possible.” It simply wasn’t. He would have known if you had been seen.

“Look.” Snatching back his phone, Baji clicked into one of his conversations, before turning the screen back around. “A message from her number. Yesterday night. I only saw it when I woke up.”

Draken’s mind instantly jumped to his earlier visit, and Takemichi’s probing questions about you. Was this related? Did he know something that Draken did not? Logic told the tattooed man otherwise - as much as he would have liked for you to have appeared out of thin air, there must be a different explanation. “Could it have been Mikey?” It must be, since they both knew that Bonten had continued to maintain your number all these years, Mikey having never really gotten over your sudden disappearance.

“So you don’t know about this either, huh?” The once First Division Captain shook his head, frowning as he concentrated. “Why would he send something like this?”

And that was true: the way the message started with a very hesitant “to whoever this number now belongs to” and directly addressed to a “hopefully Baji-kun”, there was no doubt that it must be you. What was the chance someone else with the same name as you would also know that this was Baji’s personal number? But how?

Any conversation left between the two died away, the two men left to ponder. The world, of course, simply kept turning, passersby eagerly making their way to unknown destinations, strolling past the small alley without a second glance at the duo, while the occasional vehicle rattled and raced down wide, empty roads.

Letting out a sigh, Draken stepped aside, waving at his once close-friend into the dimly-lit backroom. “I think you best come in. I’ll close up shop for the day.”

ㅤ

Twelve years in the past, despite your best efforts, you once again found yourself in the thick of things.

You sighed. “This is a bit of an overkill, don’t you think boys?” The rattling of chains seemed to agree with you, the metal links rubbing and clanking against each other as they followed the cuffed hand you raised to shake amusedly at the Toman founders huddled around you. Back twelve years in the past and once more separate from Takemichi’s time leaping woes, things were hardly going any better for you. “I’m really not going anywhere, I promise.”

To no one’s surprise, the boys disagreed, and they were far from afraid to make that known despite your assurances; you could tell from the tightening clutches and tugging on your shirt, and that was if you could ignore the immediate protests and whining and whimpering that broke out. But you couldn’t really blame them, you suppose, musing to yourself as you rested your chin atop a shifty Mikey’s head, unchained hand moving to gently hold Draken’s much larger one as Kazutora tried his best to snuggle his way into the crook of your neck and probably under your skin as well. After all, it had been just a single night since you had made your sudden reappearance in the small alley a stone’s throw away from your school in a gust of wind, and three nights since you first disappeared. You were sure this was the first and longest time your boys had been apart from you ever since they entered your life.

“You did disappear though,” Mitsuya’s voice cut above the others, those dark, heavy eyebags that clung to the bottom of his and everyone else’s eyes telling you everything you needed to know. “And we still haven’t figured out what caused you to… vanish.”

“To time travel,” you corrected gently. It was easy to tell that the delinquents around you were still uncertain about how you managed to slip their grasp without their knowledge, let alone accept the idea of you having somehow leapt into the future, somewhere that they were unable to follow you to. They had always been protective of you, perhaps because of the difference between their strength and yours.

Allowing your gaze to take a wander away from the mobs of hair of various colors gathered around you, your bedroom was exactly how you remembered it had been even twelve years in the future, your belongings having been left in the exact same spot all those years. Well, aside from the unmade bed where you had fallen asleep amidst the pile of delinquents the previous night, that is. Your present blankets were left still tossed aside into a messy pile, and you couldn’t help but wonder how your Toman friends knew how to fold them back the same way you always had. Did they also take turns keeping your home clean all those years? You wondered if they had managed to share such a difficult task that would have carried so many possibly painful memories. Which inevitably led your line of thought straight back to the various questions that had been plaguing your mind: where was the future you? What happened to Mikey that left him in such a state? And where were the rest of your Toman friends?

Yet all you had were more and more questions. Shaking yourself out of your ponderings, you focused your gaze back onto the lively group of delinquents. “I don’t know what’s going on either, but it’s probably linked to the onomori you boys gave me for safekeeping.” The same purple-and-gold charm from the very founding of the gang, the same onomori that had been stabbed during that life-threatening attack on Ken-chin you tried in vain to stop, the same one that Sanzu had accidentally discovered could summon you back from the future: it now hung from a metal chain under said Vice Captain’s shirt, pressed tight against his sternum where it could get constant skin contact, and more importantly, safe from the grabby fingers of Mikey and Kazutora.

The blond-haired delinquent with the intimidating dragon tattoo only instinctively reached for the onomori once more, as if to assure himself it was still there, the collar of his shirt crumpling as he closed his fist around the bloodstained, amateurishly-patched charm. Now that they had it, you mused, there shouldn’t be any more issues.

Baji, who had earlier been shoved aside by a bawling Kazutora, grumpily poked your side, and you jumped a little in response. “So what happens in the future?” The black-haired boy asked, as you beckoned him closer, patting an empty spot to your right where he could lean up against your shoulder.

Ah, you had hoped that their line of thought wouldn’t have gone there. Because how were you supposed to respond? You hesitated, the white-haired bony, tired figure of the future Mikey roaring straight back to the front of your mind with that question. Should you be telling them about the future? Sure that would be the easiest way to ensure that that particular timeline never happened, given you were sure this would be the first time your boys will have ever heard of this predicament you found yourself in, but what if you accidentally changed the future for the worse? What if you did something irreversible that only made a bigger mess?

Maybe it would be better if you kept things to yourself first - you could always tell them the full truth later on if you needed to. Keeping that in mind, you were quick to school your face back to a neutral expression, though the brief flash of internal panic across your face at that question was enough to raise suspicion. Kazutora instantly leapt to his feet, tears that had already been dried starting to well once more at the corner of reddened eyes, lips starting to quaver once more as he jabbed a finger in your direction. “Y-you left us,” his word ladened with accusation, those sandy brown eyes clouding over as the waterworks flowed. “You did, didn’t you? You m-married someone else in the future.”

And he sounded so convinced by his own words too, you amusedly noted, as if it had already happened because he said so. “I did not,” you stated simply, reaching over to affectionately pat his knee. “I told you, you boys will always be my priority.” You weren’t sure how the delinquent with the duo-colored hair came to that particular conclusion, though you supposed it was simply just jealous.

Draken raised an imposing eyebrow. “And you don’t want to tell us what happens because?”

“Because I’m afraid it changes the future for the worse.”

“What can you tell us?”

You hummed, your eyes glancing momentarily towards the ceiling as you thought before returning to meet Draken’s gaze. “My room was still exactly the same in the future.”

“Really?” Pah looked intrigued at the idea.

“Yup! Whoever did it did a good job too, my blankets were even folded back neatly.”

Outside, your neighbor was quiet as it always was right at noon, with students yet to be released from their classes and workers still congregated under the big city lights. It was strange, looking over roads and houses that you knew would stand the test of time, leaving you to wonder if the neighbors you were well-acquainted with still occupied their homes in the future you came from. Letting out a sigh as you leaned back onto your bedroom wall, you stretched out lazily as best as you could. “Say,” you ventured. “Did you happen to meet future me?”

Kazutora sniffled, just as Mikey lifted his head to stare blankly at you, as if your question had been asked in Martian. “W-what?” “What?”

”Nothing,” you hastily concluded. Seems like the ‘future you’ was somehow missing, and you noted that down mentally in case you needed that.

ㅤ

Thankfully the subject of your apparently strange question was dropped before you had to elaborate any further on your awkward question, with dirty looks immediately being exchanged between the two still clung to you, though the black-and-yellow haired boy’s ire was quickly stolen

You hadn’t missed Mitsuya’s unwillingness to mingle with the rest for the entire length of the time the six boys had been gathered, the lilac-haired boy keeping a careful distance from Kazutora in particular, nor did you miss Kazutora’s and Mikey’s seeming aversion to each other’s presence as well, the ugly stink eyes they shot at each other over your shoulders while attempting to jab at each other when they thought you weren’t looking hard to pass over. It was clear that your disappearance had sparked a fight between the Toman founders, and though the exact details were still lost on you, it wouldn’t do to leave this crack to split any further as far as you could help it. Huffing at Kazutora’s more insistent grip around your waist, an indulgent smile pulled at the corner of your lips as you beckoned at Mitsuya to join the huddle, before your hand moved to gently stroke a pouting Mikey’s back. “Have you boys been fighting again?”

“No.” “No.” The immediate denials, combined with their gazes instantly dropping from yours, were suspicious to say the least. You imagined that they had, in fact, been fighting while you were lost to the flow of time. You wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.

Tutting, you dished out forehead kisses to the beefing delinquents, feeling them melt away against you. “If I cook some tempura for everyone for lunch, would you be willing to make up?”

You didn’t need to wait long to get your answer.

ㅤ

Days started to pass, the hours slipping through your fingers like water. Every minute brought you further and further from your little trip to the future, your disappearance from this present. Your boys had yet to let up with their obsessive observations of you as you expected. It had, after all, just been four days since your return. You simply took it in stride, having no qualms about them wanting to tail you anywhere and everywhere, clinging to a limb or to your back as you went about your day; it definitely beat being confined to just your bedroom and cuffed to your bedpost. With enough reassurances about how you really wouldn’t leave them, and that no, you couldn’t control your time traveling, you even managed to convince your delinquents to let you back out into the wider world for accompanied trips to the supermarket and snack shops. School, however, was still out of the question for the foreseeable future (you tried).

The afternoon sky overhead was unusually overcast, the threat of rain only growing more convincing with every passing minute. Strong gusts of wind rattled windows and doors, ferrying the heavy gray clouds straight in your direction as the humidity only seemed to climb higher and higher, and you were very certain that a thunderstorm was brewing despite the continued absence of thunder. Yet here you were, you mused, as you sat on a curb with a drink in hand, alone outside for the first time in a week while you waited for Baji to settle some differences with the other delinquents inside the store. Come to think of it, you couldn’t remember the last time you had been left truly alone ever since your disappearance, though clearly, Baji not wanting you to watch him fight sat higher on the priority list. It probably wasn’t going to take long anyway.

A pause as you scratched mindlessly at your skin under the cuff. Did Baji from the future also like to fight as much as your current Baji?

Despite the possibility of you returning to that particular future being close to zero in your opinion, given that the boys had a good handle on that purple-gold charm, but you couldn’t help but think back on the white-haired Mikey from the future that had melted in your arms, that you had left behind. Ah no, not left behind, you corrected yourself, as you tried to wave away the instant guilt that settled in your heart. Technically - technically it was just one of many possible futures, and that particular future where your friend had suffered so much could have already been changed.

But something deep in your gut told you that you were wrong. Pushing that line of thinking to the back of your head, you instead opted to amuse yourself with the shenanigans of the past few days as you waited.

You had, for one, been cooking almost non-stop for your boys ever since your return: breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert and snacks. Unusual, certainly, and you didn’t have to of course: no one was forcing you to, even if your clingy trio had the strongest pouty faces and watery eyes you knew, but you did feel like you had to make it up to them for all the worry. You did however get a lot of amusement attempting to send them to the supermarket with a grocery list.

And then there was the matter of Sanzu and the residue guilt that you couldn’t shake off. Sure, this Sanzu was not the same as the pink-haired man from the future with the crazy eyes, but you still wanted to put things right. Consoling yourself that even if it did change the future, a Sanzu that you were on amicable terms on was much better than dealing with someone that absolutely hated your guts for reasons beyond you, and apologizing in advance never caused any harm. It did take a lot of pleading, cajoling and outright bribery, but you finally manage to get Mikey and Draken to reluctantly agree to allow you to meet with the Fifth Division Vice Captain, though the two did remain very suspicious of how you knew the other.

Your lips were sealed from any further details, and you said your apologies and your thanks without giving out much information to the confusion of the boy with the mask, though thankfully for everyone involved, the meeting went rather uneventfully. Much to your dismay, the other was most likely forbidden from speaking to you, simply opting to listen quietly and then nodding at the end of your rambling, but you didn’t want to give him any more trouble - you didn’t trust your boys’ usual excuse that Sanzu was just quiet by nature and didn’t like to talk; they have been using that excuse for years by now. At least, you comforted yourself, you did manage to slip him another bag of karaage while a pouting Mikey was distracted.

You breathed out, watching another car whizz by as you took a sip from the bottle of iced tea. Beaded sweat that clung to your hair was dabbed off with a handkerchief, the humidity of the already hot afternoon only rising as the rain-laden clouds, gray from their load, rolled threateningly closer.

ㅤ

Glancing at your watch, you decided that it had been a long enough period of time for you to venture back into the small shop, the plastic bag hanging from your wrist rustling as you stood - your delinquent friend should be about done by now. But all you managed to take was a single step before you were quickly stopped once more. “Oh-” You blinked, shaking off the surprise, the black of the other’s shirt that you ran into momentarily blocking your entire field of vision. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

An annoyed tsk was all you earned it seemed as you quickly moved aside, and as your gaze was raised from the ground to meet the other, your obstacle was quickly revealed to be a boy with streaked yellow and blue hair, pierced violet eyes staring down at you through the circle lens of gold-rimmed glasses. A face you didn’t recognize from anywhere, not even the future. One that you would usually apologize again, write to the back of your mind, and then quickly move on to avoid any trouble, though the trailing blood leaking from the other’s nose and the bruises that decorated his face made you pause. “You’re hurt! Are you okay?”

”Fuck off.”

You didn’t let that bother you. “Don’t worry,” you assured, showing the other the scar left on your palm back from when you tried to save Ken-chin from that knife attack. “I’m a professional.”

That seemed to confuse the boy enough for you to leap into action as his violet eyes looked bewilderedly between the small mark and your confident gaze. Whipping open your bag, you produced a small bottle of ointment and a few bandages, basic supplies that you always kept on hand for your own delinquent boys. “What’s your name?” You asked cheerfully as you ever so gently dabbed the dark spots before sticking a bandage over.

“Rindo,” the boy answered. You replied with your own name, and that was that.

Carefully rinsing and repeating your procedure with each bruise till you were done (you were rather surprise he let you, if you were being honest), you passed him a tissue for his nose after with strict instructions to blow out the blood and not swallow it.

The other obediently held the tissue to his nose without complaints, as if silently asking if you were done now and to leave him alone. Not that you noticed, too busy rummaging through the convenience store plastic bag and retrieving a wrapped piece of taiyaki, to which you pressed it into his hand. “Here! For you,” you lifted your own open drink. “Sorry, I only bought one drink.”

