🦅🥋🏆Mostly inspired by Tumblr prompts featuring Eli 'Hawk' Moskowitz, Demetri Alexopoulos, Daniel LaRusso and Johnny Lawrence, to name a few.
Or, the AU KK/CK (and Jacob Bertrand) ficlet and non-fanfic collection I decided to write even though...
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Prompt: "I mean the girls who aren't you, the ones who look below my neck," Hawk gestured vaguely downwards, encompassing his legs and the rest of him, "before they look up at my face."
The late afternoon sun, the kind that slants gold and hazy through the palm trees unique to the San Fernando Valley, warmed the worn leather of Hawk's jacket. He was leaning against a low stone wall near a public fountain, the murmur of traffic a constant hum beneath the distant laughter of kids. His azure eyes, sharp beneath the vivid blue crest of his Mohawk, scanned the unassuming scene. San Fernando Valley. Suburbia's heart with a veneer of sun-baked glamour that never quite hid the strip malls and endless asphalt. He liked it well enough; it was quiet, relatively safe, and the criminals here tended to be low-stakes, easy to manage without causing a scene. And the food options were surprisingly decent.
He'd been lost in thought, idly watching pigeons peck at discarded crumbs, when he heard it — a soft, unexpected snicker nearby. He turned his head, the movement fluid and economical, his gaze landing on a girl standing a few feet away, holding a sketchbook. She had bright eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She wasn't looking at the pigeons or the fountain. She was looking at him.
"Did I do something to amuse you?" he asked, his voice low, carrying just the right edge of polite inquiry mixed with wary curiosity. It was a line he'd used before. Usually, it led to a flustered apology or a hurried retreat.
Her response, however, was not what he had been hoping (or rather, expecting) to hear. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she tilted her head, her eyes scanning his legs, which were encased in the tight black Levi's tucked into his brand-new, gleaming black cowboy boots.
"Why on Earth would you want to cover up those awesome legs of yours, dude?" she queried, a genuine note of appreciation in her voice.
His mental gears stuttered. Awesome legs? It wasn't the first time someone had commented on his physique — being an ageless, highly active vampire, even an ethical one, had its perks in the physical department — but it was usually prefaced by something else. And the directness, combined with the snicker he'd heard, threw him.
"So girls like you don't make comments like that!" he retorted, the words out before he could filter them, fueled by a sudden, irrational defensiveness that surprised even himself.
He regretted it as soon as he'd said it, wincing a little at the level of anger his tone had taken on, while wishing he'd decided to vote for his best raised eyebrow look or gone for the irritated smile in order to cover up his actually feeling flattered at her complimentary tone, which he secretly took a liking to deep down (although he sometimes wondered if an oxymoron like an irritated smile was real).
And speaking of which, as he well knew, the idea of a guy being flattered was certainly saying something right there. After all, he'd heard it was usually the girl being flattered by the guy. So, the way he saw it, the girl taking the initiative and causing the guy to feel flattered was an accomplishment of sorts. Maybe not Nobel-worthy, but an accomplishment nonetheless.
