darth_khal
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- RWBY (2)
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Summary
Four times Yang danced with Blake in different stages of their relationship.
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Blake leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, lips twitching as she watched Yang negotiate with their son.
“I feel like I’m looking at you,” Yang sighed, turning toward Blake with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh please,” Blake replied playfully, rolling her eyes as she joined them in the nursery. “Between the two of us, you’re the stubborn one—the hardest to convince.”
Yang couldn’t fight the smile or the warmth that flooded her chest as her wife crouched down beside their son. “Maybe,” she said fondly, “but he’s still your spitting image.”
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Summary
Day and night, it’s all the same inside of Rusty CrowBar; it’s not a total dive but not really high class either. Yang’s been there since she was legal, and you see all kinds of people come and go. Most of them don’t leave an impact. It's just a few bills and some change tossed on the bar, or sometimes a phone number if she was extra charming.
But then there’s this girl.
She sits on the same barstool every Thursday, sad and mysterious. Yang doesn’t even know her name, but she wants to.
Yang wants a lot when she looks at her.
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Yang isn't the biggest fan of Christmas. Blake is determined to change that.
Meeting Blake's parents for the first time would be nerve-wracking even if Yang wasn't going home with her for the holidays. When Blake reveals that she hasn't actually told her parents about the relationship yet, things get a lot more complicated.
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“You are here for a reason, Yang,” Raven states between ground teeth. Maybe it’s meant to feel like a threat or a taunt, but it only lands as a reminder. Yang’s used to letting those roll right off of her. “Stay away from the Belladonna’s at all costs or so help me.”
“Or what?” Yang challenges, not mentioning that she doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a shit about Blake Belladonna, about the sexy smirk of her lips or the danger of her hooded eyes. She can’t be bothered with caring about a single damn thing because she had been dragged on a campaign trail, shoved into a bedroom in the White House, plopped into college courses, hauled to stylists. There was only one way to survive any of this, a singular method to get her through again and again. “I don’t have much more to lose at this point.”
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Blake wasn’t gentle. She should be, maybe, but acting harsh and cold was the only way she could cope with the absolute fire emanating from Yang’s being. She didn’t look at her eyes. She focused on tying the wrists submissively held together in front of her, on Yang’s attitude, docile, too docile, on the way her chest rose and fell at each collected breath under her worn leather armor, on everything but her eyes. Her piercing eyes, so intense they consumed Blake’s skin even though she couldn’t see them. Oh, how she hated that girl.
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Tattoos have many purposes, but arguably the most important is that they act as a window into the person's soul, to those who are willing to look.
What happens when on her journey for something more, recklessly chasing the kind of high that surges through her veins and keeps her heart pounding in her chest well into the morning, the kind of rush that only a night of dancing in a dimly lit club pressed up against a beautiful woman, could give her. What happens when on that journey Yang finally comes across someone who takes the time to look?