The ring of the convenience store door opening again was a bell that cut off any further conversations, and you waved a short bye to your newfound friend before rushing over to meet an exiting and very grumpy Baji.

ㅤ

Once more separated from you by simple time, the gunshot shattered the tension weighing down the freezing air of the refrigerated warehouse, finally silencing the annoying muffled begging as the bullet cleaved through flesh as effortlessly as a butcher’s knife through tuna. A click as the used shell was expelled, yet hushness was quick to fall once more over the warehouse despite the area being far from empty. Mikey exhaled, his warm breath leaving a trail of fog behind in the cold air even as the man simply continued to stare blankly ahead, abyss eyes fixed on some unknown spot off from where the traitor’s head had been just a minute earlier, gun lowered to hang limply by his side.

A stone’s throw away, unusually alert green eyes framed by long pink lashes remained trained on the unmoving Mikey, the corners of Sanzu’s scarred mouth remained downturned as he contemplated what he had just witnessed. Far from the blood and death that bothered the made man, it was rather the sight of Mikey being there amidst the pooling blood instead of him, Bonten’s Hammer. After all, it was rare - unheard of - for the boss to personally bloody his hands with the dirty work, yet this was far from being the first instance of such an exception happening this week alone, be it to rivals, traitors or Bonten members alike. There had been several close calls for even the executives where the various members had found themselves at the business end of Mikey’s gun, Sanzu included, though fortunately there hadn’t been any accidental deaths yet.

And it was clear they remembered the past week’s incidents, Bonten’s Number Two breaking from his thoughts to throw an accusatory glance Kakucho’s way, given how everyone else was happy to let the boss stew, content with their quiet observation from a safe distance. Said black-haired man returned Sanzu’s icy look with a shrug that said everything: no one was too sure what was going to accidentally set Mikey off next, and with how trigger happy the man has been in the past few days, no one was quite keen to find out either.

Which left only Sanzu to do the job - the same man who had just been discharged from hospital after committing the ultimate sin and still very much neck deep in Mikey’s shit list - but still the only person left willing to risk his life. And he didn’t even have any drugs left - that shithead of a doctor in Bonten’s infirmary ward had confiscated his own stash on top of denying him any painkillers. Traitors, the whole lot of them.

The soles of Sanzu’s handcrafted shoes crunched atop the icy floor as he hesitantly took a few steps in the direction of his king.“Mikey?”

No response. Not a twitch.

The white-haired man seemed to barely even be breathing, lost to the breaking world in his mind. And there was no doubt about what caused this spiral. After all, it had been a mere three nights since you disappeared from his arms. Four days since Mikey had completely stopped eating or sleeping; and the few times Sanzu had caught the other nodding off for a few minutes before something wretched him back awake once more didn’t count. Short stubble dotting his chin, his mob of white, uncombed hair unkept atop his head, and still dressed in the same days-old clothes, it was as if he had ceased to function completely, and it was because of you that Sanzu’s king was rotting away, perishing before his eyes. A ruthless, cold man Mikey was as the head of the largest criminal syndicate in Japan, but twelve long years apart and for him to have only a taste of his darling you before some unknown force wretched you away from him again; it was as if the spark to keep slugging onwards had finally been extinguished from the broken man, and the strongman facade was starting to crack.

Despite the pink-haired man’s continued disdain for you, he understood, but there was nothing more he could do. Every available resource at Bonten’s disposal had already been committed to combing every inch of Tokyo, and all they could do now was wait. Letting out a sigh, Sanzu closed the distance, taking the few steps that brought him elbow to elbow with the boss, with just a couple of inches between the two. “Mikey? You alright?” He tried again.

Silence once more blanketed the area as his words drifted off and died, the freezing air in the refrigerated warehouse thick and heavy and hard to breathe. Off in the distance, Rindo shivered from behind the seat of a forklift, the chill finally getting to the younger of the Haitani brothers, but the world still fell silent.

At least this time Mikey did react, though not to Sanzu, the Bonten boss simply turning away from his right hand man, slippers making nay a sound as he padded away towards the exit, body listing from side to side with every step. “Ah, is it?” The ragged whisper that fell from Mikey’s lips seemed to echo louder than the earlier gunshot, unsteady steps threatening to give way under the man’s frail frame as he muttered to himself. “It was me? I see.”

All Sanzu could do was watch and grimace, hand moving to grip the bottom of his striped vest, knuckles turning white from his tight, frustrated clench. Mikey wasn’t speaking to any of the executives present, no, but to you: the whispering, taunting version of you that lived rent-free in Mikey’s hallucinations and delusions. Like a ghost that refused to depart, your shade haunting the white-haired man’s every move despite your absence, staying just beyond his grasp yet so mockingly close - who knew what kind of vicious words you were tormenting him with?

Even as he still questioned what had led to his intense dislike of you in the first place, he knew that the real you would never do such a thing, especially considering the tenderness with which he had previously witnessed you holding Mikey’s bony hand with. Definitely not to Mikey, but that was a matter for a different time. Shaking his head to clear his mind, the second-in-command tuned out those nagging voices, letting out a sigh that instantly fogged up into a cloud of white fog as he turned his attention back on the unstable man in front of him. Truly, having to live with this amount of clarity at all times was painful.

ㅤ

One step wrongly placed, and time felt as if it came to a crawl as Mikey’s slipper failed to get a grasp on the thin layer of ice that coated the cement tiles, the already lethargic man looked as if he would be meeting the ground under his own weakened legs, white hair streaming out behind the Bonten boss as he descended.

Sanzu moved. “Wait Mikey, you’re-” Calloused hands shot out in an attempt to catch his falling king, though it seemed too little too late, that signature black shirt brushing past the tips of his fingers.

But in that instant, the former up-and-coming delinquent was quicker, a speed reminiscent of his glory days as Toman’s President as he caught himself with little difficulty. “Don’t you fucking touch her,” the guttural growl reverberated across the tin-roofed building, and in one smooth move, the black pistol whipped around to lined straight up with the centre of Sanzu’s forehead, the black, heavy eyebags that clung to the bottom of Mikey’s eyes scrunching up as his gaze narrowed dangerously.

The world held its breath as green eyes met abyss ones.

A second ticked by.

A bead of sweat gathered along Sanzu’s pink hairline despite the freezing temperature, trickling down the side of his face. Was this it?

Another second.

Perhaps it was a mere moment of recognition that glimmered behind those exhausted eyes to which clung black, heavy eyebags, perhaps it was your specter taking pity on him, saving him from what was an unenviable fate. Whatever it had been, the heaved sigh of relief that slipped out from Sanzu’s scarred lips started his world spinning once more as the barrel of the gun was lowered, the other’s bony arm shaking from the effort of holding up the pistol. He hadn’t been sure if Mikey would squeeze the trigger, and even though he wouldn’t have been too angry to die by his liege’s hands, it was far from the right time to leave the other to those spiralling thoughts. He did, after all, swear an oath to keep the former Toman President safe; he had for all this time and he will continue to do so, even if it meant keeping Mikey safe from himself.

The palpable stillness persisted as seven pairs of various colored eyes watched Mikey turn once more to leave, soundless steps reverberating through the tense air as his abnormally delicate figure grew smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared behind the half-open warehouse door, long tendrils of cold fog lazily trailing out after him.

Running one hand through his mob of pink hair, Sanzu took a glance around at the rest of the executives present as a silent grumble slipped his lips; it was rare to see anything but amusement on the faces of these usually desensitized criminals, and even rarer for everyone present to be of the same thought. And if it had been anything but this conundrum, the pink-haired second in command wouldn’t have wasted any time in giving it to them for showing such useless emotions. But with the quickly deteriorating state of their boss as the hours and days go by and no sign of your return or your presence anywhere, there was little they could do but watch with concern as Mikey wasted away.

Despite the already ongoing search looking non-stop for you, all day and all night, a tightening knot at the base of his gut combined with a nagging feeling told Sanzu that they were unlikely to find you anywhere, his mind instantly leaping back to the pounding headache and the change in his memory back when he awoke in the infirmary four days ago. Why did he stop hating you with every fiber of his being previously? How did you do that? No matter what the others said, there was definitely something off about his sudden change of heart with regards to you, Sanzu knew without doubt, and he would get to the bottom of this.

For now, what he needed to figure out was what combination of begging and groveling would be enough to get Mikey to at least accept some water.

ㅤ

Yet just three hours later, Mikey’s situation had already taken a turn for the worse. Four days without food, let alone sleep, would do anyone in, and even the once undefeated Toman President was no exception. Now standing alone, consumed by the darkness of the last untrodden area in Bonten headquarters, Sanzu knew he was breaking every rule worth remembering, doing something so explicitly forbidden by his king. But as he rummaged through mostly empty cupboards and amidst the little belongings owned by the infinitely wealthy yakuza boss in a bid to find something, anything that could help, the black hole of spiraling thoughts that encompassed the events of the past thirty minutes overriding any awareness he had the items passing through his hands.

After all, it had been him who had come across Mikey, his near-skeletal figure sprawled unconscious across plush carpets halfway down Executive Row, just meters away from the worn white door of his bedroom. It had been him who had scooped the man into his arms and rushed him down to the infirmary, grimly noting how the man weighed barely anything. And it had also been him, on his knees and his forehead to the ground, pleading with a conscious Mikey to allow the doctor to administer a fluid IV, only for the other to reject his fervent imploring with a simple turn of his head, those exhausted abyss eyes breaking from his teary green ones wordlessly to stare blankly at the ceiling. Because no words needed to be said for Sanzu to know what the boss demanded: he would accept nothing less than your return and your cooking.

Despite the white-haired man not being present, allowing the light from the hallway outside to pour into the usually unilluminated room - the gloom and morbidness just as Mikey likes it - felt too much like the discretion of such a sacred space to the ever-loyal Sanzu, though this did leave him to conduct his hunt with just the sliver of light that sipped in from under the door. The cold sweat that gathered and pooled on his palms was hastily wiped away on striped pants as the usually high second-in-command attempted to focus back on his searching, green eyes scanning around in a desperate attempt to find something that could help, a clue that could point to where you were, anything.

This was all your fault. Was there nothing he could do but let fate play out?

It was only as Sanzu threw up his arms in exasperation did a glimmer from the furthest end of the room catch the corner of his eye; the small amount of light that reflected back seemed to sparkle even in the dark. The faintest shimmer of gold. What was that? A cautious few steps revealed the source to be a school bag - your school bag, judging from the neatly written name on the tag - that you had failed to take with you for whatever reason. And more importantly, hanging from the front of the bag from a zipper was that notorious purple-and-gold onomori that had him recoil his hand as if burnt.

No doubt it was the same one that still haunted his every step, one that marked you as off-limits all those years ago on the threat of torture and death. Yet -

The Bonten man reached out, gripping the onomori with one fist. He vaguely remembered something from many years ago, maybe twelve or more, when you first disappeared, when you first gave him that bag of karaage. He had been the one to find your charm, and if his scrambled memory hasn’t failed him, the simple of act of picking up this charm had summoned you out of thin air. Though after holding it for a rough five minutes, Sanzu sighed, undoing the simple note that kept the charm tied to your bag before standing. He probably just dreamt that particular one up during one of his highs.

Still, the man noted as he wrapped the small item ever so carefully in a clean handkerchief and tucked it into his breast pocket, it was probably precious to Mikey. Something to lift his spirits a bit maybe, if it did nothing else - anything that would keep his king going until you could be located.

And pressing it into said man’s weak hand later, and watching the charm disappear under sterile white blankets as Mikey retracted his thin arm, it was all too clear to Sanzu that the other was running out of time. If they don't find you soon, Mikey dies.

Turning to leave his boss to his thoughts, the right-hand man decided that he didn’t quite enjoy all the stress. He could use a smoke about now.

ㅤ

The sight of the empty lot where your school building formerly sat brought that familiar gut-sinking feeling back to your abdomen, one that you didn’t think you would be feeling again. Running one hand through your hair, you let a sigh escape your lips. You were back in the future again, it seems. Whether this was the same future or a different one, or even if you had skipped ahead the same number of years was something that was beyond you at the moment, and you had even less on you this time then the previous incident, having been caught in your literal pajamas right as you were about to head to bed. Which came with a secondary problem, one that you found by simply looking up - it was still the middle of night.

The neighborhood where your school once was was silent as it always was at this time of day, with most students and adults alike usually asleep by this time of day. Slipping your phone out from your pocket, you noted that the battery was dead once more: was it just a side effect of the time leaping?

Patting down the rest of your pajamas only confirmed that you had none of your house keys on you unlike your previous experience, which only meant that you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Though heading back home wouldn’t be a bad idea if this was still the same timeline, and your feet started to carry you down familiar paths once more. Yes, you were sure at least someone would know you were back if you waited by the front door.

ㅤ

Takemichi let out an exasperated grunt, ruffling his hands through his hair. He had been back and forth from the future twice in the last four days alone, plus that disaster meeting with Draken, and nothing. No clues, no progress, nothing. You were still nowhere to be found. Kicking a stone down empty roads, the former Toman delinquent felt truly helpless for the first time. If his time leaping ability was being overridden by yours, then there was no point to what he was putting himself through - he couldn’t change the future until they could figure out how to stop yours.

And that meant…

The black-haired man shook his head vigorously in an attempt to stop his thoughts from going down that beckoning abyss. No, he couldn’t give up now. Taking a deep breath, Takemichi looked up, fists clenched determined by his side.

It was the middle of the night now, and the streets were completely empty of souls, with the exception of him wandering down aimlessly. In the distant, an occasional rumble of the engine of a passing vehicle, though none passed his way. But Naoto had mentioned that this area was where your school once stood, plus you lived not too far away as well, and therefore if you were really a time leaper, then there was a high chance this was the place you would return to. It made sense, Takemichi agreed, but this was already the umpteeth time he had searched.

Pulling one hand down his face, a flash of hair in the distance caught the man’s eye before it quickly disappeared behind a wall, too fast for him to even register. That looked like…you? Was that a hallucination?

A quick jog forward took Takemichi to the bend in the street, but when he looked round the corner, whatever trace of whoever it had been walking the roads was already gone.

