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aclowntiny · 1 year ago

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Task Failed Successfully- Hyunjin x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2.6K | Friends to Lovers, College AU | Warnings: none really, very slight alcohol mentions but Reader doesn’t explicitly drink, one small swear

In all honesty, you were thankful for that tiny little art class with that temporary professor who moved universities the following semester. You were thankful even though you felt like those new brush types you were made to use irreversibly brought down the quality of the one portrait you painted- paint was a difficult, sometimes fickle medium anyway. Even though sometimes it felt like that class so few people had heard of was but a fever dream, it was more than worth it to you since you wouldn’t have met Hyunjin otherwise.

Your tablemate was a gifted painter, humble as he was toward every compliment paid him. The joke you two shared was that he could have taught the class, but art was Hyunjin’s major and he was truly eager to soak up every piece of knowledge his seniors had for him- even if he disregarded it sometimes to prove a point. Art types, you know. You remained more of a rule-follower, but you guys shared one of your famous stingingly enthusiastic high-fives for it. High-fives came so naturally to you two, neither of you had to look anymore. Hence why Hyunjin’s friend Minho described you two’s ‘creepy eye contact’.

Hyunjin was what you called a hopeless romantic. Many of the gorgeous children of his brush were roses, couples from movies that had become his muses. You teased him, called him the type of guy who must have had a ring already in his nightstand just waiting.

“Easy,” he shot back, “or are you trying so hard to get rid of me?”

“No, of course not,” you shook your head and mirrored his grin, “who’s going to buy my drinks at the campus café if I marry you off too soon?”

“Oh,” he elbowed you, “so that’s why you keep me around, huh? Bold of you to assume I’m going with you.”

Giggling, you shouldered your backpack and kept on down the posh brick walkway that marked the campus rose garden. Hyunjin kept by your side the whole walk past the waving blooms and right to the student center where the little restaurants and cafés were.

“Alright, fine, but only if you take bowling with me next semester.”

Your campus had a bowling alley and its own ‘sports’ course set there, a class that filled up quickly with students eager to get credits for fun, even if they sucked, because how do you fail bowling?

“Oh, no,” you placed your hand over your heart, eyes rolling away from him dramatically, “truly a fate worse than death.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What’s that supposed to be?”

Hyunjin was peering at your canvas, tracing the latest line you’d smeared across it with his head tilted and eyes darting. He looked like a curious cat.

“Why, what does it look like?”

“Oh, no,” he shook his tilted head, “this is the ultimate trap. I say the wrong thing and it looks terrible. Not falling for that one bit.” He punctuated his statement with an enunciated pronouncement of your name and a finger booping your nose.

“Well, I’ll give you a hint, it’s going to be a landscape.”

“Ooh! The beach! It’s the beach, huh? I should have known you were painting the sea again!” Straightening up, he clapped and pointed in excitement, having gone from cat to puppy in three seconds flat. That was one of your favorite things about him.

“Guess I’m predictable,” you replied jokingly, giving him a smile, “it is the beach. Well, sort of. At my family’s little spot there was this pier that would silhouette perfectly in the sunset, the water trapped on the sand reflecting it as an inverse on the ground. All the orange melting into blue- the sky geld more colors than the sea! It was like setting foot into another world.”

“Wow,” Hyunjin breathed, “and you say you’re not much of an artist. If I had half the way with words you do, it’d be over for everyone.”

“Well, then we’ll have to take over the world together.”

“Sounds good to me. Dictatorships sound lonely anyway.”

With that nature of his, it was only a matter of time. Hyunjin’s art spoke volumes about his subconscious, so it was no surprise when he started telling you about a blind date a friend of his was setting him up on.

“So I guess he sits by her in his fashion design class…”

“Ooh,” you muse. Sounds up his alley.

“And she’s been looking for a date for a while, so he told her ‘I have this art major friend’ and the rest was history.”

How was it so easy for some people? Though then again, volunteering your friends was a considerably different task than asking someone out, especially if your friends were as hot as Hyunjin. Not that you thought about that often. It was just a sort of objective appreciation thing, like straight guys talking about Ryan Reynolds. Yeah.

“So besides being single and taking a fashion design class with Felix, what’s her deal? Did he give you any detail?”

“She’s twenty-one. A bit of a partier, but sounds like nothing I can’t handle.”

At that, you suppressed a snort. Hyunjin was an E type, but the last thing he was was a partier. Getting a few drinks with his eight-person friend group or attending a wine and paint night was as crazy as he ever got. For being such an amazing dancer, he never hit the club and you were fine with that. All the noise and crowds could be sort of anxiety-inducing. Call you a child after heart, but you’d take the nights you two had painted the arcade red over going out dancing with strangers.

Enough about that, though. Pulling your jacket a bit tighter about your chest, you shook your head as if to dissipate a cartoon thought cloud. “So, where are you taking her, then?”

Hyunjin smiled, a bit…nervously? “We’re just meeting at the bar-and-grill across the way here, nothing fancy.”

“Hiding that side until a few nights in, huh?” You nudged him, chest feeling like it expanded at the way his smile opened up, relaxed.

“She’s a fashion major, she’s going to be way more pretentious than me.”

“I dunno, Mr. Windows to the Soul,” you kept teasing, this time with the name of his last assignment sketch of a pair of eyes.

“Not my last minute title,” he waved a hand before playfully grabbing yours and swinging it back to your side, “next time I’ll just use a drama quote like you did. Really show how serious I take the assignment.”

“Hey!” You protested, shoving his hand away in mock offense.

“Gotcha,” he grinned.

Hopefully Miss Fashion could handle him as well as you could.

Forwarding a picture of your pet that your parents had sent you earlier in the day, you texted Hyunjin ‘Good luck!’. Too robotic? You hoped not, because by whatever cosmic dice roll the vibes had just been off all day, clouds rolling across the atmosphere of your mind and obscuring any small good that came your way. If you seemed off, he would worry, and he didn’t need to carry anything unnecessary into his evening.

Hyunjin 🐹: Thank you 👍🏻 heading to the bar now! Hope we both have a fun evening 😁

You shook your head as your phone’s backlight illuminated your face an artificial blue-white. Hyunjin was too sweet for his own good.

Me: I’m just having a night in lol so have fun for both of us!

Squirreling your phone back into your hoodie’s front pocket, you wiggled a bit deeper into the garment and sighed. It wasn’t that you wanted his blind date to go badly or anything…so why weren’t you feeling the excitement you led on in your text?

It was about forty minutes later, just about seven-thirty, when your phone buzzed again. Reaching into your pocket with one hand, you paused the video you’d been watching with the other. The first word you registered was Hyunjin’s name, the little hamster emoji you’d given his contact because they didn’t make a ferret for some reason.

Hyunjin 🐹: She never showed.

Just three words, but that message alone was enough to have you kicking your blankets off and feeling your hand curl into a fist. You barely bothered beyond a perfunctory check and touch-up of yourself in the mirror before you had your keys in your hand, all but stomping out the door of your dorm suite.

How dare she! How dare Whatever-Her-Name stand him up! Guys like Hyunjin didn’t grow on trees, and whatever planet she was on where she thought she could do better than your friend, it wasn’t much like Earth. Had Felix’s words been cause of any caution, set forth any reservation? It sure hadn’t sounded like it from Hyunjin’s recounting.

Me: Stay there, I’m coming to get you.

Hyunjin 🐹: You don’t have to do that. She just forgot, apparently. She was already out with friends when I texted a follow-up thirty minutes into sitting here.

Swallowing down some very uncouth nicknames, you sent one more message before starting your car.

Me: I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Not cool 😕

Metaphorical red clouded your vision, forcing reminders from the greatly-diminished level fraction of your brain to slow down, keep a vigilant eye upon the dim road still. This was the kind of thing you read about in ridiculous website articles about ‘Top Ten Dating Nightmares’ or saw on a corny sitcom, not a real-life thing. Petty, sure, but you wondered how many assignments Party Girl had ‘forgotten’ in her college career.

After what felt like much longer than a twelve-minute drive you were pulling into the bar-and-grill, where a serendipitous front-row parking space was just opening up. Swiping the black SUV’s former resting place, you parked and took a short, forceful walk through the doors. It didn’t take long to find Hyunjin as he sat blank-faced in a red leather stool beneath the bar’s wine-tinted neon, chin in his hand and cocktail in front of him. The lights splashing the place perfectly mirrored the literary light of your fervor, spurring you on… and inspiring your next piece for class, but that was beside the point.

“Hey,” Hyunjin greeted you in a deadpan, giving you a halfhearted wave.

“I- I- I cannot believe her!” You spluttered, forgetting yourself as you grabbed Hyunjin’s hand and practically yanked him out of his seat. “But it doesn’t matter- we are not giving her the power to ruin our evening.”

When it became ‘our’ evening who knew, but such did not even occur to you until much later. Only one thing was on your mind, after all.

“Come on. Let’s forget all about that and have some fun at least.”

No resistance from Hyunjin- he simply followed you out the door, chuckling and sarcastically thanking you for making sure he’d paid for his drink.

Stopping right before the doors, you cocked a brow. “Had you?”

“Yes.”

“Look at you- picture of integrity,” you remarked, disappearing back out from the reddish glow into cool night air, the feeling of your friend’s hand in yours a warm tether.

Soon the two of you were bathed in a much different light, the brighter-and much cheerier in your opinion-blinking of the arcade. Your spot. Fiddling sheepishly with your hoodie strings, you bid Hyunjin pick a game since you’d paid.

He chose air hockey. Good man. Whirs and rampant clicks drowned out the echoing thoughts you both were surely having, brought forth shaky, then stronger and stronger smiles. He won. You pretended to be upset before relenting with an infamous no-look high-five, secretly happy he got the victory.

“You paid and you lost!” Hyunjin urged, waving a hand as if to usher you deeper into the colorful madness. “Pick the next one!”

“Alright, basketball!” You agreed, following the wave down to the hoop-shooting game.

With a swipe of your card, you were off, tossing with the best of your aim and protesting the snickering at your side when you proverbially ate it. Like a Jedi sense, you leaned to the left right as Hyunjin made to nudge you, something he’d done on your last trip too, and vowed your revenge.

In a way, you got it, because you won that game. Playing clean, you reminded him.

Neither of you brought up the evening’s previous half for several games, truly successful in your endeavor of distracting yourselves. It rose to your mind a few times, mostly when the sight of his smile drew one from you. No longer were your eyes framed crimson, though- rather all you felt was gladness at your move, satisfaction like the last piece had tumbled into a puzzle.

It was after the roulette spin that the subject of your un-ruined evening was broached. Your head had swiveled in search of the next expense of credits when his voice at your side had you turning back.

“Hey,” he’d said, and when you faced him again he tugged at the hem of his jean jacket and glanced up to your eyes and back down, “this means a lot to me.”

Your gaze softened into his, chest leapt at the sudden heartfelt words. “Of course. I told you, no reason to let the evening be ruined.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck, “but I guess what I really mean is I realized something when we came here. When Felix told me about the blind date, I just jumped at the chance without thinking. Well, we see where that got me.” He gave a short, sardonic chuckle. “Now, though, I’ve been thinking. Everything just feels right like this with you and I. You’re the one I’d rather be with.”

You gaped. “Like, date?”

“What happened to inverse worlds reflected on sand?” Hyunjin teased, giving you one of those infamous smirks of his.

“I wasn’t exactly surprised out of my mind talking about the old bay pier,” you shot back, though your expression was anything but intimidating, a smile no part of you could fight spreading across it in place of any pout or death glare you normally would have attempted.

And there he was, smiling back with a hopeful look in his eyes that had your heartbeat stuttering. “So, we going to unpack ‘surprised out of my mind’ or nah?”

“Nah,” you shook your head beneath the whirlwind of thoughts and thrumming of heartbeats, all your vision’s red faded to the rosy glow of something you never thought you would let yourself give into, “I’m just going to surprise you out of your mind.”

Ryan Reynolds, your ass. It blew your mind someone could pass over a person as amazing as your classmate, someone who could translate their heart into the most amazing things and feel like home in physical presence too. An open conduit for all the teasing banter that never went too far. Well, no matter- the floodgates had been opened, and with no further warning you surged forward to shut out every centimeter of air between Hyunjin’s lips and yours, smiling and resisting the urge to shake your head at- well, everything. Your arcade light fireworks lighting up the insides of your fluttering eyelids, the way his fingers found the curves of your cheekbones, tracing them like he was plotting his next painting.

Maybe both of you were hopeless romantics.

#stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids reactions #stray kids x reader #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x gender neutral reader #hyunjin #hyunjin x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #friends to lovers #college au

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deadend-if · 3 months ago

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Okay look,, this was a lot longer than I planned it to be,, it was supposed to be half the length it is now, but oh well 💪😔

Anyway, I said I would post it today so here it is, the first of (possibly) many short stories. 💥💥

Santi's apprenticeship short story (under the cut)

There's nothing wrong with being a little early. Making a good impression on their mentor is more important than any discomfort from the blazing sun and honking cars. June Ko was someone Santi had been following for years, this is a dream come true. Her art style was something they always admired. The tattoos she creates move flawlessly with every curve and ridge of the body. They're bold, sharp, and elegant in a way Santi can only hope to recreate one day. The only reason they're not as nervous as they probably should be is, well, they've met her before. Evidence of their meeting is permanently etched on their body. They instinctively trace the dancing swirl of black and grey smoke that wraps around their body from shoulder blade to forearm. It weaves around a wilting bouquet of butterfly jasmine on their bicep. It cost them a pretty penny, but they don't regret a single cent.

This meeting was their first step into finally doing what they've been wanting to do for years. Even during their college years, art was the only thing on their mind. Now, after too long, they can finally prove that their fine arts minor wasn't pointless.

Santi checks their watch, sleek with brown leather and black accents. It was a graduation gift from their grandfather and about the same price as one month's rent. Santi pulled at the earrings on their left earlobe. Guilt prickles down their shoulders as they picture his disappointment, ceaseless in its haunting. He expected more, but what else was there to give?

A shout breaks their train of thought, whipping their head around at the sound of a slamming car door.

“Is that you, Vega? You're way early, dude.”

Oh, shit. Was that not right? Santi blanked for a second, thinking up a response as June leisurely made her way over. Strike one. They didn't think 10:45 was that early.

“Nothin’ better to do. Just thought I'd get a head start,” they finally respond after what feels like an eternity of June twirling her keys on her finger. They check their watch again as their new mentor unlocks the door. It's only been a minute. This day is far from over.

A bell jingles on their way in, and the first thing June does is flip on the lights. They flicker before settling into a bright, sterile white, illuminating the concrete floor and exposed brick walls. The shop is sectioned off with half-walls just past the front desk. Checkered tiles cause Santi’s boots to echo in the open space and they stand for a moment, taking it all in. They’ve been to a handful of different tattoo shops. It never gets old to see frames upon frames of art and knick-knacks stacked over the walls. The old-fashioned feel of Velvet Ink has got to be one of their favorites.

“Did you bring your portfolio? Tell me what you've been up to since we last talked.” June doesn't waste any time weaving through the lounge, grabbing a single folding chair leaning on the side of the wall beside the red leather couch. She doesn't need to look back to see if Santi is following, they trail after her like a lost puppy.

“I got it right here-” they lift their shoulder bag in emphasis, “I've been practicing on fake skin since we spoke, I have a few I wanted to show you, but they're nothing huge.”

“Wow, you're on that shit, huh? Sounds about right, knowing you.” June chuckles as she sifts through her desk. She swipes a few things into a drawer, making space for Santi's portfolio.

“Okay, hand it over. Let's see what you've added.”

“It's not that much-”

“I didn't ask how much it was, kid, I asked you to hand it over,” she retorts, tapping the table. Santi sits down in the folding chair June dragged over and begins to sift through their bag. They feel a twinge of annoyance, smothered by embarrassment. They haven't been called kid in a long time, but seeing the peppering of grey in her long black hair makes them feel a little less patronized.

Instead of responding, Santi dropped the binder on June's desk. They dug around for a few of the fake skin sheets. When they pulled it out, June took it, her thumb tracing a circle to feel the texture. She huffed in amusement but didn’t comment. It's not like they bought the expensive stuff, just a cheap machine kit, black ink, and a few sheets of fake skin. They learned only to buy the nice stuff once they could actually draw a line without ripping through the material. Having a heavy hand while sketching never bothered them, but it's a nightmare when tattooing.

“Looks good for a first attempt,” she said, breaking the silence of the empty shop. June traced a finger down some of the darker portions. She admires the piece depicting an animal skull, a bear, being carefully cracked down the middle by human fingers on either side.

“You need to be lighter in some places, but your art is beautiful. You have a real understanding of technique, but it won't transfer to the body the way you're thinking it will.”

That's high praise coming from someone as skilled as June, Santi gives her a weak smile as they tug their tongue piercing with their teeth. They spend another half an hour discussing their art with June and getting a very short lesson on how to use the transfer paper printers in the shop.

The bell rings in the front as two people walk in, nudging each other and laughing up a storm. Santi sits up straighter to get a better look. It then clicks that they both work here, their profiles are on Velvet Ink's website. The both of them have unique styles from what they can remember.

The taller one with short, choppy blonde bangs, known as Sawyer, has a neo-traditional style. They use a lot of bright colors and bold lines, their style is something Santi has never considered having a tattoo of, but they couldn't help but attempt a few neo-traditional artworks after they spent almost an hour scrolling through their social media.

The other artist dabbles in many styles, but they're popular for their watercolor tattoos. Santi thinks idly that her multicolored pastel hair makes her look exactly as her art does. What was her name again? It was a flower, that's for sure. Lily, maybe? They can't remember.

June greets the both of them as they walk in, and they cheer her name in sync.

“June! Is that your new apprentice?” Sawyer asks, B-lining it over to them.

“Yeah, Sawyer, Iris, meet Santi-” June gets quickly interrupted by who they now know as Iris.

“Woah! That’s sick, can I see that?” She leans over the half-wall, pointing to the many sheets of artwork on June’s desk.

“You alright with that, kid?”

“Yeah, go for it, some of them are kind of old though,” Santi gathers a few of their favorite pieces in their clammy hands and passes them over to Iris, they can only hope she didn’t notice them shaking. Sawyer peaks their head over her shoulder to make their own assessment at the same time, reaching over and pointing out a few details. Santi can’t see them from where they sit, so they wait (im)patiently for them to finish their appraisals.

“Huh, you took classes, didn’t you?” Sawyer has their eyebrows raised, seemingly impressed by what they see.

“I got a minor in fine art, yeah.”

“I can tell, this is some good stuff, let me know if you need a canvas-” their striking green gaze pans to the torn-up fake skin, “actually, on second thought, I’ll wait a bit longer on that.”

“Ah, I’ve got a heavy hand,” Santi responds, sheepishly tugging on their septum piercing with a wide grin.

“That's fine! You’ll just need tougher clients,” Iris jokes with a wink.

“Don’t give them any ideas, Iris. It’s their first day,” June cuts in, fondly exasperated with her coworkers.

“Just because they’re new, doesn’t mean they get any special treatment. Isn’t that right, Sawyer?” For a moment, Sawyer stares off into the distance as Iris pats their forearm with a cheeky grin. They grow quiet when June doesn’t respond right away. She looks at the practice design from earlier, something soft smooths the crow’s feet around her eyes. There’s a flutter in Santi’s stomach, making a home right below their ribcage as June traces the lines for a second time.

“You’ll get used to it, Santi. I have no doubt you’ll fit right in,” June says, and Santi can’t help but agree.

#RO: short story #ro: s #dead end if #character study

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mssirey · 3 years ago

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Some agentreign, with a tattoo artist Alex!

Alex knew the roughly sketched symbol, of course. How could she not recognize the insignia of the character her sister played on her show—the campy series with its sometimes shallow commentary or ham-fisted allegories of the world, but that left enough room for interpretation that lent to a beloved view of its main cast.

When Alex glanced up at the woman who had booked her afternoon slot, there seemed nothing outwardly fan-ish about her—her aesthetic one of corporate power, her blazer a sharp cut from a designer Alex couldn’t be bothered to know the name of, her palette choices bold, but smart—not someone she would have read as having much time for fun. But then, Kara was much the same, and she knew better about how deeply her sister loved being a part of a show about superheroes.

“My daughter really loves the show,” the woman offered with a little wave of her hand at the drawing, a jittery air around her, as if she anticipated the judgment she might face, “and Supergirl is her favorite character, of course!” She laughed, a short puff exhaled as her shoulders sagged and her hand returned to ring together with her other. “She said I was her Supergirl the other day, and if you knew how much she loves the character—“

Alex stopped her then, a gentle smile touching her lips. “That is a beautiful base for a tattoo,” she assured. She stepped forward, reached out without thinking, hand covering the nervous twist of fingers, warm against her palm. That close, she realized how tall the woman was—especially as her shoulders pulled back and she straightened up just a little.

Alex almost withdrew her hand as the woman’s teeth clacked sharply together. She watched lashes flutter over warm chocolate eyes as they dropped to where their hands touched, lingering while their breath was held as one.

“Wow— ” one hand pulled free of hers, Alex’s stomach ready to turn, only for fingers to run so gingerly over her own skin—from wrist up her forearm—drawing her gaze down to the full sleeve of ink that she had poured her own heart into, disappearing beneath the once-tidy cuff of her shirt, since stained with the efforts of the day. “Your tattoos are… so…” she had heard all manner of words to describe the art she wore—everything from ‘intense’ to ‘troubling’—rarely a favorable opinion coming from someone who wasn’t an enthusiast, “catching.”

Alex swallowed as those fingers traced a line of color, meant to accentuate the form of the figures at the center of the design—both a representation of herself, stood back to back; one stripped down to blood and bone; the other painted in an unnatural light, too ‘perfect’, meeting all the expectations placed on her, shackles on her wrists and chains weighing down her shoulders.

“I designed it myself,” she said the first thing to come to mind, her eyes almost rolling at her own lack of wit.

“I really like it,” the woman commented before seeming to realize how long she had been touching Alex, her hand jerking upward, a marvelous warmth reaching her cheeks.

They parted, a full pace put between them by the time Alex found the breath to offer her thanks.

“So, um, did you just want the insignia?” Alex held up the sketch to bring them back to business.

The woman faltered, a plea writing itself into her expression. “Well, um, so, you might be able to tell, but I’m not much of an artist,” she exhaled, a laugh bubbling up after, plucking at the chords of Alex’s heart. “I know I want to use the symbol, but I… I don’t know what else to include.”

Alex chuckled along with her. “That’s alright,” she assured. “Come on, let me stretch a few ideas for you,” she waved for the woman to follow her, leading them to her drawing table. The sigh of relief she heard tickled up her spine, and she had to resist shivering.

Drawing on little bits of knowledge she had picked up from Kara, Alex started with a simple base, offering the traditional symbol along with a few alternate designs—some softer, some sharper, some with broken or doubled lines to add a bit of extra dimension—before getting into a range of accenting options.

The woman was vocal with her thoughts as she looked over Alex’s shoulder, humming approving notes when something stood out to her, or commenting on the touches she liked, allowing Alex to easily evolve the piece. There was particular interest when she mentioned the phrase ‘el mayarah’ and explained its meaning.

“Oh! Ruby has definitely said that before,” she gushed, the happy little sigh that accompanied the words tugging at the corners of Alex’s lips, her grin so effortless. “We should definitely include that!”

It wasn’t long before they had a final design— staying true to the show’s version of the insignia and incorporating both ‘el mayarah’ and the script of the language used by Supergirl, wreathed by a flowy, cape-like backing.

“This will likely take two visits— one for the linework and base coat, and then another for the detailing. Is that okay?” She certainly wouldn’t be sad to see the woman again and grinned when she agreed. “You said you were hoping to have this on your back,” Alex prompted as she led the woman to her station.

“Over my heart, yeah,” she confirmed.

“I really like it,” Alex echoed the words spoken to her, and she genuinely meant it. She loved the way the woman talked about her daughter, how every word ran deep with love, how cherished the little girl was.

“Is there anything I should know... going in?” There was a surge of nervousness buzzing in the air as the woman shrugged out of her jacket, folding it neatly over the chair at Alex’s desk.

There was a moment—as Alex watched buttons slipping free of their holes—that she forgot herself, staring longer than might have been polite before she busied herself with putting on her gloves and arranging her inks. “Mostly that when I’m over your ribs, you will feel it,” she sucked in a sympathetic breath. “But, I’ll be gentle, and you can always take a break, if you need.”

She waved the woman toward the chair, turning away as she divested her bra and slid into place against the padding.

“Comfortable?” She got only a nod before she pulled up her own stool. “Relax,” she coaxed, placing a gentle hand on the woman’s back. “I’ll take good care of you and you can swear all you like.”

“Glad to know it.”

As Alex had warned, the woman did feel it. Her breath hissed through her teeth, a sharp inhale that tugged at her, but then she relaxed beneath Alex’s hand. “Good girl.” The words slipped out before she could think to question them, and her own breath caught in her lungs, her gun lifting away from the woman’s skin. There was a soft shiver and then stillness, the barest whimper bubbling out of the woman.

Alex could have perished. The woman was so pliant beneath her, and it took everything to concentrate on the design. But she leaned into that soft praise, continued to encourage her to stay loose, and things went very well—hardly needing to hold the woman still and working straight through without a break. And in the end, she did manage to finish the whole piece, running only slightly overtime.

There was a little disappointment knowing that she likely wouldn’t see the woman again. “If you need any touch-ups, you can always reach out,” she offered.

“Thank you,” the woman said as she gingerly slipped back into her jacket. She bent over Alex’s desk, scribbling something down on the sketchpad with all the trial drawings. “Maybe we could get dinner some time,” she nodded down at the page, where her number was scrawled.

“I’d like that,” Alex grinned, excitement blooming in her chest. The woman’s name was also there on the page. “Then, I’ll see you later, Sam.”

“I look forward to it, Alex.” The sentiment echoed through her for days, accompanied with the image of Sam’s haughty little smirk.

#tattooed!alex #tattoo artist alex #agentreign #danvarias #alex danvers #sam arias #mssirey #my writing

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glitterge1pen · 4 years ago

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You Only Water Plants With Cool Water

Rukawa Kaede x reader, sfw, fluff, word count 1,435

reader is a painter

Rukawa and you both had practice. Studio sessions, gym time, he needed to go to the store for new basketball shoes, you needed new paper or canvas. He knew when you had had a bad day. When every stroke of pigment was wrong, when you had to change water too many times. You knew when he had messed up his scoring percentages, or when he’d landed a shot not to his liking.

You also had good days though. Ones where you would be electrified, dragging Rukawa to the tiny bedroom studio in the apartment, excited to show him a new piece. He tried to be subtle about sharing his smaller successes with you. Quietly asking to go on a walk to the park on weekend mornings, picking up a basketball before heading out the door.

While Rukawa couldn't exactly understand painting, or art, he did understand you. He saw how hard you worked, the same as him. You too were striving for something. So he lets you ramble on about new art books you had bought, different painters you admired, ones you hated, an art supplies store you wanted to try your luck at. This was also how you understood him. You saw how at home Rukawa watched all the NBA games, kept tabs on different players.

The two of your respective passions consumed lots of your life. Which is why he didn't mind when you had the door to the studio closed when he got home from the gym. You didn't bother him when he was watching a game. He would sleep on the small couch you had tucked in the corner of the studio, the radio giving a play by play of some game. Legs hanging off the arm rest, simply enjoying being in your presence. Some days you would go to his practices, half watching, half sketching out ideas for a new chunk of canvas. This was one of those days.

Looking up from your lap you see that practice is almost over. You set aside your work to focus on Rukawa completely. He really is something else on the court. Brash, aggressive, and still sly. Those parts of Rukawa were the same. The part of him that bluntly told you while out shopping what did look ugly, that way you swore he moved stuff around in the fridge to mess with you, or how he shoulder checked people a little too often. When he was playing basketball it was like the various gears and screws that made up Rukawa were perfectly made to play, like it was the only that life made sense to him. It added something to his outward psyche, a fire of energy that exuded from every pore.

You watch as the team starts to wind down. Shooting from various points on the court, running sprints from one side to the other, to end practice there was a complicated passing drill that you couldn't follow. You were prepared to leave, grab some take out on the way home, but when Rukawa came over to you he flopped onto the bleachers.

“Hey! Come on you can't sleep here”

With a sweat towel covering his face he mumbles,

“I can sleep anywhere, just give me a couple minutes”

But you know with Rukawa that a couple minutes can range from thirty minutes to hours. You pull on his arm trying to get him up, his eyes are stubbornly closed though. You poke, you blow air on his nose, you ruffle his hair and pull on his clothes. When that doesn't work you try threats.

“I won't pay for dinner”

“I was going to pay”

He says, words muffled by the towel. Exasperated you sit back onto the cold bleachers. You reach into a plastic bag you have settled down by your feet. It's from the craft store, new paint, new brushes, you had stopped there on the way to see Rukawa. Cautiously you pull out some paint and let it rest against Rukawa's skin.

“If you don't get up, I’m gonna paint you”

“I dont care”

“Really?”

“Why would I care?”

Before you two had been playful, teasing, but when he asks that he is genuine. Like he couldn't possibly comprehend why that would bother anyone. He has one eye open now, peaking at you, seeing that you are considering it now.

“I don't care, go ahead, just let me sleep”

At first you're still a little apprehensive. You are slow to fill up one of the paper cups from the players bench with the water fountain. You use the colors little by little. Mixing them in the palm of your non dominant hand. You start with his arm. The paint moves differently on his sweat tinted skin and you have to adjust.

Rukawa floats in and out of sleep. Lazily watching your concentrated expression move expertly over him. He likes the way the brushes feel, the cool of the paint. He notes that you're holding his hand differently, it's deliberate, your fingers not laced with his but clasping onto him. You do this so you can twist his arm this way and that. He can see blues and greens mixed onto your own skin in puddles. Then he’s back asleep.

You are no longer paying attention to Rukawa, or the dance group that came to use the gym for practice. You like working here. The gym lights are bright, the AC blasting cold air. You were originally only going to do something small. But now Rukawa's entire right arm has been consumed by paint. You are putting the last few strokes of detail on his arm knowing that you aren't done yet. You are afraid to dab at the paint to see if its dry, you blow on it and Rukawa gives a small smile at the sensation.

You pull the towel off of Rukawa’s head and lay it over his chest, placing his arm there too. You grab your bag of supplies and move to the row of bleachers below Rukawa. His left leg your new target. This is harder for Rukawa to sit through at first. The bristles of the brush more ticklish, but it is soon calming once again. He wants to see what you’ve painted on his arm but his eyes are still so heavy, he so tired.