ㅤ

Across the bustling city of Tokyo, Rindo froze mid-step.

Yet the sudden lack of movement was lost on Ran. The evening traffic had yet to let up outside, the rumbling of cars and the occasional horn cutting through the unnatural silence that hung inside the tiny shop tucked just a street away from the main road, though it was precisely the quietness that had carried with it the promise of an earlier rest. Careful to avoid dirtying his shoes with blood, the older Haitani had already made his way to the exit, suit jacket casually swung over one shoulder, gun tucked away safely and out of his side under his vest. “Let’s head straight back to base, Rindo,” Ran groaned, running one hand through his short purple hair only to grimace upon realizing that said hand was caked with someone else’s blood. Today was really not going his way. “You can grab a drink at the rooftop bar or something, I don’t know.”

Yanking the front door open with a grunt, said Bonten executive didn’t stop to hear if there was a response from his younger brother, instead opting to step straight out and back onto the narrow side alley, the buzzing streetlight overhead as if a welcome back from the grim of that filthy store and its dead, traitorous owner. Taking a breath of the comparatively better smelling air outside, Ran stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants, pulling out a sole crumpled cigarette and a handful of change - but no lighter. Not even a match. Fuck this fucking disgusting job.

Ran turned, hand already outstretched. “Rindo, do you have a light -” And it was only then did it hit him that his brother had not followed him out. Rindo was still in the store for some goddamn reason, and he had to go back in there. The feared mafia officer sighed. This had better be important.

Alas, he spoke too soon.

“I think my memories just changed,” was seemingly all that Rindo could bring himself to mumble at the chime that came with the opening door, the man with the long purple hair still standing by the row of unpowered display refrigerators where Ran had last seen him, violet eyes staring down at the blood pooling around the cooling bodies sprawled on the floor. The stench of iron didn’t seem to bother the younger Haitani, too caught up in his jumbled mind as Rindo tried to make head or tail of what had just happened.

Ran, however, was far from impressed, simply propping both his hands on his hips and raising one eyebrow at that statement. “Did you get into Sanzu’s drug stash?”

The sheer vileness of that statement alone was enough to shake Rindo out from his own little world, with said man snapping straight back into reality ready for a fight. “How dare you-” the younger of the two let out a cough, the sudden thick smell of death and blood that made itself known to his previously oblivious nostrils choking up his airway momentarily. “How dare you say that.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to say when you talk dumb shit?”

“It’s not dumb shit, fuck you Ran! My memories changed!” Rindo insisted, carelessly stepping over the bodies at his feet, Ran wincing at the blood splattering up and all over his brother’s shoes. That would be a pain to clean later.

But still, the older Haitani led the way back outside and into the fresher air of the alleyway, before turning around to better understand the situation his dear brother seemed to have found himself in. “Alright, if not pink pills, then what happened?”

Rindo himself still seemed to be struggling to make head or tail of what had just happened, letting out a groan as the man with the long purple hair rubbed his temple with one hand. “It was after we shot those two inside. All of a sudden, my head felt like it was about to explode for a second, and I suddenly knew…stuff. Things that I didn’t know before."

“Like what?”

“You know you were telling me about Mikey’s girl earlier?”

“Uh huh.”

“I’ve never met her, and before the job, I couldn’t tell you what color her hair was. I can pick her out from a line of schoolgirls now.”

“Oh.”

Violet eyes met each other, and as if on instinct, both men thought back to the Bonten infirmary just days earlier, where an eerily similar sentence had been muttered. Sanzu. Ran sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So it wasn’t the drugs.” This day was just getting worse and worse. “Let’s head back and sync up.”

“Sure,’ Rindo shrugged, scratching the back of his head as he nonchalantly followed his older brother, the purple-haired duo stepping out onto the busy main street and blending into the crowd, blood splattered shoes a distant thought. “I do remember her being pretty nice though.”

Ran raised an eyebrow, as he absentmindedly fiddled with his earring. “Pretty nice or pretty and nice?”

The younger Haitani audibly tsked, raising one leg to kick at the other’s. “You know what I said.”

ㅤ

The lighter, joky mood that the brothers shared didn’t last past their return to Bonten HQ, much to Ran’s disappointment, the usually silent place abuzz with a rare, panic atmosphere. Men and women alike dressed in neatly pressed suits rushing every which way, the small bulge under their suit jacket where their guns were strapped to an unspoken reminder of where they were - no doubt the communicators fixed to their ears were all but alight with barked orders and updates. Casually grabbing a passing grunt, it took a mere moment and single shouted objection for the poor soul to realize who exactly had grabbed him by the back of his shirt, the purple and green striped suits too iconic to be mistaken. “Ah- oh, Haitani-sama.”

“What’s going on?” Ran didn’t need to see through those dark sunglasses to see the other’s shifty look: the nameless Bonten grunt was definitely contemplating the chance of him being dead within the next five minutes as opposed to the next hour.

”Uh-“

Rindo reached threateningly into the depths of his suit, and sweat began to pour off the other’s forehead. “You know,” the younger of the two Haitanis started. “I’ve had a really bad day.”

”No, please, Haitani-sama, I’m not sure-“

Fortunately for all three men involved, the interrogation was brought to quick and uneventful close with the appearance of an all-too familiar mob of pink hair just as Rindo pulled a lollipop out to pop into his mouth. The grunt was let go to scramble off as both sets of violet eyes snapped to the unusual sight of Sanzu impatiently tapping his foot soundlessly against the plush carpet of the foyer, smoking cigarette held between scarred lips as the man looked around before glancing once more at his watch.

A smirk instantly began to pull at Ran’s lips as he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his pants, strolling over. “Oh Sanzu~”

“I’m busy,” came the other’s curt reply, green eyes looking Ran up and down a mere moment before turning away.

”We know, we know,” the man with the short purple hair pacified. “It’s just that-“

Rindo quickly butted in, having closely followed his older brother over. It was clear that Sanzu, far from his usual drugged up and easily bullied state, actually had things to do and places to be. “My memories changed.”

Sanzu’s unusually alert gaze slid over once more to meet Rindo’s, and it seemed the severity of what the younger Haitani said set in quickly as his eyes steeled. “Mine did too. Again,” the Bonten second-in-command disclosed, though he said no more as the glass doors of the foyer slid open and Kakucho stepped out, gloved hand lightly touching where his gun was strapped to his chest under his jacket. “We’ll talk about this later. House alarm tripped again.”

Ah, your little pick-up party, Ran noted from the side, watching the two top Bonten executives slip effortlessly into a black, featureless car that quickly pulled away from the compound. So you were back - and your arrival must have something to do with the changing memories.

How interesting.

ㅤ

Across town, Draken cursed out loud as his feet flew over concrete paths down empty streets. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were a fucking time leaper.

He had been working late on a client’s bike as he always did, the closed garage a quiet refuge after the hustle of the normal work day. The headache had hit him like a clap of thunder, with his brain feeling it was pressing up against his skull; and memories of twelve years past suddenly started to flood back, a recollection he couldn’t control. But they were all memories that he didn’t previously have, freshly added memories: some of your reappearance in his past, some of a fight he never recalled having with the other Toman founders, and most importantly, memories of you telling them what had happened.

It changed him, Draken admitted. It gave him a renewed hope that he didn’t remember possessing, that they might be able to fix this entire mess, that you were somewhere out there. All this time you were missing - it was true. You couldn’t control it like you had admitted. But if the past him still had that onomori, then why were you back in the future?

Turning a corner, a quick step aside was the only thing that kept him from running straight into someone else, though those fast, honed reflexes also almost had Draken swinging his fist into an all-too familiar face.

Baji was panting as if he had ran a full marathon, his apron half undone and left swinging from his neck, his hand clutching his open phone. It seemed like the other Toman founder had been struck with the same revelations, Draken determined, judging from the half-dressed state he was in.

And then those two fateful words tumbled from Baji’s lips. “Time leaper.”

237 notes · View notes

cinamun · 1 year

Text

I decided to put together some gameplay mods and overrides I use primarily for storytelling! I recently had someone ask if I had a resources page on my blog, and while I don't (yet), I hope you and others find this cool list helpful. Full disclosure: there are several lists out there of must-have-mods, these are just ones that I use in my game that allow me to tell stories the way I'd like.

Overrides:

Food Textures - Utopia Sims (this creator stopped retexturing foods awhile ago, however all of their links are still active. I will get into actual food mods later, however I find these to be boss).

Stereo Dance Override - This overrides the basic stereo dances that come with the game. I believe there are 35 different dances (preview).

Earbuds Override - I use these which replace the one that came with the Fitness Pack.

Coffee Art (works with tea, too!) - Overrides the default black coffee or tea. Only choose one.

Kitchen Sponge - Just a cuter version of that yellow blob they use to wash dishes.

Cutting Board - Overrides the default cutting board in game, choose only one (I use version 1) its the little things, you know?

Knife Override - Same as above except just a cleaner version of the knife your sims are always flipping up in the air whilst prepping food. Again, the little things.

Billboard Overrides - Just a cool replacement for billboards that make for pretty cool pics.

Illness Blush Override - Gets rid of the spots and stripes that come with a sick sim and replaces it with a body blush. Realistic touch for storytelling when your pixels catch a cold or another nasty virus.

Dirty Plate Override - Because who leaves a clean plate behind after they eat?

Ceiling Override - Replaces the in game ceilings indoors with a variety of pretty cool swatches. Choose one but keep the folder somewhere so you can switch out when you want.

No gloves while boxing - I use this for realism. One of my OCs used boxing as a way to relieve stress. But he was a beast so, gloves? Nah.

Natural Knitting - If you're tired of the rainbow yarn, this override changes that to a neutral color.

EA Default Teeth Override - exactly what it says.

Beer instead of juice for coolers - This one I made myself lol. In my story, my OC's mom lived in a trailer park and was always outside watching TV next to a cooler. Well my OC had a drinking problem so I recolored the "juice" into a heineken. The things we do for our stories... anyway, you might get some use out of it.

Randoms:

No Bike Helmet (there are several of these, I use one by Scarlet but their website is giving me virus warnings now. Check lilmisssam and the guy I linked)

No ZZZs while sleeping

No Mosaic

No Music Notes

Toddler No Sparkle

Hide Lot Trait Head FX

I'll do a list of essential mods later!! Hope these come in clutch, friends!

#ts4 storytelling tips #ts4 resources #sims 4 resources #ts4 mods

938 notes · View notes

matchadobo · 6 months

Text

KIDD; biker kidd au

summary: fluffy stuff abt this hot headcanon of mine that he'll look so biteable as a biker WHAHDUAHDHS LMAO warning/s: borderline nsfw since some nsfw stuff are mentioned but not there is no occurrence of the actual thing, all fluff!!, super hot kidd ahead nGgghhhhHHh

just imagine, this fucking fridge of a man in a bike with a helmet

you'd always be delighted when he picks you up after work with the bike

he'd look so hot leaning on the bike while waiting for you

you'd have your own helmet and he loves putting it on for you, giving you a kiss before locking the helmet

he'd let you sit behind or in front of him, but he likes it when you're infront. he feels your ass more 😫. pros for behind is that he gets cuddles, would always have a hand on your leg

for the first time when you were shy enough to join him in his bike but is painfully required to hold onto him. you'd insist in holding the other edge of the bike even when he insists on you holding onto him, he'd fucking convince you so much to do so mf engineered for you to be in that position!! so when you would be too shy to comply, he'd start up the engine and move instantaneously a little so you can fucking fall behind him and subconsicously hold onto him. he'd be smirking and tightening your grip saying "hang tight, princess. don't want you falling further than you already have."

the feeling of the breeze on your skin while his arms are caging you and you have the free view of the road

he'd always do the thing where the bike goes vertically (IDK WHAT IT'S CALLED), you'll be scared at first but as he does it more often it's an adrenaline rush for both of you

his favorite position on the bike is when it's parked and you're sitting infront of him and facing him. he'll stare you down, lift your helmet, and give you a kiss that'd last a little too long

he'll love pretend-fucking you in the bike, where whenever it stops he'll just playfully thrust into you with a hand on your hip. always relishes on your flustered reaction, not knowing what to do with yourself. gives you a pat on your helmet after

you'd love to play on his bike, pretend like you'll drive it and leave him. mans will be pouting with that usual scowl

he likes taking you on mountains and parking it there on his previously mentioned favorite position, watching the view or doing something more than kissing 🤪

i just think this fits him so well than having a car, he metal like that

just imagine HIS ARMS while maneuvering that shit 😩

whenever you're in front of him, his titties are such a good cushion on the ride, it's so soft!! even when you're behind, you'll be clutching on them and squeezing

if you're down, he'll teach you how to ride the bike. just expect a very non-patient teacher 😞 so expect to get yelled at (affectionately). he'll even take you out to canvas on finding your own bike, secretly thrilled he'll have you as a biking partner

he loves customizing his bike, he fixes and replaces parts on his own. he'd love saying, "hey baby, look at my new fucking tires.", "look at my cool rims and headlights, love" with a proud, nerdy grin. always cooped up on his garage, tattered with grime and motor oil or some shit, always shirtless in the process. it'd be a hot spectacle tbfh!! you'd have to physically drag him out and ask him to take a bath.

he'd participate in races from time to time, bringing you as his little cheerleader. would use the cash prices for dates afterwards and use the remaining for bike work

would get your name somewhere in the design of his bike

during long trips, whenever there's a chance to stop due to traffic or stop lights, he'd let out a heavy breath and remove his hands from the clutches, you'd massage his shoulders and arms. he'd moan silently ij reliefwhile rubbing your thighs as a thank you, leaning his head down a bit on yours

he also loves (begrudgingly) when you ask him to bring you to places you need to go to. especially when you go out to your friends, he loves to show your friends that you bagged a fucking stud like him but more so show off his bike

omg i have been so absent AKASJDHAHD there was just a lot happening with my life plus this was the only hc i can properly execute, i don't want to post anything half-baked!! i hope this one somehow makes up for my absence ><

262 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 1 year

Text

Eighty-Three Kisses

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader

an It Had To Be You tale of tender first aid requested by @anika-ann who thought: I'm not sure why but my heart would MELT upon seeing Steve giving Precious some ⛑ (as such, warning for mentions of blood) WC 1.3k

Not your favorite way to wake up…

Roused in the morning dark of New York winter, Steve’s mom calls him bright and early. She is one of only four people who can evade his Do Not Disturb setting, and as much as you enjoy Sarah, you groan in irritation when Steve has to untuck himself from beneath you in the sheets.