“Wow you're really good!”

“Thanks! He’s a pretty good canvas!”

Rukawa wakes at the sound of your voice.

“Oh sorry I didn't mean to wake you!”

It must be one of the girls from that dance team he decides.

“It’s okay he sleeps plenty”

You tell the girl, she laughs a little before waving herself away. You're packing up your things, swirling brushes into the cup of water, twisting paint tubes closed. Finally feeling satisfied with his nap, Rukawa slowly gets up. Used to sleeping wherever he pleases the dull ache from the bleachers doesn't bother him much. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and sees it.

You've painted a river. From his right shoulder to his left ankle is a river. Patches of grass and flowers growing along parts of it, stones, clouds, waterfalls, waves of water. It’s dynamic, twisting over the grooves of his muscles. You are surprised at how gentle his fingers move along the outline of the water, tracing it down his whole arm. In between his knuckles the water fades off his hand in droplets. The red flowers a bold contrast to the cool colors of the water. Fish leaping in and out of the water, some not even breaking the blue surface of paint, shadows of warm color beneath the water.

“You like it?”

You ask, he only nods, still admiring your work. You get him off the bleachers, once standing the daze he was in wears off. He grabs his duffle bag and the two of you head out. The night air is refreshing, the sky dark blue but bright like how it is in the summer. The street is still buzzing from the dusk. People on the way home from work, light traffic in the street, store and street lights flickering in the newness of the night.

“I’m sorry”

“Huh?”

You don't know what Rukawa could possibly be apologizing for.

“I’m gonna have to take a shower and the paint will wash off”

“That’s okay I knew that when I did it”

Rukawa seems discontent with this answer but you aren't sure how to help ease him. At the next block Rukawa turns the wrong way.

“Where are you going the-”

“Walgreens”

“What?”

“They have disposable cameras at Walgreens.”

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　

A/N: If someone made a bingo chart of my writing Walgreens would be on it. Will post this on ao3 later today :) Also no :) I did not :) edit this :)

#kaede rukawa #slam dunk #slam dunk x reader #Kaede Rukawa x reader #gender neutral reader #painter au

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tenspontaneite · 4 years ago

Text

The Ceracurist (Chapter 1/?)

Rayla has been at university for nearly three months, trying and failing to take care of her horn upkeep alone, before she admits defeat and goes to visit a professional horn salon.

It ends up being somewhat less of a terrible experience than she expects.

(“You’re human?” She blurted, unthinking, and the smile he’d been wearing went momentarily fixed. A little more professional than it was genuine. Then he huffed, an easy laugh, and she felt herself go red around the ears.

“What gave it away?” Her ceracurist asked, dry, his grin a little lopsided.

Rayla stared, taken off-guard, and gestured expansively at his entire body.)

(Chapter length: 6k. Ao3 link)

---

Rayla pushed through the doors of the salon with a bearing that would have been better suited for heading into battle. Regrettably, there was no one she could legally fight here, so she slunk cautiously in, grimacing at what she saw. She might have hoped to find somewhere to lurk and get her bearings unnoticed, but there was no hiding in that open and well-lit reception area, and no disguising the way that the bell on the door chimed cheerfully at her passing. It was altogether a terrible start to what she fully expected would be a mortifying experience.

A Sunfire elf looked up from the desk and smiled. Their dark skin and hair was typical enough, but the horns caught her eye; she stared for a second before she could avert her gaze. Far from the usual plain gleam of Sunfire horns, these had been carved into elaborate patterns and dyed in an astonishing gradient of red and purple. She’d never seen anything like it outside of the mageskein, or maybe the cover of a magazine. ��Welcome!” the elf chirped, friendly. “Do you have an appointment?” Beside them, on the desk, a potted melodaisy sang a tune that she vaguely recognised. It was weirdly anachronistic to find melodaisy music in a place as modern-looking as this.

Rayla stopped short, tension locking her joints. Her neck prickled with self-consciousness. “...Do I need one?” she asked, after a moment, with an edge to her voice. She eyed the door, already wanting desperately to escape. Shouldn’t have listened to Ethari, she thought morosely. This had been a bad idea from the start.

The receptionist inspected her, and in that moment Rayla was entirely certain that they knew exactly what she was about. It was unnerving, the calculating weight of that look. Then it passed, and they waved dismissively. “If you wanted something complex done, yes. But I’m guessing that’s not what you’re here for.”

She gave serious thought to the idea of just...walking out. She could do that, right? But then she’d have to explain the cowardice, such that it was, whenever she next called her family. And what a stupid thing this would be to lose her nerve over. “No.” She agreed grumpily.

“Touch up?” The receptionist questioned. “Basic buff and polish?”

Her shoulders hunched. “Just the filing and buffing,” she relented, in the end. “I’m not here for anything fancy.”

“Polishing is part of our standard service, I’m afraid. Nothing fancy about it, as far as we’re concerned.” The Sunfire elf smiled at her in a placating sort of way. It grated. “Why don’t you go take a seat and I’ll see who’s available?” they gestured at the row of seats, smartly upholstered, arrayed along the wall. Again, Rayla eyed the door. This was apparently noticed. “It’s alright, we’re used to first-timers,” they assured her, already receding from the desk and heading for the door into the salon proper. “It’s really not that scary. Just wait a minute, alright? I’ll be right back.”

They couldn’t have known it. Or maybe they did? But Rayla heard ‘scary’ and stiffened before she could help it, setting her jaw. Very stubbornly indeed, she stalked over to one of the chairs and planted herself in it, staring grimly at the assorted posters and advertisements on the walls. They were, of course, largely advertising different things one could have done to one’s horns. Because this was a horn salon. A horn salon that her entire family had suggested, implied, or outright stated she desperately needed the services of.

It wasn’t her fault that it was hard to get to the undersides of her horns on her own. Even using a complex set of mirrors, working on what you couldn’t see was decidedly challenging. She’d filed off the nasty parts, but apparently, that wasn’t good enough, and she looked unkempt, and undignified, and how do you ever expect to follow your parents into their line of work looking like that, Rayla-

“Ugh,” she muttered to herself, disgruntled, and folded her arms. She glared at a poster that implored her to, in very bold and cheerful lettering, ‘Ask about horn art today!’. Rayla had absolutely no intention of asking about horn art today.

While she was waiting, a Skywing elf emerged from the same door the receptionist had entered, and approached the desk curiously. He turned to her, and as he did, the light caught on his horns. “Did the receptionist leave?” He asked, and Rayla tried very hard not to stare. Not only did this elf have elaborate patterns carved into the horns, but there was – some sort of silvery metallic inlay in there, gleaming bright and almost liquid in the daylight filtering through the window. She hadn’t even known people did that. It was startlingly striking.

“Er,” she said, and “yeah, I think they’ll be back in a minute, though.” The unfamiliar elf accepted this agreeably enough, and stood by the desk to wait.

Sure enough, the receptionist returned in short order, pausing briefly in the doorway to do a double-take at the man waiting there. “Oh, so that’s why he was free,” they muttered to themself, just about loud enough for Rayla’s excellent ears to pick up. More loudly, they said “Tairas! You look fantastic! Glad you decided to try the metallics after all?”

The elf, evidently some sort of repeat customer, chuckled at them as they strode back up to the counter. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure at first, but-“ he waved expressively at his horns. “-wow, right? You’ve got some serious talent working here.”

“We’re very glad to have him, yes,” agreed the receptionist, and then conducted what ended up being a rapid exchange of a staggering amount of currency. Apparently, fancy horn-decorating did not come cheap. Rayla glanced uneasily at the price lists on the walls to reassure herself that what she was here for wouldn’t be so extortionate. Finally, the customer with the fancy metal-patterned horns left, and the receptionist approached her again. “Well, you’re in luck, Callum finished up with Tairas just in time for you,” they told her. “So I can take you through now.”

“Great.” Rayla said, unenthusiastically, and the receptionist snickered at her.

With a friendly pat on her shoulder, they said “It’ll be fine, trust me. And Callum’s one of our best ceracurists anyway, so you’ll be in good hands.”

The words didn’t soothe her. They’d be stranger’s hands, no matter their skill; that was what had unsettled her. Of course it was what had unsettled her. What else?

Still. She supposed if she had to have a stranger’s hands on her horns, at the very least it could be a stranger who knew what they were doing. Rayla sighed, resigned, and followed the receptionist through to the treatment area. She entered a long corridor with yet more doors arrayed along it; some further down its length marked ‘staff only’, others nearer and unadorned. The receptionist took her into the closest, revealing a large room lined with curtained-off booths. The sounds were precisely what she’d expected; the buzz of a half dozen electric buffers in operation, the hum of voices, the shuffling of feet. She could smell keratin dust and horn polish on the air. Horn oil, too.

It ought to have unsettled her further, and it did, a little. But the sight of the curtains had soothed her at once, with all their attendant implications of privacy. Somehow, she’d anticipated something far more open, where she had the sight to go with the sound of however-many elves having their horns groomed. She’d anticipated that others would be able to see her, sat beneath the ministrations of a ceracurist who she didn’t even know.

It had been a stupid expectation, in retrospect. For all that it was more common in the larger cities for elves to see a ceracurist when they needed to, they still had their dignity. Of course there’d be booths. Of course they wouldn’t be able to see each other. Of course.

Her relief at the realisation sustained her until she was led a little further down the room. Only one booth was open and empty, and within it she saw what she expected: a chair, a basin, a mirror. A table of tools. There was no one waiting there for her, but she tensed regardless.

“He’ll be here soon,” reassured the receptionist, as if mistaking the source of her anxiety. “He’s just changing. The metallurgy is careful work, you know.”

She didn’t know, in fact. She didn’t particularly care, either. “Right.” she said, terse, and eventually allowed herself to be prodded over to the waiting chair. Stiffly, she sat. And then the receptionist left her there to wait.

It didn’t take long. On-edge as she was, her ears twitched at the footsteps in the corridor long before anyone entered the room; she traced their approach, staring at the sight of her own terse expression in the mirror. Then, finally, the person drew near enough to pause at the edge of her booth. She could see the edge of their body in the mirror, wearing some sort of dark apron over a uniform.

“Hey there,” he said, friendly, and there was the sound of a curtain being drawn. “So you’re my surprise appointment, huh?”

“Suppose so,” Rayla muttered, eyes on her hands as they tightened in her lap. She still hadn’t looked. She didn’t really want to look at him. This was the person who’d be handling her horns. A stranger. She wasn’t quite ready to put a face to the voice yet. But, ready or not…he stepped into view.

Startled, she blinked up at him, and registered several things in rapid succession. The hair was a little surprising; brown, but smooth in a way you didn’t often get with Sunfire or Earthblood elves, and his skin was pale. Eyes a pleasant forest-green. Cute, Rayla’s mind supplied after a moment, as though to distract herself from the far more obvious conclusion of-

“You’re human?” She blurted, unthinking, and the smile he’d been wearing went momentarily fixed. A little more professional than it was genuine. Then he huffed, an easy laugh, and she felt herself go red around the ears.

“What gave it away?” Her ceracurist asked, dry, his grin a little lopsided.

Rayla stared, taken off-guard, and gestured expansively at his entire body. The lack of horns, the rounded ears, the – the five-finger hands, so strange in their shape that for a moment she couldn’t pull her eyes from them. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen humans before. But these circumstances were weird.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” He acknowledged. He stepped up to the table of assorted tools, inspecting them, and nodded before returning his eyes to her. Again that lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, though. I promise I’m good at my job, even if I don’t have my own horns to practice on.”

Her face burned, blood flushing hot in her veins at the sudden and abrupt reminder of what she was here for. Of what he was here for. “…Is that something people worry about?” She found herself asking, struck by how practiced those words had seemed, like he’d said them – or some variation of them – a great many times.

“Eh, sometimes.” He shrugged, then went over to pull the rest of the curtains closed. “It’s not something people expect, anyway. A human ceracurist, I mean.”

“I definitely didn’t,” she muttered, not quite under her breath, and he snickered.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.” He offered a smile, and then – to her surprise – a short polite bow, in the human style, fist clasped over his heart. She’d not seen anyone do that since she was a child. “I’m Callum, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Thoughts suddenly muddled by some very old memories, she blinked, then nodded cautiously. “Rayla.” She hesitated. “Same?” Under the circumstances, she shouldn’t have found it nice to meet him. But, unaccountably, she did.

“Is it okay if we get started?” He asked then, nodding to his table of implements. “Don’t want to hurry you, but this does take a while.”

Whatever ease she’d managed to find in the brief conversation abruptly fled her, and she went still and wordless. She glanced at him, at his face, for all of a second before the mortification overcame her and she had to hide behind her hands. “Moon above,” she muttered, into her palms, shoulders hunching. “Ugh.”

There was a pause. “You alright there?” His voice was only half joking.

“…Yeah.” She said eventually, and forced her hands down. “Just…”

He sounded sympathetic. “Never had your horns done outside the family, huh?” She made some sort of affirmative noise, and he nodded understandingly. “It’s okay, we get a lot of that here. If it helps, just remember that it’s a professional setting, and doesn’t come with the normal implications, okay?”

She sighed. “I’ll do my best.” Despite that resolution, though, she still couldn’t help the embarrassed grumble when he draped a gown around her front and shoulders, ostensibly to shield her clothes from horn debris, and leaned the chair she was in back towards the basin.

“Do you prefer to have a hair-shield on, or to have your hair washed afterwards?” He asked, after a moment, and she balked. She hadn’t even realised that was an option. But – of course, otherwise people would have to leave the salon with their hair wet with horn-oil and full of disgusting keratin dust and flakes…

“Hair shield,” she opted, quickly, and he hummed his agreement.

“No problem.” He pulled something from the table with a rustling noise. “Does mean I won’t be able to get at the first centimetre or so of your horns, though, so keep that in mind.”

Worth it, she thought. It was something of a mercy, even. The horns themselves were just insensate keratin on the outsides…but the skin at the beds? That was sensitive. She’d be glad to avoid that particular intimacy.

Even as she thought it, the ceracurist lowered something over one of her horns, and then the other, perceptible by the light and gentle weight grazing over them. She went utterly still, and peered up to try to see in the mirror what he was doing. It was a kind of…hood, or shroud, with two horn-holes in it. And some sort of drawstring around both holes. She watched with a bizarre and anxious tension as he pressed the hood down and then tightened the drawstrings around the base of her horns until they were flush with the hornbeds.

Then, visible in the mirror, he paused and looked her horns over. His expression didn’t change much, but she could see the minute lift of his eyebrows. Her face burned. “Been a while,” she offered, by way of explanation for the state of them, and she saw his smile in the reflection.

“You’ve done a pretty good job by yourself, really.” He said generously, dipping something into the basin with a distinct watery splash. “The oversides are pretty neatly filed.” Briefly, there was the lightest sensation of weight on her right horn, like he’d touched a fingertip to it. A shiver of apprehension stiffened her shoulders. “You’ve done this ridge a bit flat, though. And the undersides…” He paused, like he couldn’t think of anything charitable to say on that moment’s notice.

Rayla closed her eyes, embarrassed and unnerved at once. “Ugh.”

“They’re hard to get to, I know,” he soothed, and then planted a wet soapy cloth on the horn in question. “It’s okay. I can fix it up.”

She sighed, neck prickling with tension. “Sure.”