But that’s not where it ends.

He takes the call and walks out to his kitchen. His voice only just becomes inaudible when your mother calls.

Chatty. Mom is chatty way too early this morning, and she wants participation in her gossip.

You get it; your parents are pure balls of excitement about their upcoming trip to NYC to see you and officially meet your boyfriend for the first time, but 6:50 in the morning on a day off is not a great moment to get reciprocation of any amount of energy.

It’s not even five in the morning where your mom is. Come on now.

You hold the phone arm’s length away to scream into your pillow before heaving yourself out of bed. Maybe if she hears Steve’s voice in the background, your mom will think you’re busy and need to get off the call? Maybe standing up will help keep your eyelids raised? You’re so tired, you’ll try anything.

As soon as your butt hits the couch cushion though, your eyes shut again, too comfortable, too quickly. You jump up and meander over to the exercise bike, muttering something about the neighbor Mom’s had this same beef with for a decade, but she’s on a roll now. You barely need to interject an “uh-huh” or “yeah.” Your mother just keeps going.

So you sit on the bike, lazily putting one foot on the higher pedal, and you nudge it. Nothing happens.

Steve rustles the coffee beans into the maker and pulls down plates because if he’s awake, he wants breakfast. He’ll go back to sleep if he can, but if he’s conscious, food should happen. That’s the Steve Standard of a morning ritual. He also has very little input for his conversation, mostly humming every so often.

You hear the crack of eggs against the bowl’s rim and yawn, hiding that sound as best you can from your mother.

Your dad is equally grumbly in the background. He chides his wife with you in solidarity.

The pan sizzling acts as white noise countered by the first whiffs of brewing coffee.

“Of course, I’m listening,” you rush out, leaning forward on the handlebars and mock-bashing your head.

Steve must have turned to watch you because you hear his deep chuckle from across the room.

Absently, you step onto the pedal, thinking it will start rotating as you press down. You don’t realize how high Steve has turned up the resistance until it’s too late. You stand with your full weight on the tiny, shifting pad, and your foot slips right off when the mechanism caves.

Off-balance and crash-landing on your foot, your ankle tweaks out harshly, and the hard plastic grooves for friction scrape all along your bare calf. It hurts like hell but happens so fast that you hardly make a sound aside from hissing.

The phone drops out of your hand as you untangle yourself from the bike and trip down to the floor.

“Honey?” Steve clearly hasn’t seen until “shit” and you hear the pan torn off the burner and his own phone tossed to the counter. “Precious, you okay? What—“

Thin gashes are already red and bleeding all up your leg. The pain is such a tense sting that you can’t manage much else other than biting your tongue and clutching at the wound, but Steve peels your fingers away, ripping the kitchen towel from over his shoulder to apply pressure.

“It’s fine,” you still hiss. “I’m fine, Steve.”

His huge palm and fingers splay across the fabric, his other hand guiding your over to replace them after he coos, “I know. I’m just gonna clean it up. I’ll be right back. Can you hold this? Just there. Good girl. Ok.”

He jumps up and thunders to the bathroom.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Hello?”

You look up to where your phone dangles in the water bottle holder by the bike’s handles, but you can’t reach it without harsh sensations shooting around your foot and leg.

“I’m fine, Mom,” you yell toward the phone. “I just fell. I’ll call you back later.”

There’s an incoherent fuss, your dad’s voice joins what sounds like muttering but is more likely a heated argument on the other end, and then the screen lights when the call disconnects.

Steve returns with a little box and a white bottle.

“Ok, precious--" he leans to kiss your knee "--you ready? This part is gonna hurt.”

You pull back the stained towel, lip lodged between your teeth, and Steve soaks a cotton ball. He bares his teeth when you react to the bite of alcohol.

The excess drips down to the mat.

“I know, honey. You’re doing so good though. Just a little more." He tries to move the foot. "Can you—“

“OW!” Like a shot, your ankle cries all the way up to your hip. “Sorry,” you say through threatening tears, “I landed on it wrong.”

Steve’s hand cradles the joint, keeping it still even as he lowers to kiss there, too, his blue eyes worried. “Okay, I’ll get ice for that, but first, we cover this.” He wipes gently at the deepest gash by your Achilles tendon before ripping open a packet of antibacterial ointment. “Just another minute, alright? You’re doing great.”

His rough morning voice and soothing tenor nudge your heart rate back in the right direction.

At least the medication doesn’t hurt. Between treatment and bandaging, he lifts your wrist to his lips and plants a double tap of encouragement.

"So good," he rumbles.

Steve carefully unfolds and layers some gauze across the whole area and carefully tapes the edges. On instinct, you bend your knee to get yourself up, but the tape pops right off when you flex.

“Uh-uh, precious. You’re not doing anything until we get some ice on that.”

You think he means to leave you sitting on the ground, but Steve pivots to a squatting position, tucks his arms beneath your knees and around your waist, and lifts you straight into the air, kissing your cheek for good measure.

Well…all that gym equipment’s been good for something…

He carries you all the way back to the bed, kissing your forehead to force you to relax backward and excusing himself to the kitchen again. A few drawers open and shut. There’s a racket of ice clattering into a bag.

Another light scuttering noise.

“Ma, I gotta go. Yeah, I love ya. Okay, bye.” He rounds the doorway again, compress and coffee at the ready.

Steve wraps a fresh towel over your skin before arranging the ice to lay just right, covering as much curve as possible without too much pressure. By the time he’s satisfied, he’s created a majestic-looking nest of sheets and blanket around your foot.

You chuckle as you blow across the hot liquid in your toasty mug.

This is his near-military precision and focus again, except this time, you are the mission.

Finally, his equally warm gaze meets yours, dawn breaking outside the wall of windows surrounding the corner room.

“Want your phone back?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “They can wait.”

Everything still aches, the dull throb seeming miles away when Steve grips your thigh before straightening.

“You know, precious, if you wanted breakfast in bed, you could have just asked.”

You shrug, a little embarrassed but very appreciative. This certainly hasn’t been your favorite way to wake up, but it’s not the worst either. Plus, the morning has just begun.

“Sometimes the only thing that gets your attention is a crisis, Captain.”

from this game of "Comfort My Characters"

Thank you for asking!

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602 @patzammit @royalwritersoftheuniverses @supraveng @1950schick @yiiiikesmish

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro answers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve x reader #ceo!steve rogers #ceo!steve #ceo!reader #it had to be you #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x female reader

189 notes · View notes

starqueensthings · 9 months

Text

Colder Weather: Part One

Summary: a two-chapter (nice try, Holly! It’s three) ficlet that follows Post-Stassis/Pirate Kix as he navigates the see-saw of an unexpected love that he doesn't think he deserves, and the trauma of his past.

Pairing: Kix x Fem!Reader

POV/WC/Rating: 2nd, 4570, Teen + up

Warnings: extensive references of survivors guilt, grief, and mentions of previous character death. Seggsy time is implied but not described. This is emotional (it needs to be, so I'm not sorry)

A/N: the context of this ficlet won’t make much sense unless you’re decently familiar with the legends version of Kix’s life post-war (it might even be canon now? Not sure…). If you haven't listened to the song that inspired this little ficlet, I highly recommend you give it a listen; it's truly a lyrical masterpiece.

Chapter One | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter Two | ao3

“I want to see you again, but I’m stuck in colder weather. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? [...] Well, it’s a winding road when you’re in the lost-and-found. You’re a lover, I’m a runner, and we go round and round. I love you, but I leave you. I don’t want to, but I need you.” Colder Weather by Zac Brown Band

You’d long since memorized his movements; long since perfected this dance, having performed the passionate choreography of this duet with him countless times.

It always began with the sound of his speeder bike nearing your quiet cottage; the roaring of the engine muffled only partially by the towering hedges surrounding your acre of secluded paradise. That rumble so artificial amongst the constant tittering of nature that it took a mere fraction of a second to recognize it, and even less time to send a fervor coursing through your veins so rigorously that your hands simply abandoned whatever task that had been keeping them occupied.

Triggered by the sound of his approach, your feet took you earnestly through the front door and out into the gravel drive. A small smile, often concealed by the expanse of a thick, dark beard, tugged his handsome features upwards as he swung a leg over the seat of his bike, helmet clutched absently in one hand and arms stretched wide in a motion so welcoming, even the sheer power of the Force couldn’t have kept you from leaping into them.

He never failed to match your enthusiasm, scooping you clean off your slippered feet and into the familiar tight embrace that you’d spent weeks longing to be secured in. Hushed coos of “Mesh’la” amongst other breathy salutations were words that never needed voicing; the way his eyes danced reverently across your features spoke more volumes than any muttered term of endearment, any hushed apology for his absence. Watching the crease between his brows soften at the soft brush of your thumb against his cheek was a feeling that could have sustained life for all eternity; every caress of your fingers atop his skin powered by an ineffable desire to remind yourself of him, to remind him of you.

But there was nothing that consumed you as entirely as the dance itself… nothing that quite melted your mind like the way he laid you down on the soft cotton of that old patchwork quilt; the way that he stripped himself of his rigid encasement; the way his eyes locked on yours, twinkling with an unspoken promise that he was about to make up for his repeated extended absences… all the transmissions that he’d failed to respond to… the commitment that he continuously denied you.

And while even the ghost of his touch still set your very nerves alight, time had seen the unpredictability of his visits robbed of their spontaneity; lust replaced with a devastating love; passion diminished by the anticipation of his impending departure. The dance had become less of a dance, and more of a contemptuous game: how many seconds would lapse in the forlorn quiet between when the heat of his skin departed yours, and the door swung closed behind him? How many shaky breaths would leave your lungs in the too-short span of time that it took for the shadow of the unseen monster, forever-perched atop his shoulders, to rob his eyes of the twinkle only freshly illuminated by the return of your embrace?

The answer: always too few.

He would only ever grant himself a dozen-or-so deep breaths to dwell in the lingering serenity once the cresting waves of pleasure had subsided, the heaving of his chest eventually stilling to match the motionlessness of the incipient dawn.

Unable to withstand the suffocating languor, a poignant sigh would trigger the initiation of his exodus, body following the command from his anguished mind to climb from the bed and methodically redress himself in that disguising, blue plastoid kit. A tender, whiskery kiss was always your parting gift. Lips void of the passion that had seen them so ravenously devour yours only minutes prior, now gently atop your forehead in a wordless goodbye-for-now; the roar of the engine echoing amongst the whispering pines the perfect soundtrack to the disappointment that pulled shameful tears from your eyes.

Yet… sometimes… on nights like tonight, an inexplicable force inside of him would demand that he dawdle, and if the urge to flee stalled on its way from brain to body for long enough, he’d roll toward you, fold his arm underneath his head, and trail a gentle fingertip along all his favourite parts of your body: the fleshy space between neck and shoulder where he often sought the comforting fragrance of your skin; the shallow dimples on your lower back, perched just above the rolling swells of muscle that he could barely keep his hands off of; the gaps between your fingers that so-perfectly housed his, as if they were ten adjacent pieces of a puzzle crafted by divine artistry.

Time had yet to reveal any explanation for the mystifying tenderness of his touch… it didn’t seem possible that such rough hands could trail so gently against your skin, yet his calloused fingers could have been draped in velvet for how softly they graced your most sensitive areas. And his pillow talk? It was poetry. His honeyed voice would utter whispered stories of glorious mountain ranges on far away planets while the delicate strokes of his fingertips ghosted atop the swells of your hips. He’d speak of the freckles smattered across your cheeks, and how they almost perfectly mirrored the night sky in Wild Space where the stars were so many, that astronomy had become an obsolete science, the citizens opting to merely look upon them for their unrivalled celestial magnificence. And when he would speak of the vibrant array of wild flowers that adorned the meadows of Felucia, he’d scoop your hand into his and kiss each individual knuckle, as if the immense power to blossom such beauty dwelled inside the fingers interlaced with his.

But they were rare, those quiet moments, their emergence so ephemeral that even the span of a somnolent blink would have seen them escape your awareness and vanish into the past, and they were as devastating as they were infrequent. Laced not with the dread of his imminent departure, those near silent moments of deep connection were saturated in a hope so ensnaring that its warmth momentarily overshadowed the pain of his repeated abandonment, and you became enraptured by the could-be’s… the if-only’s… the maybe’s.

Maybe… maybe tonight would be the night that the orange glow emerging atop the horizon did not trigger his departure. Perhaps this would be the time that he’d stay and spend the morning with you, his muscular arms locked around your chest as you ceased to fight the blissful drowsiness engulfing your bodies, dozing together in the first rays of the ambient light. Perhaps he’d be so comfortable, there in your arms, that the ever-present impulse to run, forever-clenched like an iron fist around his soul, would be finally suffocated by the sheer power of your love for him.

Those optimistic moments often saw you rambling, thoughts slipping easily from mind to mouth in a desperate attempt to keep him connected to you; resolute in keeping him both physically and mentally present; urgently trying to protect him from the monster on his shoulders long enough for him to realize that everything he could ever want was lying peacefully beside him. Periodically, if your chosen topic was one he found particularly amusing, his eyes would crinkle under the embrace of a smile, and — if the universe deemed you worthy that night — a hoarse chuckle would pour from his lips. Despite your continued pleas to the stars, it was a sound that graced your ears with a tragic infrequence, yet the way its radiance illuminated your soul had you shamelessly begging the universe that it continue to spill from his lips for all eternity.

But despite the prophetic bond that kept him returning to your side, only once had the bliss of your union softened his guard enough to let something… slip. Only once had he mentioned a brother: Jesse, a man spoken of thoughtlessly as Kix snickered through the recollection of a frantic speeder ride across the plains of Saleucami. But the music of his laughter utterly vanished upon voicing the name that he never meant to speak, the silence that filled its wake so polluted in unexpressed grief, that even the hushed sounds of your breath felt inappropriate, and despite having watched the light leave his eyes so often in the past, you’d never seen it replaced with a darkness as deep and as sorrowful as then.

“Tell me about him,” you probed instantly, hopeful that the delicate touch of your hand on his shoulder would be enough to ground him there in the bed with you; hopeful that the soft caress of your fingers would prevent him from conceding to his anguish, tossing the sheet aside and leaving you with nothing but the familiar sight of his retreating back and the bittersweet smell of him lingering on your pillow.