The next few minutes she sat silently warring with her impulse to twitch at every touch on her horns. Given the ceracurist spent said minutes washing those horns, this was a considerable challenge. The sensation of heat from warm water radiating through the keratin wasn’t unfamiliar, and neither was the scrub of the brush – but she’d never experienced either outside the company of family before. It was unsettling. Reminding herself that it was professional didn’t help that, either – all it did was calm the flush in her cheeks a little.

“I’m guessing you moved here recently, then.” The ceracurist – Callum – said after a while. “Away from family.”

She startled a little, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. As best she could, anyway, with her head tipped mostly backwards. Her nose obstructed most of her view from this angle. “…Yeah. Few months back.”

He paused. “You’re a student?” He guessed, and she supposed it wasn’t a difficult leap to make. She was the right age, this part of the city was packed with students, and the first term had started nearly three months ago in March. The conclusion was obvious. She offered a vague hum of agreement to confirm it, and he was silent for a while. “That’s actually kind of impressive,” he said at last. “Most of the other new students with tricky horns gave up trying to do it themselves after like, a month. Not three. You’ve been managing pretty well.”

Rayla snorted. “Tricky horns?” She repeated, ignoring the rest for now, and he huffed at her.

“Moonshadow, Skywing, you know. Tricky horns.” He elaborated. She could practically hear the smile in his voice. “The Sunfire elves manage pretty well, theirs are simple enough.”

“And meanwhile we have the most annoying kind of all,” Rayla muttered, of her own race. “Stupid ridges and all.”

“Well, if you’ve not seen a Skywing elf when they’re casting their shells, maybe hold off on making that call.” He sounded amused. “But yeah, you guys don’t exactly have it easy. We get a lot of Moonshadow elves coming in here for horn help.”

“Students?”

“Mostly. But there’s other elves around who don’t have anyone in their personal lives they’d trust enough, too. So they come here.” He removed the brush, wiped her horns off, and went for a distinctive tool on the table. An electric buffer. Considerably faster and more effective than doing it by hand, she knew, but they were expensive enough that a lot of elves didn’t have one. Her family had, though. They all shared the tools. So she knew what to expect.

The noise of it started up, and accordingly their conversation dwindled. She felt the buzz of the buffer against her right horn a moment later, angled carefully into one of the ridges there. As always, the sensation hummed straight through the keratin to the vaguely-sensitive skin beneath; it tingled. The next while passed like that, with the ceracurist occasionally sitting her up and coaxing her to move her head this way or that to get better angles on her horns, paying particular attention to the neglected undersides. She didn’t even want to think about how many keratin flakes must be littering the gown he’d put on her.

Her inner-horn had gone thoroughly numb from the vibrations by the time he switched the buffer off and set it aside to get the cloth again. “I’ll just wipe this down and go for a second run, then do the same on your other horn, alright?” He said, soothingly, probably seeing how she twitched at every motion, uncertain what he’d do next.

She tried to relax a little. It was uncomfortable, yes, but…this was his job, and it – that was all it was. Plenty of elves had their horns done by ceracurists. It was fine. “Right.” She muttered, and tried not to flinch when she felt the weight of the cloth on her horn again. More to distract herself than anything else, she asked “How long have you been doing this?” Except, once she’d actually asked, she was curious. How did a human even end up working in a horn salon? Why was he in an elven city in the first place?

The ceracurist huffed, and said, impishly, “This? Probably coming up to ten minutes, so far.” He tapped her horn cheerfully, as if to indicate it, and went back to wiping. Her cheeks heated instantly; she couldn’t exactly help it, with that very direct reminder that he was touching her horns.

She rolled her eyes anyway. “Ha-ha,” she said, dryly, and he snickered at her.

“About two years, now.” He relented after a moment. “I’m only in a few times a week, but, eh. It’s a hobby. And I get paid for it, so.” He shrugged, then went for the buffer again. Accordingly, there was no more talking for a while, but in that interim her interest grew. He looked around her age, or maybe even younger…and he’d been doing this for years?

She’d assumed, from his accent, that he came from one of the human countries. Possibly even Katolis, though she wasn’t great at telling the different West Xadia accents apart. But if he’d been living here for years…was he a resident? Long-term? That was rare. The curiosity nagged at her enough that she half-forgot the embarrassment of having her horns handled by a stranger, and when he put the buffer down again, she said “You don’t have a Gullcrest accent.”

“That’s probably one of the politest ways anyone’s tried to ask me where I’m from,” he mused, and for a second she felt like an absolute racist boor before he waved dismissively at her. He explained “It’s fine, people get curious, I don’t mind. I didn’t grow up here or anything, I just came for the university.”

Rayla startled. “You’re a student?”

He smiled, and this time he looked decidedly proud of himself. “Mastery student, even.” He agreed cheerfully, and she stopped short, turning her head over her shoulder to squint at him. “You know, it’s hard to work on your horns if you’re facing me,” he told her, very reasonably, but she was busy inspecting his face. He had to be around the same age as her, surely. And he was on a masters degree?

“How old are you?” She demanded, suddenly completely uncertain of her ability to judge human ages.

The ceracurist looked pleased at the question, as if he relished every chance to show off the absurdly young age at which he was pursuing a mastery in…whatever it was he studied. “Eighteen.” He said, and then gently nudged her into turning around again. She made an incredulous face at him, but obliged after a moment. “How about you?”

“Nineteen,” she answered, distractedly, trying to parse the mystery of her ceracurist’s unlikely academic circumstances. Generally people were only allowed to pursue a mastery when they’d done an apprenticeship or undergraduate degree already, and those were never less than three years long. An apprenticeship, then? She couldn’t imagine a fifteen-year-old being let into the university…

Unceremoniously, the buzz of the buffer interrupted her thoughts and the conversation, so they fell quiet again. It was him who spoke first when he was done with the first pass on her other horn. “What are you studying?”

However logical it was as a follow-up question, it still caught her off-guard. “Er.” She scrambled for the name, mind suddenly blank. A moment later she supplied “Professional Security. And Tactics.”

“Huh.” He sounded bemused. “I know someone on that course, actually. He’s second year now.”

Rayla snorted. “How’s he finding it?”

“Says there’s way more math than he thinks is fair. And he thinks Professor Sadris is evil.”

That neatly matched her observations thus far, at least. “Sounds about right.” After that, the second buffing run silenced them again, and she was left in thought. What would a human be studying at Gullcrest at a mastery level? How long had he lived here? She’d seen a handful of humans at the university, but…well, they stood out. There weren’t a lot of them. Had she seen him before, perhaps? There was something weirdly familiar about him…

She was all set to come out and ask one of the dozen questions on her mind when the buffer stopped, but he just said “I’m about done with this now, so it’s onto the polishing next. That won’t take as long, but there probably will be horn-polish splatter, so…brace yourself, I guess.”

“Isn’t that what the hair shield is for?” She asked, neatly distracted, and was surprised to realise that most of her nerves had disappeared, somewhere between her curiosity and the human ceracurist’s efficient work.

“And the apron,” he agreed. “But it does still get messy. You want any colours?”

“Colour?” She echoed, disconcerted, and he seemed to understand what she was asking.

“Horn polish can come in colours, with dyes in it. It’s a really easy way to add colour to horns. If you’re just here for basic care, though, that’s fine.”

“Er.” She thought for a moment on that startling gradient of colour on the receptionist’s horns. Was that how theirs had been done, or was there some other method needed for something that striking? Either way… “No, no colours. Thanks, though?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. You’ve got a nice base horn colour, anyway.” He said, as if making comments like that was the most normal thing in the world. For a ceracurist, it might well be; but her cheeks flushed an instant and virulent red regardless. “It’s a good clear dark purple. It’ll look great when it’s polished up.”

Rayla wondered, amid her embarrassment, when she’d last seen her horns polished. Her parents did the buffing, sure, but polishing…not so much. It was a lot of work without the special oils and tools. She thought maybe they’d done it once, when she was pretty young, for one particular formal occasion. Aside from that, though… “I don’t even know what my horns look like polished,” she admitted, flustered, and he paused for a moment.

“Huh.” He said, just a little surprised. “Well, the colour goes darker, and a lot shinier. Looks really nice, I think. You’ll see.” And, with that, he uncapped the horn polish, the smell hitting her like a slap to the face. Her nose wrinkled, and she wondered how many times she’d have to wash her hair to get the residual stink of it out. The hair shield probably wouldn’t be able to keep all of it off, after all.

Her ceracurist seemed entirely oblivious to how awful the smell was at close range, but she supposed he’d had practice withstanding it. Either that, or he’d burned out his sense of smell in the first week of his alleged two years. She closed her eyes a couple of minutes in, the acrid reek of the stuff making them water and sting. It felt like she was dousing her sinuses with acid every time she inhaled.

Callum chuckled at her, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. “The stuff we use is a lot stronger than what you’re probably used to.” He said cheerfully. “Has a pretty interesting smell, right?”

“It feels like it’s burning my nose,” she complained, lifting a hand to rub at it with annoyance. “And it’s making my eyes water.” The sensation was rather alike being too close to the epicentre of a very enthusiastic onion-chopping endeavour.

“Yeah, we have spells on to keep it out of our eyes so we can actually see what we’re doing,” Callum said, uncapping the bottle again. It decanted a fresh wave of acrid reek into the surrounding air. “It’s not harmful, though, just sort of stings. Plus, I’m only using the full-strength stuff because your horns haven’t been done in a long time. It’s a lot weaker when it’s just a normal touch-up.” Though she couldn’t see his face, she could practically hear the grin. “Come back a little sooner next time, and it won’t smell this bad.”

Come back? “Ugh,” she said, en lieu of addressing that statement properly, and fell quiet to ruminate disconcertedly on what he’d said. Come back? She hadn’t thought about it, but – of course, she’d need to come back. She was going to be at university for years, and would barely be home for any of that. If she didn’t want her horns to get disgusting again, trips like this would have to be an ongoing thing.

“Every month, is usually a good bet,” Callum said, as if she’d actually spoken the question that was suddenly on her mind. “Usually between half-moon and new moon is the best time for you guys. You get a lot more active keratin growth around full moon, so if you wait till later, the work we do will usually stay put until the next month.”

Rayla frowned at the mirror. “Do humans have some kind of mind-reading power I don’t know about?” Her tone was dry, for all that she was a little off-put at how well he could apparently read her. It…well, it was useful information, though. She hadn’t known that keratin grew faster around Full Moon, for all that it made sense. She wondered if she should be bothered by learning something about how her own horns worked from a human.

He snorted, but took a few seconds to respond. “Not me, that’s for sure.” He said, lightly, and finally put the stinking polishing-stuff down. “Can’t speak for other humans, though. I think we probably don’t have secret mind-reading societies anywhere, but you never know. Weirder things have happened.”

She thought of the huge scandal of a few years back and made a face. “True enough,” she sighed, turning her neck to inspect what he was doing. “Are you done yet?”

Having moved enough to have eyes on him, she was able to watch as his lips turned up in a wry smile. “You’re that eager to escape, huh?”

Rayla rolled her eyes at him. “Escape the polishing? Yes. It stinks.”

He snickered, but nodded, and went for a more normal cleaning cloth that she was deeply glad to see. “Yeah, that part’s done. I’ll rinse off now and then put some oil on to dry, and that’ll be it.” He wrung the cloth over the basin and then coaxed her head around again, lifting his hands to her horns.

She blinked. “What, ‘it’ as in done?”

“Yep. I like to think I’m pretty speedy at the whole buff-and-polish thing by now.”

“…Huh.” Nonplussed, Rayla went quiet.

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Wasn’t as bad as you thought?” He guessed, as on-point as ever, and she felt her cheeks heat again. It was quite a question for someone to ask when their hands happened to be on your horns.

Rayla folded her arms under the protective gown. “….Maybe,” she admitted, begrudgingly, and sat there while the warmth of the water and his hands crept through her horns. The gentle slide of the cloth was easily perceptible, a shift of weight and echoing sensation in the living core. A stranger’s hands, and she was just…sitting there. She couldn’t quite get her head around it. But he was right. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be.

“Make an appointment for next month, when you’re on your way out,” he suggested, setting the cloth back and uncapping some other sort of oil. This one, in sharp contrast to the polish, let off a surprisingly pleasant smell. Faintly sweet, and reminiscent of the lighter oils Ethari used on some of his woodcraft. A pang of nostalgia, just shy of homesickness, stabbed through her gut. “That way it’ll be all sorted for next time.”

“Mm.” She shrugged lightly, noncommittal, a little perturbed at the little secretive thing unfurling in her chest that wanted to come back. Not for the mortifying ordeal of having her horns handled, certainly not, but…

With the finishing oil applied, Callum released the drawstrings from around her horns and pulled the hair-cover away. “All done. Take a look,” he invited, nudging her head up, and reached out to remove the gown while she automatically looked where he’d pointed her. For a moment, she was utterly stunned, wide-eyed at the unfamiliar sight of her horns gleaming darkly in the mirror, perfect to the every ridge. She was still silent when he spoke again, saying “See? Just like I told you. Your horns polish up really nicely.”

She looked up reflexively, expression unguarded, and could do nothing to stop the quicksilver flush that his words brought to her cheeks. He was smiling at her, wide and genuine and a little lopsided.

It took what felt like far too long for her to manage to speak. “I suppose?” She offered, averting her eyes to the mirror, where she watched herself schooling her face into something a little less transparent.

He patted her shoulder, friendly, then reached out a hand – five-fingered and alien – to help her up. She stared at it for a moment, then took it. His fingers were warm, and soft from horn-oil. She could feel a trace of it left on her skin when he let go. “It was good to meet you, Rayla,” he said, with that same smile. “Maybe I’ll see you next time.”

She averted her eyes for a moment. “…Maybe.” She agreed, finally, and managed to master herself enough to flash a tentative smile back at him. “Er. Thanks, Callum.”

Rayla was a little too busy trying not to look outwardly flustered to pay much attention to the next few minutes, but as she found herself escorted back to the reception area, she felt strangely disappointed to see the door close on her ceracurist. The receptionist was eyeing her appraisingly as she eventually summoned the presence of mind to go fishing for her money.

“Looks like he treated you well enough. You’re not all tense anymore.” They observed, looking pleased for some reason. “Good on you for not making a fuss, either.”

She blinked, drawn out of her reverie. “What would I make a fuss about?” She questioned, taken-aback.

“He’s human,” the receptionist said, like it was obvious. “People can be stupid about it sometimes. But you weren’t, which is nice, because otherwise we’d have had to throw you out with bad horns, and that would be embarrassing for everyone. I assume I’m booking you in for next month?”

Rayla was still trying to process the words and didn’t register the question for a moment. Distractedly, she said “Yes? I think?”

The receptionist eyed her. “Three weeks,” they decided. “We’ll book you in for waning crescent. Callum works weekends and Wednesday afternoons only, so if you want another time, you’ll need to go with a different ceracurist.” They looked at her expectantly. For a second Rayla was flustered by the implied suggestion, but then she realised that it was probably just standard practice for people to see the same ceracurist every time. Certainly it would be less uncomfortable that way. She couldn’t even imagine having to put her horns into the hands of a new stranger every month.

She cleared her throat, blinked, then tried to consult her mental schedule. “Three weeks…” she muttered to herself, thinking. “Er. Wednesday afternoon?”

They flipped through their papers, squinting. “Four-thirty? He’s pretty booked for the rest of that window.”

“That works,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal and not-flustered, and supplied her name to have it written into the schedule. It was another weird anachronism; most people would have written it into a computer, but here this elf was using a notebook instead. It was set aside by the potted plant once closed; the plant in question broke off from its recitation of music to mimic the sound of the doorbell note-perfect. That was the problem with melodaisies. You could teach them all the music you liked, but as soon as they heard someone whistling, they might well just start imitating that instead.

“Thanks for coming,” the receptionist said, after shooting an exasperated glance at their plant. “We’ll see you next month.”

Rayla took the hint, and went at once for the door. She escaped with the ring of a bell, a palpable sense of relief, and considerably shinier horns than she’d gone in with.

---

End chapter.

Notes:

Welcome to the first meet-cute I’ve ever written! Also the first story whose entire purpose is essentially romance. Because it’s me, there is a broader potential plot thread at work, as well as cool worldbuilding, but given I have no idea how much of this I’m actually going to write, I’m not really worrying about that too much at this point.

Hope everyone had fun with this first chapter, and that everyone is curious about what the heck is up with Callum.

Story notes-

Setting:

I’d loosely describe the setting as canon spliced with piaj twisted by most of a millennium of alternate history and technological development. Essentially, it’s sort of a modern AU, but not really.

Because this story is for fun, I’m wiping real-world-modern vibes over it wherever I want to/think I can justify it, and same goes for my own personal university experience vibes.

Worldbuilding:

A great, great deal of the worldbuilding is taken from my primary project – Peace Is A Journey – and adapted for the alternate historical context that this setting involves. I have even borrowed several elf OCs (at least three) from piaj and its sequel. History in this setting diverges from canon some time after the banishment of humans from Eastern Xadia – though I’ve not narrowed the timeline down precisely, it’s likely that the first couple hundred years of history went very similarly to how I’ve ironed it out in piaj, though this isn’t likely to be hugely important.

However, despite the similarities, this AU’s broader global history and foundational metaphysics are completely different to piaj. Worldbuilding and metaphysical specifics that aren’t incompatible with this difference, which is most of them, remain.

I’ve involuntarily put a fair amount of thought into the setting’s worldbuilding, and a lot of it is pretty cool, but considering it is a for-fun project, I’m not too concerned about specifics or ‘balancing’, so to speak. This means that I will be trying not to put huge amounts of thought into why some technologies are advanced and some aren’t. I am trying to keep the Worldbuilding Complexity setting to a dull roar, pretty much, and only develop the stuff that matters.

Glossary:

Ceracurist: a professional horn-salonist; one who cares for horns. From Greek ‘keras’, horn (same root as keratin or polycerate), and Latin ‘cura’, care (same root as manicure or pedicure or even cure). Technically this sort of root-mixing is sometimes seen as bad form, but it works just fine in context.

Mageskein: magic internet, pretty much. This is used almost exclusively in Eastern Xadia.

Gullcrest: an elven city located along the southern coast of Eastern Xadia. The majority of the story will take place here. The base concept and location of Gullcrest was taken from piaj worldbuilding and heavily adapted for the Ceracurist setting.

Extras:

A picture demonstrating an unpolished and a polished bull horn from the same pair, to demonstrate how much of a difference it makes.

#rayllum #tdp fic #tdp rayla #tdp callum #meet cute #modern AU #sort of #College AU #also sort of #Alternate history AU

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bosspigeon · 4 years ago

Text

maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me

Pairing: Gen, with Tina Poname & Male Detective Friendship Word Count: 2187 Summary: Tina Poname’s the new kid in a sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere, and is learning the hard way that making new friends in a place like Wayhaven is easier said than done. Luckily, she’s got a can-do attitude and a forceful personality to help her befriend even the surliest of loners.

I just think Tina’s such a good character, and I loved trying to write from her point of view, and I love thinking about her friendship with the Detective. Especially with my boy, Arlo. I also read a bunch of articles trying to put together his infodump on the Satanic Panic fhdasjhgjskahg. Title, of course, taken from “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance. (I like to think I’m Funny)

Tina takes her lunch in the courtyard.

It’s overcast outside, looking like it might rain later, but the courtyard is nice enough, landscaped with flowering plants and rustic stone pathways, though it is kind of small. She’d rather sit inside, just in case it does start pouring, but every table in the cafeteria was full, and the ones that weren’t very quickly became full when she walked past with her lunch bag. She’s learned quickly that small towns like Wayhaven tend to be pretty… insular.

She’s trying not to let it get her down. She’s the new kid, and with time other students will warm up to her, but for now she feels like she’s the ugly duckling set adrift in a little pond, and all the other ducklings think she has the plague or something. The metaphor gets away from her a bit, but her head’s been a bit of a jumble since the last move. But that’s leading towards things she’d rather not think about, so she doesn’t. Simple as that.

Instead she looks around her, taking in the very pretty little courtyard, even if it’s washed in the moody tones of the grey sky overhead, made more moody still by the shade of a tall, gnarled old ash tree in the center. There are a few wooden picnic tables scattered about, all of them empty.

All of them but one.

Tina almost doesn’t see him at first. He’s hunched over at a table directly under the ash tree, his back to her. His long black hair hangs almost to the bottom of his shoulder blades in loose waves, and all she can think is that he’s never seen a boy with hair so pretty before. Every time she sees a boy with long hair, it’s always a frizzy mess, and whenever she brings up that they really shouldn’t use all-in-one shampoo, they get all annoyed with her.

She makes the decision to flounce right over, rounds the table, and wiggles into the bench across from him. “Your hair’s so pretty!” she chirps by way of greeting, unzipping her lunch bag and beaming at him. He looks up at her, and she’s a bit stricken when she sees his face properly. His dark brows are bold slashes scrunching over pale grey eyes lined in smeary black makeup that streaks down his freckled cheeks. He’s got a square jaw and a strong nose, but he still leans more into pretty territory than handsome, and she’s beginning to figure out that the uniform guidelines in the student handbook are taken as more suggestions than law, given that his lip, nose, and ears are pierced.

He doesn’t respond, squinting at her, his mouth twisting into a frown.

“I’m Tina!” she offers cheerily. “I like your makeup!”

He frowns harder, almost snarling, with a bit of teeth showing, like he’s hoping to scare her away. Well, Tina Poname isn’t so easy to scare, and she’s determined not to spend lunch alone. She just smiles right back and starts rooting through her lunch bag, pulling out the neatly packed containers of healthy fruit and veggies and hard boiled eggs to find the yogurt-covered pretzels hidden at the bottom. She crunches on one while she eyes her new tablemate, who seems to have resigned himself to her delightful company and has turned his attention back to a notebook he’s doodling in while absently eating something she thinks is a kind of pretty little spring roll. It looks really good, and she’s a bit jealous.

He staunchly ignores her eyes on him, shifting a bit and tossing the hair hanging in his face over one shoulder, so she can properly see the black enamel inverted cross dangling from his ear. Without thinking, she leans across the table and flicks it.

He flinches away from her and glowers with such ire she’s surprised her clothes aren’t smouldering. She smiles sheepishly, but brushes off the surprise and barrels on. “I can’t imagine you’re too popular wearing those in a quiet little town like this,” she chimes in a teasing sing-song. “Wonder how many old die-hard religious types burst into flames at the sight of you?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes so hard it gives Tina a headache. But she’s also more than a little pleased she’s gotten a reaction out of him.

She leans into it, figuring she’s found her in. “So, are you a Satanist or what? It’s cool if you are! Just think it must be hell in this place.” She can’t help but cackle at her own joke, slapping the tabletop and wheezing. When she recovers enough to notice, she catches him eyeballing her like he can’t quite figure out exactly what’s wrong with her. It’s a look she knows pretty well at this point.

“I’m not an anything,” he sighs, tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop. His nails are painted black, but they’re chipping at the tips, and he’s wearing a few really cool rings, a couple of which looks like they might be antiques. “Besides that, the whole inverted cross being a symbol of Satanism is bullshit.” His voice is pretty deep, but not nearly as deep as she expected it to be, and softer besides, with a light, lilting burr to it. Regardless, Tina’s delighted to have gotten anything more than grunts and glares from him at all. She leans forward, crunching another pretzel. “Wait, really? What’s it mean, then?”

“It’s the cross of Saint Peter,” he almost bursts out, and then pinches his lips shut, like even he’s surprised he said anything. He looks at her warily, but she just waves at him to go on. He hesitates for another moment, before he continues haltingly, “When Peter the Apostle was supposedly executed under Nero, he’s said to have requested he be crucified upside-down, because he felt he wasn’t worthy to die the way Jesus did.” His broad, tight shoulders are loosening bit by bit the more he talks. “It’s a symbol of humility. It’s even used in the design for the papal cross, because the Pope is supposed to be the successor of Peter. And because of its mistaken associations with Satanism, now people like to claim the Pope is the antichrist.”

He rolls his eyes again and picks up another spring roll, gesturing at her with it before taking a bite and continuing while he chews. “I’m not sure exactly when people decided turning the cross upside-down suddenly makes it evil, but it can probably be traced back to the whole Satanic Panic debacle that kicked up in the 70s through the 90s. Anton LaVey—fuck that guy, by the way—published The Satanic Bible in ‘69, but most of it was pretty much plagiarized from a lot of other authors who philosophized about self-actualization and whatnot, including Ayn Rand—fuck her too—and then The Exorcist movie came out, and those things combined with the whole Manson cult thing earlier in the 60s and kicked off this sort of pop culture fascination with the occult and macabre. A lot of metal bands and other counter-culture music artists started using them in album art along with other bastardized religious imagery, and it turned into a whole thing with religious pearl-clutchers.”

Tina is astounded. Not just by the subject of the conversation (which is really cool, in kind of a weird way?) but with the way the boy turns into a completely different person in the blink of an eye. Just a few minutes ago, he was all dour and moody and mean, looking as if he was a second away from biting her head off, and in the space of a few seconds, he’s morphed into someone totally different. His eyes are brighter and more expressive, he’s talking with his hands, and even the kind of monotone voice she’d heard from him before has changed. “Wow,” she says with no small amount of awe.

He seems to regain himself when she speaks, as if he’d forgotten he was talking to another person entirely. She watches him shrink, hunching his shoulders and looking down at the table, scooping up his pen and viciously scribbling a little spiral into the top corner of his notebook.

“No, seriously!” she blurts, standing up and bracing both hands on the table so she can lean into his space. “That’s really cool! How do you know all that?”

He gives her that same wary, hunted look from earlier, and she can’t help but pout. She wants to see what she saw just a second ago, when he looked like he was excited to talk about something. “Just stuff I picked up a while ago, and thought it was cool, I guess.” He shrugs and looks away, tugging at the spiked chain around his neck partially hidden under the crooked collar of his uniform shirt. “There’s this bookstore a couple towns over that kind of specializes in this stuff.” He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers, mouth cocking in a wry almost-smile. “Plus, there’s always the magic of the internet.”

She laughs brightly, and it takes every ounce of her meager self-restraint not to reach out and try to physically drag that other boy out of him. “Oh, that sounds fun! We should go together sometime!”

He blinks at her, like she’s hit him over the head with her lunch bag. “Wh… what?”

She leans forward harder, until she’s essentially standing on her tip-toes and bouncing. “We should hang out! I’m sure if I ask really nice, my stepmom will drive us out there. It’ll be great!”

He keeps staring at her. She bounces a bit faster, hoping he doesn’t notice the pimple she couldn’t quite cover with foundation before she had to leave this morning. And if he does, she hopes he doesn’t say anything about it, because she doesn’t think trying to fight him will ingratiate her to him overmuch.

“I’ll buy lunch and everything,” she wheedles.

“I…” He looks away, eyebrows all scrunched again, but she can see him wavering. She wants to punch the air. Never doubt Tina Poname! “I guess? But why?”

Her smile falls a little at the genuine confusion in his voice, the way he’s not looking at her anymore, even to glare, the way he’s twisting one of his rings around his finger and almost hiding behind his thick, dark hair. She tilts her head and blinks at him. “Because I think you’re cool? Besides that, this town is kinda weird about new people? And you’re the only person who didn’t put a bag or book on every available seat when I walked by.”

“Mostly because I didn’t see you coming,” he mutters under his breath, and she barks out a laugh.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ambushed potential friends,” she giggles. “Hasn’t failed me yet. Except when it has, but I don’t count those.”

He finally looks at her again, still kind of hidden behind a curtain of hair, but she thinks he’s actually smiling at her. He starts to open his mouth to say something, but flinches instead when the shrill ring of the bell indicating the end of lunch interrupts him. He swears under his breath and starts to gather up his things, and Tina starts shoveling pretzels into her mouth while pushing her untouched plastic containers back into her bag. She’s going to regret eating nothing but pretzels later, but at least they’re more filling than melon or carrot sticks.

“Hey wait!” she exclaims through a mouthful of pretzels as he begins to stand, almost tripping over the bench to block him in before he can leave. She’s staggered, suddenly, when he rises up to his full height and she’s looking very up at him. She’s been taller than most boys all her life, so this is a bit bizarre. He looks down at her with his brows raised, tucking his notebook into a satchel covered in patches and pins. “Wow, you’re tall,” she says astutely, swallowing her pretzels.

“Uh… yeah, I am,” he responds.

She shakes off her shock and backs up enough to let him out of his side of the table, but she blocks his path to the door still. Though she’s not sure she could stop him from going anywhere if he really wanted to get past her, with those long legs of his. “I forgot to ask! What’s your name?”

He hesitates again before he quietly says, “Arlo.”

She shoves a hand out at him, “Tina Poname, at your service!”

He grants her a shake with his big, ring-laden hand, obviously bemused, but he’s doing that maybe-smile again, so she thinks she’s done pretty well here. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.” He turns and walks a few long steps away, then pauses and turns back towards her, waiting for her scamper to his side.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” she says a little breathlessly, swinging her bag and turning to him with a sly little smile “since you’re the local here, what teachers will let me get away with eating in class?”

#the wayhaven chronicles #tina poname #twc fanfic #pidge writes #oc: arlo priestley #this is kinda random and goofy but i had a lot of fun writing it #and researching for it too fhadjsdg #i had so many tabs open #in my head wayhaven is a tiny town in the uk #but i havent exactly decided where #and arlo wound up with a v slight irish lilt #so i imagine part of his family are irish #probably some of them are traditional irish catholics #so that probably has a lot to do w his fascination w the bastardization of catholic imagery #also tbh this phase of his life was 100% engineered to get people to leave him alone #bc as a gay boy growing up liking something traditionally seen as girly #he's seen his fair share of bullying #and while i also like to think wayhaven is much more progressive than most small towns are #and there's evidence for that #kids can be shitty #and older people can be too #idk i grew up southern baptist so like #maybe im projecting a bit #yeehaw

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reidecorating · 4 years ago

Text

Waking up Slow

Requested: Nope, this is just what happens when I decide to avoid studying for physics

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x Female Reader

Word Count: Around 2k

Summary: It’s been a dream of mine to wear Gube’s alien shirt and make him food and just have a good old yarn with the man so I decided to write about it. This is just a whole lot of flirting and banter and making out on a Sunday morning

Warnings: None, a lil spicy but pretty SFW, might mistake this for a pillow though, with the amount of fluff

Rays of impatient late morning sun poured in through the gaps in the curtains, which were hastily shut the night before, as they failed to meet in the middle. Matthew never minded sleeping with them half open. Some nights, he would squint and try to make out constellations in the cosmos as his whole world lay curled up beside him, her ear against his heartbeat the way a young child would listen to the ocean through a shell. Other nights, when they would both lay tired and out of breath, she would call him moonlight as her fingers danced along his collarbones, shimmering in the star shine as the thin veil of sweat painting them was the only evidence of what they had been doing previously. However, now, while the two of them remained entwined, the white sheets appeared to glow yellow in the wake of the stars which had collected into one, hours ago. She woke up to Matthew’s arm draped around her waist, having found its way under the fabric of the shirt that scantily covered her, in an attempt to share the warmth of her skin. Stretching and letting out a yawn, she debated falling back asleep, seeing as her only interlocutor was still doing the same. Craning her neck over the pile of poetry sitting on the bedside table, obscuring her view, she made out the small digital numbers reading just before midday, and turned to face the dozing man beside her.