A ringing silence encompassed the room, broken only by the occasional chirp of an uninterested cricket nestled in the tall tufts of grass just outside the window, and the soft brush of dry leaves twirling amongst themselves in the warm gusts of midsummer’s breeze.

Speaking his brother’s name had rendered Kix momentarily muted and seemingly paralyzed, his eyes wide and affixed on an image that cruel memory had imprinted upon the ceiling above him. His breaths quickened, shoulder rising and falling rhythmically against your palm while his nostrils flared against the same onslaught of turmoil also knitting his brows together.

“Kix?” you probed in a soft whisper, fingers raising from the swell of his shoulder to gently stroke his hair. Those waves of black, sparsely peppered with the beginnings of grey, almost entirely concealed the remnants of a tattoo… letters… pieces of a phrase that he’d consistently evaded divulging. The ink, seemingly unblemished by time, looked as if it had only recently been embedded into his olive skin, yet his repeated, vague explanation of ‘I was a dumb kid’, suggested it was a choice made long ago; a decision made deep in a past he refused to speak of.

“Tell me about Jesse, my love…” you implored to his continued silence, watching with bated breath as the muscles in his jaw contracted in near perfect cadence with the bounding pulse in his neck.

“My brother…” Kix muttered, wrenching his eyes away from the ghost hovering over top of him, his solemn gaze dancing around the room in every direction but yours. “He… he died a long time ago. They all did.”

Your fingers faltered in their gentle strokes only for a breath, the impact of his words sending a crippling wave of aghast sadness throughout your body. “Who did?” It left your lips in barely more than a whisper, the unexpressed heartbreak lingering in the air robbing your tone of the intense curiosity that he so often shirked from and dissuaded, but despite the feigned composure precariously wrapped around your words, he offered no response. “Babe?” you pressed, your fingers abandoning their soothing dance along his temple to trail under his chin and weave themselves into the dark bristles of his beard. Hyperaware of the fragility of that moment, you gently cupped his jaw and turned his hagridden face toward you. “Who is ‘they’?”

His eyes finally met yours, darkened by apprehension and a deep sorrow that had yet to be explained. “My family.”

It was like nothing you’d ever heard before, the tension in his voice. Those two choked words constricted by a heavy lump in his throat, immediately transformed the gruff and callous pirate that you knew into a man so momentarily fragile that even the soft cotton sheets draped atop your bodies felt too abrasive. Even more unexpected was the mist gathering earnestly in his eyes, reflecting the moonlight beaming in the window as if suddenly encased in a dome of sparkling crystal.

Whatever was left of the feeble breath housed in your lungs escaped your parted lips in a devastated huff, your stomach torquing uncomfortably as your thoughts began to whirr frantically around your mind. Resisting the transcendent urge to lock him in an embrace, you merely swallowed the lump forming in your own throat and hastily blinked the wetness from your eyes. Like the quiet moment that he’d gifted you tonight, you were all-too aware that his vulnerability was fleeting; at risk of dismantling completely should you misstep. But this was the knowledge that you’d be aching to know your months… years; this was the monster on his shoulders that tore him from your bed… from your home so devastatingly often. You were desperate to know it all… desperate to know him.

“Your… your family?” Two stammering words were all that you could force from your parted lips as he wrenched his jaw from your grasp and turned his gaze back toward the ceiling, grinding his knuckles aggressively into his eyes.

A heavy sigh was his only response, teeth clicking from how tightly he ground them as he seemingly tried to rub the image of his dead family from his sight. You swallowed heavily again and perched yourself up on an elbow, leaning in to him with every intention of planting a protective kiss to his temple.

It might have been the shift of your posture that triggered it, or more likely, his patience diminished by your continued probes for information that he wasn’t willing to share, but a sudden banishment of lassitude saw him instantly tossing the sheet from his naked form and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Horrified and disappointed, you hurried to mirror his movements, kicking away the bunched cotton from your knees and pushing yourself to a kneeling position on the mattress directly behind him. Your lids narrowed to near-closed against the sudden ignition of the lamp on the nightstand, but neither the pain nor the spots now floating in your vision were enough to stop you from firmly wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him firmly against your chest. It wasn’t until you pressed your lips softly against his back, did he seem to notice your touch, and even then, his only acknowledgement was to peer, frowning, over his shoulder in your direction.

“Please, love,” you breathed against his skin. “Don’t run. Just talk to me.”

A soft sigh forced his shoulders into a defeated slump, and the tender drape of his hand atop his navel where yours were tightly clasped, lacked much of the warmth and intention that typically swaddled his touch.

“They were… tortured.” His head drooped sadly toward his chest, the previously urgent mission of collecting his clothes from their scattered placement on the floor, momentarily deferred.

It was the initial shock that he’d even answered you that forced your lips to still against his skin, forgoing the ever-present urge to pepper him with chaste kisses for the sake of listening to the response that he’d previously deemed you unworthy of getting, but it was the horrifying implications of his explanation that forced your eyes open and the pain that drenched his words as they left his scowling lips that sent an all-consuming chill down your spine.

“All of them,” he continued quietly to his lap, absently drumming his fingers against the back of your hand. “Just— just stripped of their will, their identities… and made to carry out the commands of a sick, sick man. They never stood a chance. No one could survive that.”

He permitted himself one last, poignant sigh, the emptying of his lungs pulling his posture away from your still poised kiss, and it wasn’t until his palm departed yours, fracturing the wreath of your arms around his waist, that you returned to some semblance of awareness. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, beating against his back where the diffused glow of the lamp failed to soften the appearance of several misshapen scars along his shoulder; scars that you’d seen countless times previously, and had paid only little attention to.

Robbed of coherent thought by the repulsion surging through your veins, and rendered utterly speechless by the knowledge that you’d so desperately craved, you dropped your gaze to your knees, unmoving eyes watching them thrown intermittently into shadow as Kix moved about beside the bed, redressing himself in a suit of black compression, and the rigid, scuffed armament.

It was the soft scrape of plastoid against wood that broke you from your revolted torpor, his lean frame now completely encompassed in the blue suit that you despised, his helmet retrieved from the nightstand and hanging slackly from a gloved hand at his side. The sight of his impending departure returned you to a jarring cognizance and sent you frantically scrambling from the bed, bare feet ignoring the bite of the cold floor as you dashed toward the chair beside the window and collected the robe that you’d unceremoniously tossed onto it hours previously.

“Wait, Kix!”

You clumsily thrust your fists into the arms of the silk garment, your entire body laced with an exigent need to reach the doorway before he did. He couldn’t leave this time, not now… not now that he was finally opening up, finally sharing something other than trivial grievances about his crew members. He needed to know what you thought… how you felt. You had to tell him that none of it mattered to you… none of it made any difference. Except it did. It made all the difference. You thought you loved him then. That was nothing compared to now. And there was nothing that would stop you from loving him; not a past full of trauma, not tears leaking from his eyes, not the whispers that he denied hearing when the room got too quiet. None of it made a difference to you except that it did, and you would willingly spend the rest of your life banishing the ghosts that haunted his every move if he would just let you.

“Can’t— can’t you stay this time?” you pleaded from your perch in the doorway, hastily tying a knot in the sash of your robe. “Even just a little longer?”

The snort that left his nose at the sight of your position, arms wide and clutching each side of the door frame in some pitiful semblance of a barricade, was anything but genuine, betrayed by the failure of the smile on his lips to crinkle his eyes. “Come on, Mesh’la,” he cooed, absently shifting the armoured belt around his waist. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” you argued, refusing to let the softness of his gaze weaken any of your resolve. “You just don’t. There’s a difference and you know that.”

The desperate sadness that encompassed your words surprised both sets of ears; you hadn’t intended for the sentiment to leave your lips drenched in such disappointment, yet his departure tonight felt more like a robbery than it ever had; stealing a fractured piece of you and leaving nothing but a shadow behind to replace it.

That small smile slipped from his features and he froze, upturned helmet held slackly at his side as he hung his head to his chest again. Your heart drummed heavily in your ears, the lump in your throat threatening to all but suffocate you as he stepped slowly forward, the old wood floor beneath you creaking and shifting under the weight of his heavy boots.

“Please don’t start this again, Mesh’la,” he begged in a whisper, tenderly tucking a displaced lock of hair behind your ear as his eyes flickered back and forth between yours. “We’ve been over this. I… I don’t want this for you. You deserve a better life than what I ca—”

“I want this life,” you choked, chin threatening to quiver under the intense duress of your welling disappointment. “I promise— no, listen!— I promise, Kix. I love you more than everything that you’ve been through. In spite of it all… because of it all. Just trust me. Stay with me this time. Let me— let me prove it to you. Let me sho—”

“I know you love me, Mesh’la,” he interrupted, gently cupping your trembling chin and guiding your jaw upwards to look directly into your eyes. “I have never doubted it for a second. In another time… another life, I’d be able to give you back the love you deserve, but… I’m too sad of a man, now. I’m too angry… too volatile… too restless. No matter where I go or what I do, I can’t stomach my past, and I love you enough to not let you suf—”

“I’ll suffer if I choose to!” you blurted, voice thickening in earnest. “I’ll suffer with you. It’s my choice, and I choose you, so just choose m—”

“Why?” he interjected, releasing your jaw and perching his hand on his hip. “Hmm? Why am I your choice? Why do you waste your time with a pirate like me when there are decent men lining up around the planet for your hand? Men that will shower you with gifts and affection? Men that won’t selfishly come and go as they please, like I do?”

“My time with you isn’t wasted, Kix,” you spluttered, eyelids unable to contain the flood of tears blurring your vision, banishing them to the heat of your flushed cheeks. “You don’t listen. I want every minute to be a minute with you. Every hour, every day. Stop running away from what happened to you; stop running from me. We— we can have a real life together.”

The aversion of his gaze to the floor did not stop you. You were too resolute in your convictions; too certain that if he just listened to you, he would finally understand. “I’ll make you caf every morning,” you continued, pulling your hands from the doorframe to hold his. “And… we can shower together every day if we want to. You can make the water as hot as you want, and I won’t complain… I promise. We— we can grow berries in the field out back, on the other side of the tree line. You know, in that clearing where the flowers grow? The spot that gets all the afternoon sun? And… and we can brew our own wine. We—”

“Please stop.”

He was pleading with you in more ways than just the despondent words that left his lips; his dark eyes watching in something near agony as the tears abandoned your cheeks for the draped silk of your robe, but you were deaf to the desperation in his voice and blind to the anguish in his eyes as vivid images of what could-be erupted like a tragic film in your mind.

“We can climb onto the roof and look at the stars on clear nights,” you persisted, releasing his palm and guiding your trembling hands onto the rough and worn plastoid of his shoulder bells. “And when it’s not, we’ll snuggle on the couch and listen to music. We’ll get drunk… and giggle about stupid shit… and make love in every room… an—”

“Please, Mesh’la.” He clamped his eyes closed, cowering beneath your watery gaze and gently tugging your hands from his shoulders, pausing to hold them weakly in his own for a breath before dropping them completely. “You have to sto—”

“No, Kix!” you refused, stomping your cold, bare foot on the floor below you. “You stop! Stop saying you don’t want this life for us, because you do!”

“OF COURSE I DO!”

Your hands flew back to brace yourself in the doorway, shoulders jerking with fright, choked breaths freezing in your lungs. He’d never shouted like that before… and if he had, it certainly hadn’t been in your presence. Never once had you seen his eyes shrink behind lids so narrowed that the even the bridge of his nose scrunched to assist in their efforts. You’d never seen his thick, expressive brows contract so tightly and shoot toward the messy curls of his hairline in such earnest, and you’d never seen a look quite like that in his eyes… the frenzied look of a man desperate to be understood.

“Of— of course I want all of that,” he continued, his tone softening slightly as the ghost of his outburst rang back at him from the quiet corners. “But it’s not that simple. You don’t understand. I want it, Mesh’la, but I shouldn’t have it. I can’t have it. Why… why do I deserve the promise of a quiet life, when they never even had a chance at one? Why should I be the only one gifted with a happy ending, when they were robbed of theirs? If they can’t have it, then I ca—”

His voice cracked… fractured under the duress of the emotion simmering too near the surface, and it echoed more poignantly around the room than the hoarse shout which preceded it. That quiet moment, as you watched his shoulders sag in complete and utter dejection, with his head slowly shaking against a myriad of thoughts that he refused to speak, you would have withstood nearly anything to ensure the music of his voice never cracked like that again. You would have agreed to stand near-naked in the doorway for all eternity, willing to shoulder any amount of shouting, any verbal reprovement… anything if it promised him true peace from the sorrow that robbed him of his voice… of his life.

The threat of a sob forced your face into your clammy palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes until tiny, glimmering phosphenes erupted in your vision. Why couldn’t it all be as beautiful as those silly little dancing lights, brought to life with just a slight pressure from a small hand? Why could people not be free to dance about in darkness, as they are? Why must our darkness diminish our light? Why are those pretty dancing lights, free from the plague of guilt and sorrow, forever permitted to slumber until external pressure brings them to life, an occasion in which they shine so marvelously?

The thunk of his boots and the creak of the floor signaled his slow approach. “I have to go, Cyare,” he mumbled into the space beside your ear, his free hand dusting soft strokes up and down your forearm.

You exposed your tear-streaked face and stared blankly across the room, unwilling to nod and acknowledge the disappointment. So this wasn’t going to be the time that he stayed.

“You know I love you,” he muttered into your hairline before planting a soft kiss on your temple, but the disillusionment had numbed you almost entirely, and you felt nothing of his lips on your skin, nor the brush of his body slipping past you through the door… you heard none of his footsteps fading down the hallway… nothing of the door closing behind him as he disappeared into the diminishing darkness outside… nor did you hear the roar of his speeder engine reverberating around the corners of your secluded paradise, all too eager and willing to rob you of him again.

tags: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @dystopicjumpsuit @523rdrebel

#starqueenswrittenworks #kix x reader #kix x you #pirate!Kix x reader #Kix fanfic #clone wars fanfiction #clone wars fanfic

89 notes · View notes

stridersdiner · 9 months

Text

Rancher!Graves likes his bikes.

It took a while for our teenaged Phil to figure out what exactly was wrong with that ol' motorcycle his friend Hank told him about. If only Hank knew he had just unleashed a new obsession that'd follow Phil into adulthood.

Hank's father has had this thing for the better half of a decade, and when it broke down some two years ago, it was doomed to collect dust at his estate. Something about being a wealthy man meant being able to afford such fleeting hobbies, but he was charitable enough to give it to Phil so long as he was willing to put in the work to fix it.

It took months of troubleshooting and tinkering. The spare shed was in disarray; ground littered with spare parts and tools, smears of oil and grease (it was getting hard to tell what was what at this point), and a handful of mechanics guides and books. He had some sleepless nights, fueled by the interlocked hands of want and need shrouding his mind.

He often spent mornings climbing out of the shed and lugging himself onto the school bus, where Hank would give him a knowing look and insist on calling a mechanic from a few towns over to help-

"You can't keep sleeping through English, Phil. My father was only kiddin' about fixing it yourself."

but Phil knew better. Better to get the job done yourself. Feels better that way anyways.

God, was he right. He turned the key with baited breath, eyes wide as the instrument panel lit up. The motor purred to life in an instant, and when he turned one of the handles, it roared. He had never been happier, running his hand over the shiny red fuel tank, the tight upholstered leather seat. He laughed- he yawped. And Pa came rushin' over like he had heard the end of the world start from inside his own shed.

"Philly, what in the world are you doin' makin' this much noise?" "Finally got 'er workin', Pa!"

Pa's panic softened as he took a second to really listen to the motor. He circled the bike, staring down at it and back up at Phil. He was proud, honestly, as he clapped his hand over Phil's shoulder.

"Y'know, Ma didn't actually think you'd be able to fix it up. Think that was the only reason she let ya' have it."

And Phil's smile grew wider.

"I'll jus' tell 'er I'll only ride it into town." "You lyin'?" "Yup-yup."

When Ma found out, it took her nearly a year to come to terms with the fact that her baby boy was riding a motorcycle. Ever the worrywart. She frowned every time she watched him mount the bike, sighing as she watched him put on his helmet (that she made him get) and fix his riding gloves (that she also made him get).

But that bike was his pride and joy for years. He rode it to prom, and his high school graduation ceremony. He wiped it down every other day, and made sure the paint was still shiny. So when that trusty 1985 Honda Shadow finally bit the dust, he was devastated.

Cried real tears, maybe ones worse than when Joey left for the army.

And then picked himself up and started workin' hard to replace it. He drove Pa's ol' truck for the time being.

After a little while, he finally saved up enough to get a brand new bike. Could barely contain himself when Pa drove him to go pick it up- clutching onto his helmet, flipping the visor up and down like a light switch. He was thrilled to be back on a bike, and he practically left Pa in the dust during the ride home. (Phil pulled off to the side of the road to wait because he felt bad for leaving him so far behind.)

Even now, when you finally agree to take a ride with him on his precious bike, he's still just as excited as he was when he first mounted that Shadow back in high school- especially at the feeling of your arms wrapping around his middle and the side of your helmet pressed against his shoulder blade. He loves being close to you. He loves it even more when you're clinging onto him. He takes you out on the bike a lot more now that he knows you're not that scared of it anymore.

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivi-no

#Rancher AU #Mini.#Remembered that Warren has a motorcycle.#Imagine Phil pulling up on his bike though.#In an Alpinestars jacket.#Or a leather one. Whatever you want.#He flips his visor up to look at you and you can only see the corners of his eyes crinkle.#His smile is so CUTE.#Phillip Graves #cod mw2 #cod mwii #Graves.#Weird progression again #but I'm just so excited about this guy.

67 notes · View notes

moonchildreads · 1 year

Text

small town

Chapter 1 - The Wild Boys

IN THIS CHAPTER: The world doesn't end during Spring break, a basketball ruins lunch, and Eddie threatens the freshmen [1.7k]

WARNINGS: very mild bullying, this is just an intro to the story so it's short and sweet, english is not my first language so i'm sorry if something sounds strange

masterlist - prev - next | playlist

The wild boys are calling On their way back from the fire

Monday, March 31st - 1986

Spring break had come and gone in the small town of Hawkins, Indiana and, surprisingly enough, the world hadn’t ended. Yet, thought Dustin Henderson as he parked his bike outside Hawkins High School. He knew something had happened between Mike and El during his friend’s visit to California (and between Mike and Will too for that matter), but if their phone calls were to be trusted, everything had been smoothed out without the need for his intervention. For once, Dustin was glad he didn’t have to be the group’s self-appointed mediator; he already had enough with the guilt he felt for causing Suzie to lose her computer, he didn’t need extra problems on his shoulders. And he deserved a normal school year for once, goddamnit. Those hadn’t been common for any of them in a long time.

As he hurried to get to his classroom, he crossed paths with Lucas Sinclair and his Championship-winning friends proudly wearing their basketball team jackets over their regular clothes. If the newly popular boy had seen him walk by, he hadn’t given any indications as to it, not one look, not one wave. Dustin wasn’t entirely sure why anyone would enjoy hiding themselves behind a Tigers uniform but he sincerely hoped that once Jason, the captain of the team and current King of Hawkins High, graduated in mid June, Lucas would return to them from the dark side. For now though it seemed that he was perfectly content in his jock cult, and Dustin wasn’t about to give his new buddies a chance to throw him into a dumpster by walking into their huddle near the water fountains just to say hello to his (now former?) best friend.

The morning went by rather quickly for his tastes, and he could feel Mike’s anxious leg bounces next to him during Geography as lunch approached without any regard for their heart rates. Both teens had opened their lockers to find a folded black handmade card announcing the start of their next D&D adventure and they were painfully aware that a very uncomfortable conversation was about to unfold at the cafeteria. Their beloved Dungeon Master, for all his enthusiasm and kind-hearted nature, wasn’t very troubled by his social status as the school’s pariah and Mike’s suspicions that he hadn’t immediately considered Lucas a goner following recent events had been confirmed when he saw the subject in question throw his own black card into a bin at the start of their shared Chemistry class. His worst fear had also been confirmed when Lucas chose to sit at a different table than normal, forcing him to pair up with a rather dull girl with wild hair who was clearly not as interested in lab safety as she should have been. Her lab coat sleeve had caught on fire twice by the time the bell rang.

“I say we run,” Dustin proposed, clutching at his hard plastic food tray like it was a shield.

“Dustin. I am not having lunch in the bathroom again,” Mike countered, remembering their middle school days and having to hide from bullies.

“You know, it’s great that you mention that because I don’t think we are ever gonna be able to eat again after we tell Eddie Lucas is officially gone.”

“Come on, he’s not stupid, he knows how things work in Hawkins. I’m sure he was expecting him to leave anyway,” said Mike, completely unconvinced.

“Mike, this club is his baby and Lucas just spit in its face. In his baby’s face,” he said dramatically.

“We’ll be fine. We have Erica now. He’s not gonna care if we already have a replacement.”

“Great, we’re trading big Sinclair for little Sinclair. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

The curly haired boy trailed behind his taller friend on the way to their usual table where their fellow club members were already sitting, picking at their sad school provided lunches. Jeff said something to make Donny snort and choke on his can of Coke; a group of girls walking past them eyed him with disgust while Gareth cackled with glee.

“Hello, boys,” said Eddie, sitting at his usual spot: the head of the table. He looked up at them from behind his book. “Have a nice Spring break? Did you get enough smooches to last until summer, Wheeler?”

“It was alright,” Mike answered, wiping his palms on his jeans. He knew Eddie meant no harm, but his relationship would never be his favorite topic to talk about with the other guys of the Hellfire Club. He didn’t think anyone at the table except Dustin would understand him dating a literal human experiment with superpowers that had saved the world multiple times.

“You know, I’m starting to think your girlfriend isn’t real,” Jeff teased.

“Yeah, you never talk about her, we don’t even know her name. Are you sure you didn’t imagine her?” Gareth narrowed his eyes, a light smile never leaving his face.

“Her name is El- Jane. Her name is Jane,” he quickly corrected himself. “She’s totally real, Dustin knows her.”

“Yeah, Jane is… awesome! She’s great,” he nodded, backing his friend up. “Total babe.”

“Dude!” Mike slapped his shoulder.

“What? I think Suzie is a babe. You don’t think your own girlfriend is a babe?”

“O-of course I do, what are you talking abou-”

“Children, children,” Eddie lifted a hand to stop the fight unfolding in front of him. “If Wheeler says she is real, she is real, alright?” he turned to look at Gareth, Jeff and Donny sitting to his right with matching grins on their faces. “It’s not like any of you three are swimming in ladies, so y’know, don’t throw stones if you live in glass houses.”

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence where everyone refused to look at each other and Eddie went back to his book: a very battered paperback with a lost cover that was probably hiding somewhere under the mess that was its owner’s bed. He was holding it with one hand, his other hand occasionally bringing a forkful of high school cafeteria mac and cheese to his mouth. It was clear to both Mike and Dustin that he was heavily invested in what he was reading; if they didn’t know him any better, they would have never guessed that under all that unruly hair and leather there was an excellent storyteller and magnificent Dungeon Master. For all everyone knew, he was reading something for his English class but the Hellfire Club boys could tell by now that whenever Eddie had a book around, he was planning something terrible for their characters to go through during their weekly session.

Dustin was trying very hard to focus on his peas and ignore Mike elbowing his side violently when a basketball bounced right in the middle of their table, startling everyone and sending soda cans flying, liquid spilling everywhere. There was loud laughter as one of the Tigers retrieved the ball that was stuck to Gareth’s mac and cheese; Jason, the captain, high-fived whoever was standing next to him as if he had just witnessed the biggest prank of the year. When he turned around, Lucas, sitting at the jocks’ table, sent them a half-assed apologetic glance and went back to his new friends. Wordlessly, Eddie pushed his tray in front of Gareth, who stopped trying to dry the table with the few napkins he had and went back to eating from his new lunch with burning red ears. As the elder leaned forward to steal back his unopened cup of pudding from the tray, he noticed a pair of eyes following him from a nearby table.

He didn’t recognize who it was, but the girl was staring at their table with a furrowed brow, something resembling sadness crystal clear on her face. She turned around to look at the basketball team’s table, shook her head, adjusted her headphones and went back to the textbook in front of her like nothing had happened. It wasn’t often that someone looked at their table like they didn’t deserve the disrespect they got. Making up his mind, Eddie put his book down and crossed his fingers, his rings clinking against each other.

“I think it goes without saying that Lucas Sinclair is no longer welcome in The Hellfire Club,” he said, resolute. “Guess that means you two will have to find someone to replace him. I’ll give you until Friday.”

“But we already have Erica!” Mike said, flinching at the shoe that kicked his shin from under the table.

“While I like the kid and she has more nerve than any of you combined, my newest campaign requires seven players. I’m not gonna rework it because Big Time Sinclair can’t grow a backbone.”

“Eddie, man,” Dustin started, trying to flatter him. “Six players is already too much to handle. Let us make this easier for you. We don’t need a seventh, right, guys?” he looked at Gareth across the table searching for support.

“Uh,” the teen glanced at his friend and leader, words dying in his throat as Eddie tilted his head towards him, sharp eyed and tense.

“Can’t you just ask the redhead you’re always hanging around to join?”

“We’ve asked, she’s not interested,” Mike deflated visibly.

“She has a lot going on,” Dustin said quickly, protecting Max’s honor. “Her brother died last year, she’s still processing.”

“Hargrove, right?” Donny said. “Man, that guy was a piece of trash but at least he kept Jason busy and away from us for a while.”

“I’m sure you two will find someone suitable to replace your little friend if you wanna keep playing with us. And no more middle schoolers. We aren’t running a daycare here,” Eddie smiled in a way that told everyone the conversation was done. “Now if you’ll excuse me, little lambs, I have business transactions waiting to happen.”

With that, the long haired leader disappeared from the cafeteria carrying the metal lunchbox where he kept his, ahem, products in one hand, the book he had been reading still open and the untouched pudding cup in the other one. The other members of the club scattered as they finished their lunch and went back to their routines, leaving Mike and Dustin at the table, heads in their hands, forgotten mac and cheese now sticky and cold.

“We are so screwed,” Dustin said, and Mike couldn’t help but agree.

#bunny writes #small town fic #eddie munson x female character #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #hellfire club #stranger things 4 #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #eddie munson x reader #joseph quinn #baby's first fic #it's finally here!#pls be nice or i'll cry #also pls ask me questions about it

67 notes · View notes

saturnznct · 2 years

Text

➸ note; wrote this just because i felt like it lol,, ALSO my laptop broke the other night (absolutely devastated ngl) and i took it to the apple store and i’m going to have to replace it😭 so as of now i only have my phone to type up and post things on. i don’t think this should slow anything down in terms of writing! however, i was in the process of redoing the format of past posts. i was working through my masterlist, and made it up to mark, so all the posts for members after him will look a bit weird until i manage to sort everything out, as my phone doesn’t let me edit posts for some reason?? so if layout or anything looks weird i’m sorry!

➸ word count; 576 words

➸ eunbi; aged 3

nct masterlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Taeyong’s eyes burn in the blue light of the computer screen. He’s been awake for hours, his inspiration usually strikes this late. He’s been throwing around ideas and been messing with the production programme, trying to come up with something tangible. NCT 127’s comeback preparations were well underway, and Taeyong was so immersed in his task that he didn’t even notice Eunbi open the door behind him and toddle in. At least not until she approaches the armrest of his chair, clutching her little pink blanket in one hand, rubbing her eyes with the other.

‘Oh hey little one,’ Taeyong smiles, lifting her up by her armpits and placing her on his lap.

She snuggles into him immediately, head nestling into his neck.

‘You ok Bee?’ He asks, brushing her hair with his fingers.

‘Can’t sleep daddy,’ she whispers, clearly tired but unable to drift off.

‘Ah poor baby,’ Taeyong pouts, kissing her cheek, ‘how’d you know I’d be in here?’

‘You weren’t in your bed,’ she mumbles.

‘What was wrong with mummy/mommy?’ Taeyong laughs, knowing that you would’ve been there in your bed.

‘Wanted you,’ Eunbi mumbles, ‘and you were awake and mummy/mommy is asleep.’

‘Why can’t you sleep?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shakes her head, ‘just awake.’