Her eyes brushed over him in all his sleeping beauty, head resting against the supple skin of his upturned palm, brown hair brighter in the morning light, pixie nose tilted up towards the headboard. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks at whatever he was dreaming of, and she wanted, so badly, to taste the pink of his parted lips, to join his dreamscape by breathing into his lungs. A large portion of the sheets had been stolen by her in the middle of the night. While she was bundled up like a cinnamon roll, Matthew lay exposed to whatever monsters and ghosts he claimed reside in his house. His bare chest rose and fell with each breath, but her eyes trailed down to where the waistband of his pyjamas hung temptingly low on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Catching her off guard, he pried open one eye, the murky waters of a pond spilling into her view. “It’s rude to stare,”

“Not at art, it isn’t,” she combated his teasing. He groaned theatrically as he stretched out across the span of the bed before regaining his position. “I won’t take sugar in my coffee then, you’re sweet enough,” he smirked. “Oh no, could you please move, I’m actually trying to look at the portrait behind you,” she teased. “Evil,”

“But you love me,”

“I do.”

He removed his arm from where it rested, a little too low on her body, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her cheek, absentmindedly stroking his thumb against the slight flush of her face. She tilted her head slightly to delicately graze her lips against the inside of Matthew’s wrist, making his breath hitch. “Kiss me?” She asked, giving into the adoring look in his eyes. “Your wish is my command, m’lady,”

“Wow, a magician and a genie, I really hit the jackpot with you,”

“You’re really going to leave bodybuilder off the list? With muscles like these? I’m built like…Dwayne Johnson. Did you know they wanted me to be in the Fast and Furious series? But they actually thought I was ‘too buff’ and ‘too macho’ and all my sex appeal would distract from the plot, so they had to settle for Dwayne.”

Laughing into his chest, she pulled herself up and straddled his waist, bringing the blanket with her as if it were a cape. “I’m not joking, Y/N, my net worth is sixty thousand dollars per muscle,” he continued, one hand behind his head and the other now resting on her bare hip, tracing light circles on the skin where her giant shirt had ridden up, revealing the black band of her underwear. “Essentially, what you’re saying is that I could sell you on the black market and make a lot of cash?” She asked him raising an eyebrow and toying with the mess of his hair. “You could, but then you would miss out on this.” He finally kissed her, slow and tactile. Resting on her forearms, linked together above his head, she let her hair drape down and tickle the sides of his face. He swiped his tongue along her bottom lip, at a painstakingly low pace, his hands now caressing her jaw and dabbling with her hair. She breathed him in while he continued to gently suck at her lips, then jaw, then neck, eliciting faint moans from her. “We’re hungry,” he spoke, halting his actions, removing her from her reverie. “Matthew, don’t stop,” she whined semi-facetiously. He gave her a smug look, eyebrows raised. “Fine, I’ll make you food - only because you did it yesterday - but we’re not done here,” she huffed, making him chuckle as she crossly got off him, and out of bed. “It looks nice on you, pumpkin,” Matthew chirped. Tilting her head in confusion, she looked down and realised he was referring to his whimsical alien shirt she had stolen the night before. The buttons that were undone torturously left Matthew craving her skin, as she gave him a glimpse of his favourite view each time she bent down to slide on a sock. “Considering it is a woman’s top…”

“Hey!” He threw a pillow at her, “I thought it looked nice, something a space cowboy would wear during his leisurely time,” “I didn’t say it didn’t look nice!” Her hands went up in surrender, suppressing a smile when she threw the pillow back in his direction. Making her way towards the kitchen, she left him starstruck and staring at the ceiling, smiling to himself like a teenager in love.

Eyes getting tired of reading the words of Robert Frost, when his stomach grumbled loud enough to genuinely frighten him, he placed down the book and followed the enticing aroma wafting into his room. When he saw her, she was humming to herself, swaying to the rhythm of whatever song was playing in her head. He admired her bare legs as the hem of his shirt skimmed the tops of her thighs. Gazing at her tied hair swinging to and fro, giving him snippets of the back of her neck, he became eager to pick up where they had left off. “Hey there lover of mine, wasn’t it you who told me its rude to stare?” She beamed at him, turning around cradling a giant bowl of some sort of mixture in one arm while sporting a giant wooden spoon with the other. He realised she must’ve heard him shuffling around, he wasn’t the most graceful person alive after all. His heart melted at the smile she sent his way, tucking his lip beneath his teeth to avoid grinning back so hard he would sprain something. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he glanced down at his feet from where he leant against the doorframe. She still made him nervous. However, the man never failed to make her fall past the point of no return each day, so they were even. “I’m so in love with you, Gube,” she shook her head and laughed, facing the stove again. He stepped forwards and slunk his arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek before dipping a finger in the batter to taste it. “I tried making us heart shaped pancakes,” she muttered sheepishly. “Key word, tried.” He stifled a laugh, looking at the piles of pancakes on their plates, decorated in berries and cream. “Maybe if you squint and look at them from really really far away they look a little bit like hearts…”

“Do you have a warrant for all this pancake slander? Because I wasn’t aware that you were the geometry police,” she poured the last of the batter into the pan before piling up more dishes. “The proportions in my paintings can speak to that,” He pointed to his latest work in progress leaning against the wall, its newest layer drying in the spring breeze which was fleeting past the rickety handles of the kitchen windows. “I’m glad Picasso came and went when he did, poor man’d be facing some real competition if he was still around,” setting down his warm brew in front of him as he dug into his - what was now - brunch, she continued to tantalise him. “Are you mocking my curvaceous abstract cockroach? It actually came to me in a dream once,”

“Matthew, you did not just use the adjective ‘curvaceous’ in regards to an insect,” she chuckled, “but a dream? Really?” She pressed on, wondering, one, why he was dreaming about the revolting beasties and, two, whether she should leave him while she still could. “No, I lied, I just saw your face and felt inspired,” he winked. “Hurtful,” she scoffed. “All the artistic recognition is getting to your head, fame changed you Gube,”

“What’s a man without his roach?” A fake western accent glossing his words as he made a gesture of stroking a bug between his hands made you throw your head back in laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned, a roach-less man!” She chimed in, sounding almost as Texan as he did, making it his turn to laugh.

They ate in a serene silence, aside from Matthew’s odd compliments to the chef, both enjoying the view from opposite sides of the kitchen counter. “So, aside from finishing that horrid thing,” she tilted her head in the direction of his painting, “what’s on the agenda for the one, and the only, Salvador Dali, today?” Matthew breathed out a laugh in response to her comparison. “Would you still love me if I grew out my moustache like his?”

“Bold of you to assume I love you even without the moustache,” A false and dramatic look of hurt found its way onto his face as she teasingly blew him a kiss from where she stood at the sink. “Anyway, now that you’ve completely destroyed my self confidence and broken my tiny, fragile heart, to answer your question… You are, actually,” he spun around on his bar stool. A sea of scarlet rose up her neck and made a home in her cheeks at his simple remark. “Well… I’m glad, because you’ve been at the top of my ’To Do’ list for a while now.”

She placed their cups in the sink and made her way over to where he sat, the seat of the stool resembling a bottle cap. “Is that so?” He smirked, now wearing the same shade of blush she was, as she stood between his knees, letting her hands snake up around his neck. “Mhm,” she gently planted her lips on his, “and you’re one thing I’m not going to procrastinate on getting done,”

“You’re killing me, Y/N,” he breathed against her mouth. “You’ve always wanted you be a ghost, haven’t you?” She felt him smile against her as her lips glided over his. She placed one hand, still warm from the coffee it had been cradling, on his chest while the other inattentively played with the wiry tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck. The effect she had on him hadn’t changed with time, even after two years, she realised, his racing heartbeat evident beneath her palm.

This time, when their lips met, it was slightly more desperate, the need for one another gushing from both of them. She captured his bottom lip beneath hers, gently biting down before drawing back for air. Matthew gazed at her devotedly, eyebrows furrowing together when she kissed him again. While her tongue traced over his lips, enchanting him, his hands travelled down to her thighs, gripping each of them firmly before standing up and lifting her onto the counter. Their lips separated with a small smack as she gasped at the contrast in temperature between the granite and her skin. His nose skimmed hers when he made his way back down along the same path he had travelled earlier that morning, this time, unbuttoning the remainder of the shirt she wore, the heavenly sounds she was making leaving him in a trance. He adored seeing her this way, unguarded and sinking in his touch. “You’re sensational, Matthew,” she sighed, tugging at his hair and craning her neck back to allow him more access. He nipped at the column of her throat, smiling to himself at the comment. She had no clue what she did to him. “Angel, I don’t often get dessert after breakfast, but do you think you can make it happen for me today?”

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abraxos-is-toothless · 4 years ago

Text

Surprises (13)

I think this is actually set up as 16 chapters, maybe an extra one so we’re not that far off of the end wow! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing this and I hoped you’ve all liked reading it:))

Warnings: There will be swearing, mature themes, mentions of alcohol at times, and mentions of sex. I will update warnings as I go if needed.

Full Masterlist.

Surprises Masterlist.

Enjoy my Noorhelm gif because it’s the best that suited:)

Azriel could not stop smiling. Afterwards, he’d left with a kiss to her forehead, going to the bathroom to clean up and when he came back, she was already asleep. He’d expected her to be fully dressed, but nope, not his Ellie. She was laying fully nude still on top of the sheets, and so he’d simply grabbed a blanket before joining her and covering them both.

It had been around three hours since then and sleep had still not pulled him under, he was just watching Elain’s face while she slept and occasionally letting himself run his eyes over the expanse of such beautiful naked skin. She was amazing in every way and now he knew what he’d been missing. Whenever he was with other girls, it was quick and to the point and if he was being really honest, not much fun at all. It had only ever been about getting off with them, but with Elain, he’d wanted it to last, he’d wanted to make it good. He thought that he might have only been able to give her something quick and mildly pleasurable, but it was far from it. The way she’d touched him was like nothing he’d ever felt and gods, did he want her hands everywhere all of the time. The inexperience of it made it better, made it real. She didn’t fake her moans or breathy pleas; she didn’t pretend to know what she was doing. The way she’d looked at him, as if he was the most precious thing in her world, made him want to live up to that.

He wanted a whole lifetime of this, not just the sex. But to be able to hold her, to fall asleep with her, knowing she’d be right by his side the next day. People would say he was naive and a fool for thinking such things at eighteen years old, but he knew what he wanted. He wanted that life with the girl he loved, with their baby, and thought of it made his heart feel full to bursting.

Looking down at her now, Azriel knew he would never find another girl as perfect as she was. Never find anyone who came close to this thing they shared between them and he was going to hold onto this for as long as he could.

He let the tiredness set in as he settled next to her, watching as she turned to adjust to the movement, her back against his chest and her skin warming his where they touched. His arm wrapped around her waist, hand cradling his baby, and finally allowed the darkness to swallow him.

oOoOo

Elain woke to a tickling sensation running across her skin, starting at the top of her spine and down over her ass, where little circles were traced on her thighs before it retraced its path. Her eyes opened slowly and she was met with familiar hazel ones gazing back and she realised the tickling was Azriel and his gentle fingers. He smiled when he noticed she was awake but didn’t stop the movement of his fingers and gave her kiss, that when she tried to deepen it, he groaned and pulled away from her.

“Not so fast, sunshine, we have things to do today.” She huffed before burying her face back into her pillow.

“But I want to stay here, in bed, with you.”

“You have no idea how much I wished we could, but my mother text saying she managed to get you and the girls the day off of school, but I have to go.”

Her head shot up then, completely forgetting about school over the weekend they’d had and noticed the clock only read 7:00am. Why the hell had he woke her up so early?

“You have two hours, why in the gods are we awake Az?”

His expression turned sheepish as the tickling stopped and he layed back down beside her, “I wanted to know you were alright and I have to take you back to mine before Nesta kills me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be alright?” He not so subtly glanced down low before meeting her eyes once more. Oh. Oh.

“Are we going to have this conversation every time we have sex?”

“Every fucking time, Elain. I won’t hurt you again. I won’t.”

Elain couldn’t help but watch as he took his hands away and rolled onto his back, baring all that tanned skin. Her mouth dried up at the sight because gods, he was beautiful.

Shut up, stupid hormones.

She reached out to him, to touch, to hold, to do anything but before she could, he took hold of her hand and brought it to his face, placing little kisses to her palm and then held it against his cheek, closing his eyes. His fears would always be there, she knew, but she didn’t want him to feel that way. To be scared of himself. And so she told him what he needed just then;

“I’m alright, truly alright. Last night was perfect. You were perfect, Az.”

When he opened his eyes again, she could see the tears forming but he didn’t let them fall as he said, “Come on, love, time to get dressed so I can drop you off with Feyre and Nes. The boys will shoot me if I’m late and I don’t feel like listening to Cassian’s ridiculous jokes today.”

Elain rolled her eyes, knowing that she’d soothed that worry enough for now and slid out of bed to take a quick shower. Once she stood there was another groan, but this time it was much similar to the night before, and it was then she remembered she was naked. Turning her head over her shoulder she saw Azriel biting his lip and a pillow strategically placed in front of him. She smirked as she said in a voice she thought was quite sultry, “If you hurry up we can share but the offer only stands for so long.” She gave a wink before continuing over to the bathroom and let out a squeal when she was lifted and was slapped lightly on her ass.

“I’ll have no teasing from you, Miss Archeron.” He said it with a growl and she felt it everywhere and couldn’t help but laugh.

Life was good, especially with him by her side.

oOoOo

When he pulled up outside of the house, the others were already stood outside waiting, Cassian whispering in Nesta’s ear which made her smack him over the back of his head and Rhysand was placing little kisses all over Feyre’s face, who he could see was trying very hard not to laugh. Azriel was out of the car and around the other side within seconds after cutting the engine off in order to open Elain’s door for her. She rolled her eyes at him and swatted his hand away when he offered to help her out of the car. “Go away, you mother hen. I’m perfectly capable of getting out of the car.”

He let out a small laugh at his new title and said, “I know you can do it El, I just like to help, that's all. And also I just like the excuse to touch you.”

She pressed onto her tiptoes and gave him one, two and a final chaste kiss to his lips before pulling back a pressing one to his nose. “I know.”

He could only watch as she walked away from him and both of his brothers came down to the car, Rhys standing next to him as he had called shotgun and Cass grumpily walking around the other side to sit in the back. Before walking back to the driver’s seat he shouted over to Elain, who was now sandwiched between her sisters, “I love you, both of you!”

Nesta smirked as she retorted, “Come on Az, I know I’m not your favourite but it’s not fair that Fey gets love and I don’t!”

“Fuck you, Nes!” He flipped her off as Cass laughed while getting into the car and Rhys blew a couple of kisses before doing the same. Just as Azriel was about to drive off he turned his head to the window just in time to see Elain blow a kiss into her hand and throw it. Leaning his arm out, he pretended to catch it, bringing his hand to his chest before leaving.

Not even ten minutes into the drive to school and Cassian couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “So, how was last night, dearest brother?”

“Eat shit Cass, I’m not telling you anything.”

Rhys laughed at that as he changed the station on the radio and replied before Cass could cry about not getting answers, “Leave him be you big buffoon, we never as-”

The words were cut off by Cassian yelling from the backseat. “Azriel, there’s a goddamn truck. Move!”

All of his instincts screamed protect, protect, protect, and so he spun the car to the right, taking the impact away from his brothers.

His last view was Rhys’ panicked face and the sound of Cass yelling before everything was swallowed by darkness.

—————

*jumps into the void* you can’t find me here so therefore I cannot be killed😏

Bolded tags have not worked:((

Tags: @bryaxisthefaceofnightmares @starlitfangirl @starsauroras @drunken-starz @myfriendscallmeraba @thesirenwashere @empress-sei @elrielllll @stars-falling @cirieael @verifiefangirl @theshadowsinger-and-thefawn @fancyclodpaintercookie @acourtofterrasenandvelaris @silver-flames @queen-of-glass @bamchickawowow @empress-ofbloodshed @sleeping-and-books @b00kworm @kvi-arts @rhysandhlcor @tswaney17 @awkward-avocado-s @courtofjurdan @junkiejosten10 @mu-si-ca-l @agem10 @harmonyindark245 @slightly-sane-fangirl @tanaquilpriscilla @starrynightsbooks @maastrash @kendarbahr

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #azriel x elain #elain x azriel #acotar fic #surprises fic #my writing #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #rhysand #cassian #babies in love #teenage pregnancy #modern au #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas

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ineffably-effable · 5 years ago

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further good omens fic recs

It’s been awhile since my last reclist post so here goes, please enjoy the rewards of my complete lack of self-control when it comes to this ship.

Please reach out if I’ve missed a tumblr tag, or drop a note if you have any recommendations I’ve missed! ( 31 recommendations underneath the cut )

(51k) Acts of Service by seekwill / @jasmine-cottage-uk

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

mood: pining, denial, secrets, idiots-in-love.

(Warning: Don’t start reading this one at midnight expecting to put it down. Learn from my mistakes.)

(44k) Mirror, Mirror by ImprobableDreams900 / @improbabledreams900

Crowley from an evil!au swaps places with our Crowley.

mood: butterfly effect, identity theft, Aziraphale!whump, badass!Aziraphale

(40k) The Strong Tower by BuggreAlleThis

After the failed executions, a vengeful angel takes it upon herself to neutralise the threat presented by Crowley and Aziraphale.

mood: aziraphale!whump, protective!crowley, hurt/comfort, pining and fantastic world building.

(23k) You Might Think I'm Crazy (All I Want is You) by soft_october / @soft-october-night

Since the next shop over closed down, Aziraphale's had a peaceful few months, barring those unpleasant interactions with the men in cheap suits who keep trying to persuade him to sell his shop. But now a (handsome) new owner has taken up residence beside him and, horror of horrors, he wants to open up a coffee shop.

mood: fledgling friendships, obviously-in-love-to-everyone-but-themselves, almost-letting-your-doubts-and-insecurities-ruin-things, if-only-these-dumb-bastards-knew-how-to-communicate

(23k) names in history by lagaudiere

Maybe he’d shown Crowley how to perform a few miracles, but that Crowley had taken to them so well was surely a sign that he wasn’t all bad. And maybe Aziraphale had let himself be called upon to perform a few temptations, but that was just testing the will of the faithful if you looked at it from a different angle.

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, beautifully written.

(22k) This Soul Outstreaming by Rend_Herring

Aziraphale constructs intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men (by “men” I mean Crowley).

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, forbidden love, UST, beautifully written.

(29k) 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was by charliebrown1234 / @charliebrown1234

What it says on the tin.

mood: Aziraphale!whump through the ages, protective Crowley, hurt/comfort, wonderful characterizations.

(20k) In Pleasure's Clothes by obstinatrix, wishwellingtons

Three Times Aziraphale Stalked Crowley In Gay Clubs And One Time He Moped At Wilde’s Grave.

mood: jealousy, pining, miscommunications, idiots-in-love

(18k) Soft (A Love Story in Three Bites) by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly

Crowley was an angel, once. Before she fell. Aziraphale was a warrior (she fell too. It just took a little longer.)

mood: ineffable wives thoughtfully done and beautifully written, pining, emotional vulnerability, hurting the ones you love, references to gothic romances that absolutely slay me, switching POVs between Aziraphale and Crowley.

(18k) On Earth as it is in Heaven by JMA

Aziraphale was at Crowley's trial...the first one.

For six thousand years Aziraphale felt like an angel who has fallen, waiting for Heaven to realise. His fear and doubt has shaped and defined him. Now, with the Armageddon over and Heaven and Hell off their backs it is finally time to come clean.

mood: betrayal, pining, misguided attempts at atonement, miscommunication and forgiveness

(15k) Through Every Door by darlingred1 / @darlingred1

After thwarting the end of the world, Aziraphale begins to avoid Crowley, and Crowley accidentally awakens his own repressed lust.

mood: mutually-pining-idiots, miscommunication, immortal-beings-taking-turns-with-their-single-brain-cell, surprisingly-Crowley-has-first-dibs

(16k) Least of All by stereobone / @stereobone

Every so often, Crowley talks to God.

mood: Crowley worrying after Aziraphale through the ages. Beautifully written, fantastic Crowley perspective.

(14k) Wine Fraud and Other Worthy Pursuits by ImprobableDreams900 / @improbabledreams900

When Aziraphale, rare book dealer and part-time wine collector, encounters a bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild he suspects isn't all that it claims, he becomes determined to track down the truth.

Unfortunately, the finger of suspicion seems to point at fellow wine collector Anthony J. Crowley, whom Aziraphale is already well on his way to befriending.

mood: suspicious Aziraphale and fledgling friendships

(12k) Laugh When It Sinks In by Tenoko1 / @tenoko1

Crowley stopped them in their trek, slipping his arm from Aziraphale’s grasp to face him, hands on his shoulders. “Are you sure you’re alright? A-are you having, like, a mid-life crisis or something now that Heaven’s cut you loose? You’re worrying me. What’s next? Cherry red sports car?”

mood: making a home for yourself and your charmingly oblivious life partner

(10k) The Original Bar Joke by deathbycoldopen / @deathbycoldopen

The way Crowley saw things, it was all one big joke, with him as the punchline.

mood: drunk!pining, idiots-in-love, jealous!Crowley, straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back moments, drunk!confessions

(8k) did you open up your heart there? by weatheredlaw / @weatheredlaw

Aziraphale and Crowley meet over and over and over again. Aziraphale doesn't know what Crowley is, or why their souls can't seem to be parted, but he is a creature of love, and he's not going to argue with that.

mood: ready to have your heart broken over and over and over?

(7k) The Ark by rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley

We’ve all been assuming that it takes them 6,000 years to figure it out, but what if it takes 6,300?

Or: the ineffable husbands evacuate a dying Earth.

mood: ineffable dystopian sci-fi romance (and yes, I love that this is a mood I can use to describe a good omens fic).

(7k) Where Thou Art by Mottlemoth / @mottlemoth

A late-night bus to London, a few human comforts, and a long overdue confession... nothing will ever be the same for an angel and his demon.

mood: we-might-be-dead-by-tomorrow-love-confessions

(5k) Love Stories by goodomensblog / @goodomensblog

Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and the bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again.

mood: drinking because you’re an idiot in love (or because you’re in love with an idiot), looking after your drunk mate (only he’s not your mate he’s the love of your life and he’s finally starting to get that)

(4k) A Metaphor Of Some Kind by copperbadge / @copperbadge

After the world doesn't end, Hell gets Crowley and Heaven gets Aziraphale, but not for very long.

mood: witty with great voices, loads of fun

(4k) One Sweet Moment Set Aside For Us by Arej

Tattoos are like stories you write on your skin, and they'll say things for you if you'll let them. Or perhaps prompt other people to say things.

Or, Crowley is just drunk enough to get bold and let his guard down, and it leads to something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.

mood: pining, touching, reverance, love confessions

(3k) Something To Talk About by iamtheenemy (Steph)

Aziraphale jumps to some very inaccurate conclusions.

mood: pining and misconceptions, let’s see if we can make Crowley have an aneurysm.

Wow! Thanks for scrolling this far! You’ve unlocked the secret “I’ll be in my bunk” section of the rec list! ;)

(That’s not to say the fics above don’t have their own hot scenes, or that the fic below are only pwp, but these are the fics where the plot is either focused mostly on sex or the build-up to sex.)

(4k) left with no trace, as if not spoken to by drawlight / @drawlight

Aziraphale's finger brushes against the edge of Crowley's hand. The theater is packed, it is dark. Everyone is watching the stage (no one is watching them). "Do you - ?" "Yeah, angel."

mood: Shakespeare may not have deserved this, but this reader is glad this exists.

(4k) I Tempt, You Thwart... Right? by AEpixie7 / @knightofthesevenfandoms

Crowley accidentally-on-purpose roofies Aziraphale and then feels bad about it because Aziraphale is so high that he can't remember how to sober up.

mood: serious wing kink, drug-induced-loss-of-inhibitions

(6k) Appetite by spunknbite / @spunknbite

Crowley places the macaron against Aziraphale’s lips with more reverence than the angel had thought him capable. “It’s alright, angel. Just take a bite.”

mood: drunk sex, overcoming inhibitions, first time, hand feeding

(6k) The Better Part of Valour by obstinatrix

Said I, a few weeks ago: "I feel there’s also room for e.g. bedsharing fic where the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed."

mood: bed-sharing-with-serious-insecurities-and-misunderstanding

(7k) a treatise on your fingers in my hair by Nimravidae / @tooeasilyconsidered

Crowley sleeps for two days, his hair is a mess, and all it takes is a touch. Like a catalyst. Like striking flint, like a matchstick, like touching fire to gunpowder

mood: all that pent up UST has to go somewhere

(9k) Released by vaguely_concerned / @vaguely-concerned

After they get together Aziraphale has some lingering Ideas about his brief stint in the Bastille; Crowley is happy to help him explore them. Hijinks, as they say, ensue.

mood: french revolution era role play w/ feelings, fantastic dialogue.

(17k) One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan / @seaskystone

Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

mood: flirting and first times

You’re still here? Can’t get enough? Well check out these amazing WIPs!

Slow Show by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly

The Ineffable Pining Showmance AU that no one asked for.

mood: a more accurate summary would be the: ineffable pining showmance AU that no one knew to ask for, and everyone wanted more of. The characterizations in this are amazing. Crowley as a fallen film star is perfection.

Shifting Heaven and Earth by BuggreAlleThis

For most of history, since he narrowly avoiding Falling from Heaven with Lucifer, Crowley has been working for the Angelic Corruption Unit. This ended up being far more boring than he hoped it would be, but things change when he is assigned to go undercover on Earth. His mission is to investigate Aziraphale, an infamous angel who has been on Earth since its Creation, and whom Heaven is sure is guilty of corruption or dereliction of duty.

mood: slow-burn, betrayal, regrets, aziraphale!whump, bamf!aziraphale

the bucket list by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons

If you’re going to go native, you might as well go all the way.

mood: saying the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time, reaching your breaking point, miscommunication and heart break.

Still here? :)

My previous good omens recs post can be found here [x]

#good omens fic #good omens recs #good omens fic recs #my fic recs #good omens #ineffable hubands #ineffable husbands fic #good omens fic rec

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watchyourbluesturngolden · 4 years ago

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my annotations for chappy 11 of ysijwa

this is just for drea and leyla to read so if you're not drea or leyla pls keep scrolling :)

ok this is pretty chaotic and like i said earlier i treated this ike a wattpad comment section so... have fun ig :)

SHERLOCK AND WATSON CINEMATIC UNIVERSE SHUT UPPPPP I LOVE YOU SM DREA

NOT MISS SNAP CRACKLE POP

jealous y/n you say???

now i know why you ignored all my tiktok asks lmao

HELPLESS OH MY GOD

truly madly deeply intended :)

damn he's kind of a narcissist yk? like "I have to be serious my entire family depends on it" shut up mr darcy you're not special

devout in his religion hmmmmmm hopefully we see some more religious trauma content bc me too vampy

awww he wants kids but now he cant have them bc hes... dead :(

AWWW his sister taught him to knit :( if he doesn't knit bloodbag a sweater i swear to god

stuffy moron is correct

"IT'S A FUCKING WONDER HE EVER GOT LAID" OIJRIOJWEIOJIEWOJFIOEJOF

"THE ATROCITY THAT IS BEING ACQUAINTED WITH NIALL AND HIS HORRIBLE AFFINITY FOR CHEAP FLANEL" ORJFOIJFEIOWJ YOURE SUCH A POET

he's so dumb she was with him bc he's hot that much should be obvious to him🙄

FOOLISHLY HOPELESSLY UNMEASURABLY IN LOVE HWAT THE FUCK DREA IM SAD

i love that he remembers the spinal cord dislocation and the dead leaves . like yea im dead rn but the leaves in my hair are really what's bothering me the most

what the fuck is a maw

ok i looked it up i get it now

"attachment is for gullible idiots" yup and youre one of them vampy 😌

"the warmest skin his icy fingers had ever had the good fortune to touch" im so soft rn

oh so now she has "a wholesome beauty about her nature" ? i thought she was just cute enough 🤨

HE THINKS HER SMILE COULD RESTART HIS HEART THATS SO CUTE IM OUHOIJFOEWIJFIOEWJ

"the responsibility of keeping her safe, satisfied, and happy" how 🥺 🥺🥺

"as long as he breathes" i thought he didn't breathe lmao BUT I GET THE SENTIMENT

"always when it comes to her" IM SCREAMING RN THIS IS SO SOFT I CANT

ill never forgive him for being so dense either his brain is basically a rock

HE WANTED TO COMMUNICATE THAT HE BELONGED TO HER IM GONNA HAVE A STROKE

couldnt be me i dont want to be percieved

HE ADDED A FUCKING BUTTERFLY AFTER THE DISCO BALLS IM OIWFJIOEWJFIOEJIOEWNOJIWJ(*H(WUIOFJIOEWJFIOWHVIFUEH)U)($UT

HEY a hamilton obsession is not childish😤

'the only person who was allowed to touch him there was y/n' he's like a little kid who's possessive omggggggg

oh this reminds me i rlly hope everything in that chest was new and had never been used on anyone else owijfowiejfioewj

oh please my irish king can control himself let y/n meet the other vamps🙄

"if they knew all along why did it take so long" yk im wondering the same thing dummy

"every day was a battle to earn her love and affection" wtffff how could she hurt him like that he is just a baby

i think he needs therapy tbh

yes he does deserve to be treated with respect and dignity😤

"supporting and tolerating them despite your differences" exactly unless they're a republican