‘Yeah, sometimes that happens Bee,’ Taeyong wraps her blanket around her.

‘What are you doing?’ She asks, turning her attention to the computer screen.

‘Making songs,’ Taeyong explains, ‘wanna hear it?’

‘Yeah!’ Eunbi chirps.

Taeyong plays what he has for her, much to her delight.

‘I like it daddy,’ she smiles, ‘sounds good.’

‘You think? Good enough for daddy’s new album?’

‘Yeah definitely,’ she grins, ‘you sing it with uncles.’

Taeyong laughs, ‘yeah I will do angel.’

Taeyong then turns his attention away from his work, and to his daughter. She’s still so tiny, like a mirror image of himself. She’s slowly growing more independent, not needing him anymore, being able to brush her own teeth and ride a little stabilised bike. He wished he could freeze time. So that she would be like this, stay in his arms forever. But he knew eventually she would grow bigger, gain even more independence, and not need him to put her to bed or get her dressed anymore. Taeyong dreads the day, so whenever he has these moments he hugs her just a little bit tighter.

Eunbi yawns.

‘You getting tired Bee?’ Taeyong asks, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

She nods, eyes already heavy.

‘Wanna go to bed?’

She nods again, turning in his arms to get more comfortable.

‘Ok Bee,’ Taeyong slowly and gently wheels his chair back, carefully standing up and walking out towards Eunbi’s bedroom, careful not to move too much and wake her up.

‘Goodnight Bee,’ Taeyong lays her in her toddler bed, ‘I love you.’

‘Love you too dada,’ she mumbles.

Taeyong makes sure her nightlight is on and her window is closed, and then leaves the door open a crack.

He suddenly feels a sudden wave of his own fatigue, and decides to turn in for the night. He saves his work and closes down his computer, ready to crawl into your warm bed with you.

You shuffle around when you feel the bed dip beside you, into Taeyong’s arms.

‘Hi,’ he murmurs, ‘just me. Bee’s asleep.’

‘Get much work done?’ you mumble back.

‘Yeah, all approved by Eunbi.’

You giggle, ‘night Tae. Love you.’

‘I love you too, good night.’

244 notes · View notes

pretentiousgayguyidk · 2 years

Text

After Dark

Apart of the Music Event

Manjiro hated himself. That was a truth no one could deny. He hated himself to bits for what he did ten years ago, he kept telling himself that everyone was better without him... And he hated it was true. Everyone was happy, everyone was alive... He shouldn't be upset, the future where he killed everyone... He never wanted to see it. So, why did he hate what he did with every fiber of his being? His boyfriend from middle school... He pushed him away, he hurt him when he promised he wouldn't.

The platinum haired man stared blankly at his ceiling, the city light casting a pale blue glow on his face while the red LEDs combated them, a beautiful yet striking accentuation of his features. He let out a quiet noise, a soft and tired sigh. Looking over at his bedside table, the city lights making a framed picture pop, spesifically the (h/c) haired boy and his bright smile as he clung to Manjiro. Sano closed his eyes, a pained expression pressing against his features as memory's replayed. (Name) insisting Manjiro stay with him, Manjiro hitting him... The bloody bruise on his lover's face and the expression of terror and heartbreak.

Manjiro shot up clutching at his hair tears spilling out silently as his breathing became ragged. He wished he just dissapeared instead of hurting (Name), he would probably be fine if he knew (Name) was okay after the incident... But, according to the men who kept an eye on him, he was far from okay. Drinking after work, cutting his wrist, breaking things, tying ropes and untying them.

As of now, he didn't want Bonten anywhere near his beloved; he had no idea the state of his ex-boyfriend. He hated not knowing, he misses him so much it made his head hurt.

Just one more glance was all it took, that bright smile and his rosey cheeks broke him. He needed him... Where was he again? He worked at a coffee shop for a while, Manjiro strained to remember the name of the Coffee shop. He remembers (Name) mentioning that he liked working night shift there, only running into overworked, quiet students and businessmen. He gasped a little, the shop was in Kyoto. He immediately stood up from his bed and put on some flip flops. It was a long shot, and a risk. A risk he was willing to take.

He made his way to his parking garage, making his way to his car before pausing. He glanced over at his Babu, still running due to his personal mechanic taking the best care of it they possibly could. He smile a little, just like the old days. The old days when he was happy, when (Name) loved him. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he started up the bike, the Babu purring loudly. An image of Shinichiro flashed for his mind, but as quickly as it came it was gone.

He slowly eyed all the shops he passed in Kyoto till he finally found it, the old coffee shop. He parked his bike. The sweater covering his tattoo helped him blend in. He was almost normal.

The door rang, catching (Name)'s attention as he swept. Customers rarely showed up at 3:00 in the morning, to say he was surprised was almost an understatement. He looked up with a bright smile at the man, freezing when he saw who it was. He had seen him in TV... And he could recognize those hollowed eyes anywhere. His body went cold as Manjiro stood before him, a surprised and almost joyful expression on his face.

"'Jiro?" (Name) whispered, his voice wavering and cracking. Feelings twisted in his stomach, dread, fear, pain, sadness, relief. All of them felt horrible, and he was resisting the urge to cry. The fear gripped at his heart, making him step back; gripping the broom like it would actually save him if Manjiro wanted him dead. All of his fear was washed away replaced with the familiar want to protect the man before him... Manjiro Sano was crying.

"(Name)... I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice was soft and strained and his eyes were glassy. The sight shattered (Name)'s heart and he acted without thinking. Pulling the slender man into his arms holding him tightly. Sano seemed to melt, clinging onto his ex-boyfriend desperately his breathing ragged. He missed this smell, the smell of coffee and sweets that always hung around (Name) was always so soothing to him. (Name) started to relax until he realized this was Japan's crime lord, a man who kills people, the man who left him in shambles. He pushed him away and backed up, leaving almost eight feet between them.

"I... I regret it." He whispered, (Name) could barely hear it he was so quiet. Despite how long it's been he knows exactly what he meant. Leaving everyone. (Name) started to naw at his lip shaking his head with his brows pinched together.

"No... No I-" his mind was racing and all the words he wanted to say seemed to be whisked away by fear. Manjiro stayed frozen tears streaming down his pale cheeks as he gazes longingly at (Name)

"Sano... I- do you really think I'd forgive you?" Manjiro's breath hitched... Of course he wouldn't, I mean... Look at me? I'm a murderous mess, I hurt him. I hurt everyone, why would he ever forgive me? They sat in awkward silence before (Name) sighed, accepting that Manjiro wouldn't be leaving any time soon. "I'll... Make us some coffee." He mumbled, Manjiro didn't respond; only moving to sit at one of the tables.

(Name) swiftly made the coffee, knowing Manjiro's order by heart as he knows it hasn't changed. The strange pink-haired man that came in every now and then for coffee and Dorayaki was a dead give away. The only change to Mikey's coffee order was one less spoonful of sugar. (Name) smile a little at the fond memories of getting the blond to try his coffee, Mikey gagging cause it was too bitter for him (even though it had plenty of creamer, but alas his sweet tooth is nothing to be matched with).

He sighed and brought over the cups of coffee and a plate of Dorayaki, Mikey's eyes widened at the treat before him. He let out a weak breathy laugh, glancing up at his past lover. It was almost disturbing, the expression on his face was the same one he gave (Name) ten years ago, before he snapped on him. They sat in silence, awkwardly staring at the food and coffee; tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Name coughed a little before awkwardly sipping at his coffee.

"Why... Are you here?" (Name) whispered, Mikey hummed, resting his head on his hand. He seemed to think for a second, gazing over his ex's features. A softened look on his face, a rare sight now-a-days.

"I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't even think I would find you l, but I just- wanted to see you." He whispered, his voice was so broken; the small part of (Name) that loved Mikey shattering at the sound.

"Do... You regret what happened?" The white haired man's head shot up, and he tensed; eyeing the other's left cheek. He hesitantly reach out out, making (Name) flinch a little a Sano's fingers grazed the pale scar.

"I left a scar," he gently traced over the mark with his thumb. His hands were soft, no longer warm and callused; cold and soft. It was almost unsettling how cold Manjiro's fingers felt. "Of course I regret it, Antero." He felt his heart skip a beat, oh how he missed hearing that nickname. Fuck, that might have been the last string holding him back, losing all sense of reason he allowed himself to fall for Mikey all over again. All it took was that nickname and an apology.

"It's alright 'Jiro, I've recovered." (Name) mumbled, gently pressing his face into the crime-lord's palm making him stiffen. (Name) was so warm, it felt nice.

They continued to enjoy their coffee and treats, slowly lowering their guard and catching up. Recalling memories of their past, simply enjoying the little bit of time they would have. Meanwhile, Sanzu Haruchiyo was raising hell.

His king was missing. And he wasn't answering his phone, having left it back on his night stand. The Haitani's frantically searched around the city having hackers break into surveillance cameras. They knew the King had been there an hour ago, he couldn't have gone far.

"Fucking find him! If I lose him you're heads will be decorating my walls!" Sanzu screamed, eyes red and teath bared. Any time his king was in any sort of danger he acted like a feral animal, snapping at everything that moved. When a lower grunt approached the crazed man he snarled, pulling out his gun and grabbing him by the shirt. "WHAT?!" The grunt trembled against the cold barrel of the gun against his temple.

"W-we traced his location. He's in Kyoto." The grunt whispered, Sanzu dropped the man and turned to leave his office.

"Send the location to my phone. I'll be back in an hour, be ready to deal with some bodies." He grumbled lowly, slamming the door behind him.

"I remember when Sanzu-Kun tried to stand on the back of a moving motorcycle and almost fell off, isn't that why Muto-Kun got a car?" (Name) recalled, Mikey smiled a little laughing at the fond memories.

"I believe so!" He gave his signature closed eye smile, his cheeks dusted a rose colour. He looked so... Happy. Normal. He didn't look like a crime lord anymore, just Mikey. Just Manjiro Sano.

"Are you still in contact with Sanzu? I know he respected you a lot. Wouldn't be surprised if he tried to force his way into Bonten to get to you," the taller joked, Manjiro nodded. He paused for a second and stiffened, he forgot his phone.

"Shit." He whispered, running a hand through his snow white hair. (Name) tilted his head to the side and gently touched Mikey's hand that was resting on the table. Making the platinum haired man hum to himself.

"You alright 'Jiro?" He shakes his head, glancing back at the door to the coffee shop. Rain was starting to come down, blurring the streets lights into a bright splatter of water colour.

"I left my phone home, Sanzu's gonna freak out and track me down." He explained, (Name) raised his eyebrow; Manjiro's explanation didn't exactly explain.

"'Jiro, talk to me. What's wrong?" He sighed before awkwardly explaining.

"He won't hesitate to put a gun to your head." He mumbled bluntly, a cold chill shot down (Name)' s spine.

Almost as if he was summoned, the coffee shop door rang. (Name) looked up to see a drenched Sanzu, gripping a pistol tightly in his hands. It felt like just a blink before (Name) was pinned to the wall, the muzzle of the gun digging into the fleshy bit of his chin. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my King?" He spat, teath bared in an animalistic rage.

A small click was heard and Sanzu froze, slowly looking over at Mikey, who had his own gun raised. Sanzu quickly got the message, putting his gun away without question and stepping away from (Name). The other let out a choked breath, holding onto the chair next to him for support. Who knew having a gun that close to you could be that damn scary?

"Mikey, why didn't you tell anyone you were going out?" Sanzu grumbled, now ignoring (Name)'s existence entirely. Which was fine by him, he was still trying to calm his racing heart, putting gentle pressure on his pulse to try and count.

"I forgot." Sanzu sighed, shaking his head a little. He was the only one who could talk to Manjiro like this, but only on occasion. Mikey pushed past Sanzu and finally allowed himself to get close to his past lover, he placed his cold hand over (Name)'s gently rubbing his knuckles. "You alright?" He whispered, the intimidating aura seemed to slowly disappear, replaced by one of concern and care. Sanzu watched, his jaw dropped to the damn floor.

Does his king have a queen? Or is he just another king? King and king? It then dawned on Sanzu. That was (Name), in a his time stopping by it never occurred to him that it was his past queen. He rubbing his face, now feeling like an idiot.

"Y-yeah..." (Name)'s voice betrayed him, a she stuttered. He was fine, but he was still disturbed by the idea that if Mikey didn't care his brains would be on the wall. Mikey hummed and gently brushed hair out of his friend's face, kissing him on the forehead almost out of instinct. (Name) froze, Sano's lips were slightly chapped but it felt... Nice. Like nothing has changed.

"Looks like it's about time for me to leave..." Manjiro mumbled, turning and heading for the door. (Name) was too stunned to move, too stunned to speak. He wasn't sure how to feel about the situation at all as he watch his old friends leave, disappearing into the night.

He shook his head and put his hands in his pocket reaching for his phone. He paused, a small slip of paper that wasn't there before seemed to appear out of nowhere. He pulled it out and unfolded it, smiling a little at the string of digits. In slightly messy cursive under the letters was "your 'Jiro :)". He hastily typed in the number, quickly shooting a text to his lost lover before finally cleaning up and going home.

#after dark #tokyo revengers #male reader #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x male reader #mikey x male reader #manjiro x you #manjiro sano #music challenge

125 notes · View notes

emo-musicvideo-imagines · 1 year

Note

I’ve just checked your rules and the request post you made with all the quotes so I was wondering if you could write a party poison x reader with the prompts- ‘How long have you been covering this’ and ‘If I survive can I go home’. I was thinking the fic could go like, they find the hurt reader and take them to the diner but they’re stubborn and want to go home and they have an injury that they discover later on and then hopefully the reader stays with them. Or not, you can take it in whichever direction you want, I just thought that’d be a suitable story for it :)

genre: fluff to angst and back to fluff

Pairing: Party Poison x unspecified! reader,

Pov: Party Poison

Title: Define Home

Killjoy Name Used: Sky Hawk (feel free to replace if you want)

Note: I took the prompts, slightly different story then you asked for.

It happened super quickly. Someone, just outside of the diner, took out nine or ten draculoids on their own. I reached for my gun, but the last draculoid had fallen before I even stepped outside. I wanted to speak, asked who taught them to shoot, but my voice betrayed me. Though the look on my face must have given it away.

“I’m Sky Hawk, from a small group of Killjoys next to the wall,” they pointed in the direction of Battery city, “the Animalistic Killjoys.”

“Party Poison, I’m the leader of the Fabulous Killjoys” I reached to shake their hand, “how’d you end up out here?”

“Was on a part run, my brother’s bike broke and needed a gasket,” they leaned against their own bike, “ran into these guys and got chased all the way out here, which zone is this?”

“Thirteen.”

“Holy shit,” they let out a dry laugh, “oh man, Snakeskin is gonna kill me.”

“Listen, Killjoys are meant to help each other,” I shifted on my feet, “why not stay a while, your bike looks pretty roughed up, my brother could fix it for you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” they took a shaky breath in.

“I insist, come in,” I motioned them to come inside, surprised when they did.

A little over a week later and it had already felt like Sky Hawk was one of us. And though I would never say it out loud, I found them attractive. They were tough, resilient, and actually listened to me. The boys got along with them great too, Kobra was happy to have something to work on, Jet was glad they were able to contain their stupid, that they only let out when Ghoul was around.

“Hey! I know you’re in there! I see your bike!” I loud booming voice was followed by pounding on the door.

“That would be my brother, took him long enough to come looking,” they rolled their eyes, “You could also peak in through the window dipshit!”

He threw open the door and grabbed Sky Hawk by the wrist.

“We have been looking for you for 24 hours! You scared us shitless!” My face twisted at his statement.

“Only 24 hours?” I growled lowly, not letting him walk out the door with what I would consider a new member of our team at this point.

“That’s all they’ve been gone,” Hawk’s brother raised an eyebrow.

“They’ve been here for the past week and a half,” My anger grew every second that the man in front of me struggled to find an excuse.

“He’s never paid much attention to me, it’s fine,” Hawk defended him.

“No, the fuck it isn’t,” Jet stood quickly, his height easily freaking the brother out.

“Fine, then what do I tell Snakeskin?” Hawk’s brother raised his voice.

“Tell her I’m not an animalistic anymore, I’m part of the fabulous,” they snapped, “now let me go.”

He left, stomping his feet and slamming the door. I sighed, almost missing the way Sky Hawk clutched their side and limped back to where they were sitting.

“How long have you been covering this?” I wasn’t even aware that I was the one speaking until Hawk froze and everyone else looked at me funny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they murmured.

“Lift your shirt then,” they knew they were stuck, lifting their shirt just enough to show a bullet wound, it had scabbed over, but looked severely infected. It was dead silent for a few moments.

“Kobra, Ghoul, leave the room, Jet, I trust you to fix this,” I attempted to keep my face stoic, trying to ignore the drop in my stomach.

Jet nodded as I followed the other two men out of the room.

“It kills you doesn’t it,” my brother whispered, catching ghoul’s attention anyway.

“What do you mean?” I grit my teeth.

“Seeing someone you care for so deeply be hurt so badly and they didn’t tell you,” he elaborated, “you’ve never been good at keeping yourself from falling hard.”

A little while later, Jet came and got me from my room.

“They want to talk to you,” was all he said before walking out. I slowly made my way to the room we had set up for them.

“Hey,” their eyes were red, “’m sorry I didn’t tell ya.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to go home, but,” they let out a sharp breath, “clearly they didn’t care, and then you guys did and-”

“Hey, it’s-” I reached for them, backing out last second, “you’re okay, just, tell me next time you’re hurt.”

I didn’t realise how close I was to them until they reached for my hand.

“Please stay with me,” they weren’t looking at me, but I nodded anyway, sitting next to them on their bed. They leaned into me carefully and squeezed their eyes shut. Not taking long before falling asleep.

#party poison x reader #party poison #killjoys #danger days #true lives of the fabulous killjoys #gerard way x reader #gerard way #mcr gerard

56 notes · View notes

biblicallyaccuratechicken · 15 days

Text

Because of the most recent rb:

An apocalyptic world I made up. Mc up there is listening to music late at night, when suddenly cir family wakes up and starts shambling to the front door–But Something's Wrong oooooooo. Their eyes are glowing a whitish-blue, and they don't seem to notice cim when ci puts cir hand on their shoulders. Ci hides in a doorway to see what's happening. When cir little brother opens the door, a giant obsidian Creature is waiting, and promptly devours mc's numb, unresponsive family. How shocking! Ci quickly creeps to a hiding spot, but in cir panic, one of cir earbuds falls out. Ci can hear in the exposed ear a soft whirring, so soft, so gentle, so calming and friendly. It's only the music still playing in cir other ear that saves cim from being completely carried away. Recognizing this, ci sluggishly replaces the earbud, and immediately cir mind is clear again- just in time to see that the Creature has entered the room, and begun to make its way towards cim. As soon as the earbud is fully in, however, the Creature lifts its satellite-dish-like head and turns it around, looking confused. It circles the room, its head swiveling frantically like some dog or cat trying to find a smell, and as it passes mc, it's all ci can do to keep quiet, but it finds nothing and leaves.

After a millenium, or perhaps a millisecond, of waiting, mc leaves cir hiding spot and starts to pack a backpack. A flashlight, some batteries, some food. Ci also seeks out cir cat, and finds her hiding beneath the couch, ears flattened against her skull, pupils and fur blown all the way up. She calms a bit at mc's soft, feathery soft murmuring, recognizing her name and the voice who spoke it, but refuses to leave her spot until mc opens up a can of tuna. After she's swallowed all of the can's contents, eyes and ears darting here and there, she's calm enough that mc can gently lower her into the backpack.

Ci creeps out the open door and makes cir way to the nearby shopping district, ducking between shadows with cir hands plastered to cir ears, desperately keeping the earbuds. Through them, ci occasionally hears loud metal or rap playing, sometimes from cars with huddled and shaking people, sometimes from other wanderers who clutch little bluetooth speakers in their white-knuckled hands. From cir place in the shadows, ci notices that the Creatures–there are so many Creatures–tend to take a wide berth around those beacons of presumably earsplitting melodies. After ci passes the empty street and enters the nearest electronics store, ci's grateful to find that, even though all of the speakers have been looted, there are still noise-cancelling headphones left. Ci takes three pairs, hanging two around cir neck and putting one over cir ears before swiftly switching the plugs in cir phone's jack. Feeling safer, ci flits as smoothly as ci can to the convenience store, opens a can of wet food for the cat, and formulates a plan over a bottle of water and some donuts.

Ci makes cir way back home, grabs cir little brother's acoustic guitar and tuner, and loads everything securely into a wagon, which ci attaches behind cir bike. Ci raids the nearest plant nursery for as many crops and medicinal herbs as ci can fit, then the bookstore for guidebooks for how to grow and use them, and follows the river out of town, away from the Creatures.

Out in the country, ci builds a little house out of materials ci finds. Ci spends cir nights awake, slamming away at the guitar's strings and singing at the top of cir lungs until ci's hoarse, and spends the rest of it with cir headphones on, humming to cirself. During the mornings and evenings, ci plants cir crops and maps out the area. Daytime, now marked by a sun which hangs like a pendant of onyx in the white sky, is the only time it's safe to sleep.

And that's it. Mc lives alone on a little sanctuary with cir cat, offering asylum to those who come across cim.

3 notes · View notes

moralesispunk · 2 years

Text

Marcus Pike thought of the day: biker Pike (more under the cut)

This was originally a very brief thought but since it ended up (1.6k) words I will add warnings: boss/ employee relationship, gn! reader, reader can drive, mention of food

Marcus Pike transferred to the DC office a month after you did. There had been rumours about his move - about a failed engagement to another agent - but when he showed up with his bright smile and kind eyes no-one thought about that anymore.

He was a good boss, great really, and as the two newest members to the team there had been a friendship that started to form as you both settled in the new city; he offered recommendations for what to do on your weekend and you told him about a coffee shop down the street that made the best coffee you ever had. It was hard for these feelings of friendship not to turn into more - at least from your side - when he was so handsome and charming; this well put together man who started to bring you coffee to morning meetings and share his lunch with you when your sandwiches looked less than appetising next to his well thought out meal prep for the week.

The friendship was flirting the line of being more than colleagues - closer than what you would ever have considered appropriate for a boss/employee - but it was becoming harder and harder to stick to those unsaid boundaries when he made you laugh more than anyone had before and he looked at you in a way you were sure was different than the way he looked at everyone else.

Recently, a particularly hard case that you were working on meant there had been a few late nights in the office together. Sometimes it was just you and Marcus, sometimes other members of the team had stayed, but as the only two single and without kids it was easier to stay into the late hours without having to send a text home to a tired partner who was left putting the kids to bed alone.

Every night of this week had come with a different take-out and you were becoming sick of the styrofoam boxes and plastic forks, your body just wanting to sit down and not think about work between bites of food for an hour.

It seemed like Marcus had the same idea, silently turning his screen to you with a Thai restaurant that was still open as he pointed to it with his pen. Your pounding headache was already thanking him at the thought of an hour break from your bright screens as you locked your computer, nodding enthusiastically and standing with a groan.

“Who’s driving?” You ask, lifting your jacket from where it had been thrown over the back of the chair.

“I can… but bring your keys in case,” he nods to your set on the desk.

You nod without thinking, pocketing them as you guess half-way through dinner you might decide to come home so having your car there would be best. You barely look up as Marcus gets his things together, sorting through your files to make sure you aren’t leaving anything confidential out in the open, but your mind drifts to what his car will be like.

In the six months he’s been here you’ve never seen Marcus’s car. He’s always in first and leaves last; even on nights you leave together he walks you to your car first so you’re already driving out of the parking garage before he reaches his car. If you had to guess it would be a standard and sensible five door, grey or black, and the inside is probably spotless except for a coffee cup in the holder. You’re almost smiling to yourself at the thought when you finally look up, your mouth falling open when you take in Marcus.

His suit jacket is gone, replaced by a thick leather jacket that is zipped up. There’s a dark red stripe across the chest, some logo for a brand you’ve never seen before stitched on. Your eyes look down to his hand - his big hand that is able to hold his gloves while clutching two helmets.

“I always have a spare, just in case.” He shrugs, like the two helmets are what your mind can’t seem to comprehend.

“You ride a bike?” The words tumble out of your mouth and Marcus smiles, his whole body relaxed as he nods. “Like a motorbike?”

“The very same.” He laughs. “You can drive if you want but I have this,” he says, lifting the spare helmet, “just in case.”

“I-” You’ve never even sat on a motorbike let alone been on one while it’s driving. The thought sends equal parts fear and excitement through your body, your mind quickly sorting through a pro and con list as Marcus patiently waits for you to answer. When you look at him again, chewing on your bottom lip as you try and choose between taking his offer or having to watch as he pulls into the restaurant behind you on a bike, it’s enough to sway your decision. Marcus always looks good but this - his hair messy from running his hand through it all day and the stubble that’s already showing after a week of a disrupted shaving schedule - is rendering you speechless. “You can drive.”

You reach for the spare helmet and he smiles, passing it into your hand and biting down on his lip to stop laughing as you almost drop it from the unexpected weight.

“Let’s go then.”

Your hand grips the helmet like a lifeline on the ride down to the garage and Marcus fills the silence as he decides out-loud what he’s thinking about ordering when he gets to the restaurant, but it’s all background noise until you stop in front of the bike.

It’s black and exactly what you would imagine if someone said the word motorbike, but your knowledge of them is slim to zero.

“Here.” Marcus rests his helmet on the seat, gently taking yours from your hand and standing in front of you. “Are you sure you’re wanting to go on the bike? You’ve not said a word since coming down, which is very much not like you.”

You stick your tongue out at his attempt at teasing and he smiles wide, waiting for you to say that you do want to before he lifts the helmet and places it on your head. You keep your gaze on his eyes as fixes it, his brows pulled together in concentration as he checks if it's tight enough and clicks the strap under your chin.

“There you go.” He smiles again, tapping the top of your helmet and reaching for his own.

If the sight of him in the jacket in the office was enough to make your knees weak, this one - with his eyes shining through the gap as he nods at you - is strong enough to keel you over and you would have if you hadn’t gripped the seat tight. You know he can see the effect this is having on you, the way his eyes crinkle at the side, but he chooses not to say anything as he climbs on the bike and holds a hand out to you.

You were less than gracious as you got on, a few false starts before you were finally settled behind him.

“What should I... How do I...?”

Marcus shoulders shake with another laugh and he reaches back for your hands, soothing his thumbs over your knuckles and making you relax from the clenched fists as he places your hands on his waist.

“Just squeeze if I’m going too fast,” he shouts over the sound of the engine starting and immediately your body presses tight against his.

He taps your thigh twice reassuringly, kicking off through the garage as you squeeze your eyes shut.

It takes until you’ve been weaving through the streets for five minutes before you finally open your eyes, the sound of the wind rushing by completely taking away your ability to hear as you try to focus on the man in front of you.

Of all the things you expected from Marcus Pike, this was low on the list. I mean, it shouldn’t be overly surprising - plenty of people ride bikes and there are at least a dozen agents in the DC office that ride - but you just never expected it from Marcus. Maybe it’s the way he always double checks your seatbelt when he’s in the driver seat for stakeouts or maybe the way he waits patiently with his toes on the right side of the kerb before the green man comes on to cross the road; he always just seemed border line overly-cautious and riding a motorbike seems anything but.

The bike pulls up at a red light and Marcus turns slightly over his shoulder, holding his hand up and changing from a thumbs up or thumbs down. You answer with a thumbs up and his body seems to relax a little more, his hand coming to rest against yours that seems to have sneaked around his waist as he holds you there until he takes off again.

You feel more and more comfortable as the ride goes on, looking over his shoulder and watching as he dips and weaves between the traffic to get you to the restaurant twice as fast as if you had driven. When he finally pulls up to park you feel almost completely comfortable not only on the back of the bike but so close to Marcus; your front pressed to his back, your thighs surrounding his own, your hand resting around his waist.

“So, how was that?” He asks, holding out his hand to steady you as you climb off the bike before he follows.

“I can’t wait for the ride home. Thank you.”

Marcus laughs, helping you out of your helmet before taking his off. His cheeks are flushed pink - from the wind or the heat you aren’t sure - and his smile looks even bigger than any you’ve seen before.

“Any time.” He winks, his hand coming to rest on the bottom of you back as he steers you inside.