IM SORRY THAT WAS MEAN OIWFJOIWJFEIOw i said what i said tho

they did everything backwards but it's what baby needed🥺

im literally gonna 🔪 bradley how dare he hurt my favorite ribeye like that

PROPER BOYFRIEND-GIRLFRIEND BONDING PLSSSSS im sure he makes sure to say stuff like "as your boyfriend' or 'since youre my girlfriend' all the time now

"everything that has to do with harry has always and will always make her feel safe and secure" ...who's gonna tell her👀

HE BECOMES CLINGY IVE BEEN WAITIN FOR THIS ONE TURN IT UP

awwww my love language is also quality times bestiesssssss

(this is more serious you might want to change the words to nose kisses or something because esk*mo is a slur)

HE wants to be wrapped in HER arms and get forehead kissies like a little baby🥺🥺

i can tell you wrote this chappy bc leyla would never write about ice cream

IF CHRIST CAN GET A DATE MARKER SO CAN HARRY OIFJOEIWJFIOEWJFWI PLSSSSSSSSSS I LOVE HIM

ALWAYS FOR HER WEJFIOJWEIOFJEWIOFJOIEWJFOIEWJF HES SO IN LOOOOOVE

HE DID IT AND IM SO PROUD OF HIM🥺

omg i have a thot imagine if she got a heart murmur or something and obvi he knows bc he can hear it so now he has to find a way to make her get it checked out out without being suspicious 😭

HE ROCKS HER TO CALM HER DOWN WHEN SHES HAVING NIGHTMARES IJFEOWIJFOIWEFJ

“nearly blinds himself for eternity” what a drama queen i love him

maybe learn how to turn your brightness down grandpa

“can women sense emotional distress” why is this so funny oiewfjwieojfioewj

DEHUMANIZING OWEIJOIAJAKLFSDJLKSDJFKLD

not a psychotic episode 😭😭

crippling mommy issues woejfkljdklsjsdf me too king

awwwww he made her a full buffet i would cry

matchy socks im gonna sob

king is a chef 😌

y/n’s head @ harry’s clavicle rn: 💥

“his plush chest” drea its ok you can say titties

“absolutely flawless”? are you sure shes not just cute enough 🤨

he got her oat milk 🥺the sign of true love

hes such a shithead i love him

SPELLING HIS NAM E ON HER TUMMY IM HAVING ANOTHER STROKE

“I DIDNT WANT TO LEAVE YOU ALL ALONE” HES SO WOIFJSJFSDKJKLSDJF

HE DIDNT HAVE TO DO NIALL LIKE THAT 😭😭

RAPUNZEL HAIR OSIDJSKJKLSJF

she traces a tiny heart on him wtfffffffffff im sad

this… is hot

“theres no room on the counter” owifjlksjfslkfjklsj

HE WOULD WALK THROUGH FIRE FOR HER maybe then he’d be a little less cold

im sorry that was wrong of me lisjfskldjfwoiejewiojrei

OH MY GOD OWEIJFKLJSKLFJL SHES SO BOLD “can’t i?” OSIJFKSLJLKJF

oh boy hes gonna kill her

I WONDERED WHEN THE YOURE HOT WHEN YOURE MEAN THING WAS GOING TO COME UP

literally shut the fuck up mr english major

do it bestie kick him in the balls

SPARE BOOBIES MAAM I CNAT BELIEVE YOU aCTUALLY WROTE THAT OWIFEJWIJEKLJFOIEWHOEWIFEHFLKEWJFKLEWJKLJFL

IM WHITE IM ALLERGIC TO SPICE WEJFLKJFKLEJFLKJSKLJKFSJD

“character development at its finest” what a self aware king

y/n stop being mean to him baby just wants to feel close ☹️

“I’m anemic” ok king whatever u say

“ME AND MY CHRONIC ILLNESS IM SENSITIVE” IJFKLSDJFKLJSDKLJ

ahhhhhhh it’s yoga time

“just ask your cervix” jlksdjflksdjflkdsjflk

“if only you knew” ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

yeah y/n isnt like those other girls 🤪 shes different 🤪

yes bestie objectify him

THERE IT IS MY FAVORITE LINE IN THIS ENTRIE BOOK

PERHAPS MY FAVORITE LINE IN ANY BOOK EVER

“He hasn't been this stiff since rigor mortis”

i think about this on a daily basis i truly do

grey shorts? what a slut

“call the lapd im pressing charges” me after walking up the stairs

OH SO THIS IS WHERE THE GREYS ANATOMY CHARACTERS FROM THE SPOILERS WITHOUT CONTEXT COME IN

him using his shirt as a towel im BARKING

“I wasnt jealous” yea ok 😃

AGAIN HIM DRAWING HIS INITIALS ON HER SKIN THATS SO WOIJFSKLDJFLSJ

yeah harold she just wanted a little kiss 😤

yeah 😃 its bc he ran track 😃

no bc thats so fucking cute that she pretended she had never seen the show before bc he was excited to introduce her to it 🥺

I would do the same tbh i feel like it would be fun to wash dishes with harry idk why

“that skank” oisjksldfjklsjfklsdjflkd

YOUR THICK SKULL COULD DAMAGE THE MARBLE LSKFJKLDSJKFLSDJFKLSJFKLSJKLSJLDKFJLSKDJF I WOULD CRY

he gets her a cup of water 🥺

ok but like wouldn't she want to wash her hair after it got all sweaty at yoga

awwwww she got his toothbrush ready for him why am i so soft rn

memory foam mattresses sound nice but actually they kind of suck bc you sink down and feel trapped in them 😃

HE WATCHED THE TIKTOK SHE SENT HIM IM HAVING A THIRD STROKE

niall is probably on the dumbest side of tiktok idek what side but it’s probably annoying and he thinks it’s hilarious

noooo baby youre not a monster🥺 someone give him a hug rn

well actually you are kind of a monster but its ok we still love u bestie

I too run on caffeine and pizza pockets 😌

TONSIL HOCKEY WHAT THE FUCK OIEJFLSDKJFKLSDJFLSJLKFJSDKLFJ

chatsnap hes such an old man 😭

true lmao if you dont have social media i immediately dont trust you

not the i just washed my hands tiktok 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

HE FEELS STRANGELY PERCIEVED RN KJFLSJFLKSDJ IDK WHY THIS IS SO FUNNY TO ME BUT IM LIKE LEGIT LAUGHING

DO IT BESTIE BITE HIM CHOMP CHOMP

“my eyes are stinging” hes such a baby 😭

“MY SIGH”TS ALL FUZZY” SJFKDSLJFLKDSJFLKDSJFLK

“are you all right” “I dont know :(’ i cant handle this my face hurts from smiling lksjflkjafklj

he has a kitchenaid stand mixer omg thats so sexy

ok but has anyone ever gotten salmonella from raw cookie dough bc i think thats just a myth

fuck u for that one vampy

wow he could never deal with my chronically ill ass

WAIT IS IT WAP

NOPE ITS BETTER LSDFJSDKLFJDS

I agree body is absolutely an instrumental masterpiece

I KNEW HE KNOWS SOME TIKTOK DANCES I KNEW IT

“I know youre kinda into that (getting smacked in the face)” SHUT UPPPPPPP SKJFSKDLJFDS

NOT HIM TWERKING SLKFJSDKLFJDSKLFJDSKL

YES YN GET THAT VIDEO AND BLACKMAIL HIM

“I think i popped something” ok old man 😭

why is the word wench so funny lkfjslkfjdslkfjsdlkfj

dont hand it over i want to see him snap

OH SHIT HE JUST JUMPED THE TABLE LSDFJSDKLFJLKDNMNXCMNJKHOIUIOEUR

oooooooooooo

OH MY GOD AGAIN SHE REALLY IS BOLD SLKDFJDSKLFJLSKDJFLKJFS

not guerrilla warfare 😭😭😭😭

do it bestie give him a concussion he deserves it

“no piece of art could ever compare to her” 🥺🥺

“remember that time you told me making out was childish” “no�� i hate him 😭

THERE IT IS AGAIN “sex isnt the only way he can feel close to someone anymore” SHUT THE FUCK UP IM SOBBING

this reminds me of the dehydrated intercourse with demonrry

“don’t care, relationships are about sharing’ hes so sdjfksldjfklsjf

DO IT BESTIE KICK HIS KNEECAPS IN

suing disney for false advertisement 😭

THIS SCENE IS KILLING ME LKJFKLSJFLDSJ “just pucker your lips over it” “You have actual brain damage, dont you?” DREA I LOVE YOU KSDJFLDSKJFLKSDJ

how do those bubbles taste babe

ok drea wtf i was so happy and now this??????

“everything’s wrong” NO SHUT UP SHUT UP ITS HAPPY HOURS

not the boob privileges 😭

WAIT THIS IS FROM THE BSE MV ISNT IT “dance is just so hot rn” “depressing shades are just so hot rn”

NOT HIM GETTING ALL STUTTERY WHEN HE ASKS HER IF SHE WANTS A DRAWER 🥺

NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN THIS GENTLE WITH HIM BEFORE WTFFFFFFFF IM CRYING

“youre so fucking cute, my baby” me when i see literally any picture of him

JELLO HAS a STRONGER BACKBONE THAN THIS KSFJSDKLFJDSKLFJ

“betrayed. objectified. taken advantage of. used. “ i hate him sm 😭😭

OH MY GOD IS SHE GONNA SHAVE HIS FACE THATS SO CUTE IM

SHE ISsSSSSS IM SQUEALING

stop him worrying she’ll think it's weird and wont want to do it 🥺

“bold of you to assume id ever be convicted” PLS DREA LAKFJDKSLFJ

“the more you talk, the more appealing manslaughter sounds” I CHOKED DLSKFJDSKLFJDKSJFDSKLJ

HIM WHISTLING TO GET HER ATTENTION WHY IS THAT SO CUTE

Im sorry but its really funny to me how you wrote the sentence “wrong metal, he thinks ironically” … get it ? like IRONically lkfjdslkfj im sorry i’ll show myself out

“this boy?” what a fucking cutie i want to kick him

I forgot what a bop helpless is thanks for reminding me im gonna go listen to the entire soundtrack again-

theyre so fucking cute i hate them

so yea bascally this is the best thing ive ever read and i love you so much and my face hurts from smiling :)))

#annotations #ysijwa

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quickspinner · 5 years ago

Text

Finding Harmony - Ch 2 A Different Sound

The next time he saw her was when she came down to the boat with fabric samples.

“Oh, what’s this?” Marinette leaned down to look at the squat wooden instrument sitting against the wall between the bed and the amp. “Is it a harp?”

“It’s a clarsach, a type of Celtic harp,” Luka told her, picking it up. He sat down on the bed with it in front of him. “I found it in the case in one of mom’s piles of stuff and I thought I’d dust it off and try it out. It was my grandfather’s. I can’t play it very well yet though.” He played a brief glissando.

“It’s pretty,” Marinette said, and Luka had to hide a secretive smile of his own while he pretended not to see hers.

“Definitely a different sound, but I like it.” He plucked a few bars of Scarborough Fair. “It’s soothing. And it’s nice to try something new, I haven’t tried out a new instrument in a while.” He picked it up and set it carefully back out of the way. “But you didn’t come to hear me plink on this thing, so, what’s up.”

“Oh! Right, I wanted to show you a few things. I talked to Juleka some at school, but I wanted to get your opinion too.” She pulled several small pieces of fabric out of her bag. “I got a blue that I’m really happy with, and a nice black...I couldn’t afford the one I really wanted, but this one is still good, and then—” Marinette hesitated before pulling out a piece of shiny fabric that was a bright orangey red.

Luka’s eyebrows rose and he fought to keep his expression neutral. “Wow. That’s...um...bold.” He didn’t mind bold colors, really, but...it was a lot.

“I know, but look,” she grabbed his hand and pulled him over to Juleka’s mirror, nearly shoving him down in the chair. She draped the red-orange fabric over his shoulder and then layered a blue piece on top of it, and a black piece on top of that. “See how it pops? As long as I don’t use too much of it, I think it could really make the design.”

Luka studied the effect. He wouldn’t want to be wrapped in the stuff, but paired with the other colors it did look good. He smiled. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I have faith in you.”

“Great!” squealed Marinette. “I’m working on some embroidery designs also—” She whisked the fabrics away and dug in her bag for her sketchbook, which she put into his hands as he came back over. There were several designs on the page, all combinations of the snake she’d shown him before and her own signature flowers.

“Wow, Marinette,” he breathed. “This is amazing, but it looks like a lot of work.”

That set her off about appliques and embroidery machines and a whole lot of other things he didn’t really understand. “Okay, I have no idea what you just said,” he laughed when she stopped for breath. “But I trust you. Just don’t burn yourself out, you know?”

“Do the flowers make it too feminine?” she asked him.

“I don’t think so, not the way you’ve used them. I don’t mind wearing your flowers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She flashed a smile at him, and then seemed to get nervous all of a sudden. He set the sketchbook aside and waited.

“You still have your Jagged poster up,” she said finally.

“Yeah,” Luka sighed, looking at it. “I feel weird about it, honestly, but I’m...not sure what to do with those feelings? Finding out him and my mom have a history, it’s just weird, you know? I mean you read all these articles about how eccentric and demanding he is, but it doesn’t hit home the same way as ‘he ditched my mom without notice to go on tour in America.’” He tapped his knee for a moment, trying to find the words. “I talked to Maman about it, afterwards. She told me the whole story. She still had a copy of their old album, I’ve been listening to it. It was great, actually. So I guess I’m just...there’s the artist I’ve always admired, and the jerk who dropped my mom, back before she was my mom, and I...I don’t quite know how to put the two together.”

“That’s understandable,” Marinette nodded. “Well, I—” She paused, and pursed her lips. “Okay, if you say no I’ll totally, completely, one hundred percent understand.”

“You have to actually ask me something before I can say no,” he prodded gently.

“Well, you know Jagged’s receiving that lifetime achievement award and they’re having a big gala at the Grand Paris, and—well I sort of got an invitation. And I wanted to know if maybe you’d come with me. As my—as my plus one.” She looked down at the fabric in her hands, rearranging the swatches absently. “I thought it would be fun if you came with me since you’re a fan, and there will probably be a lot of people from the music industry there and I don’t know anything about music but you do and— But again, I totally understand if you don’t want to, I mean it makes total sense that you might not want to hear about Jagged Stone at all right now and if it would make you feel even a tiny bit weird you can totally say no and I’ll understand and—”

“Air, Marinette,” he said, grabbing her shoulder. He waited until she’d taken a couple of deep breaths. “I’d love to go with you. Jagged Stone aside, it sounds like a good time, especially if I’m going with you.”

Marinette beamed up at him, and then looked hesitant again. “Um, if you like the suit, when it’s finished - how would you feel about wearing it? If you’d rather get something yourself—”

“I would love to wear the suit, Marinette,” he cut her off. “Stop worrying so much. I may not be into fashion but even I can figure out that it would be good exposure for you to show off your clothes at an event like that. I’m totally in, one hundred percent. Anything you want. I’d wear it even if I hated it.” He nudged her. “I’m sure I won’t, though. I’ve loved everything you’ve done so far. That I’ve seen, anyway. In fact…” Luka picked up the sketchbook again, butterflies suddenly, inexplicably invading his stomach. “Let me run something by you.”

Marinette blinked. “Okay.”

“I’ve been thinking about refinishing my guitar,” he told her, turning pages until he found the design he wanted. “It’s gotten kind of knocked around lately, and it took a bit of a beating during that whole Desperada business.” He pretended not to see her wince. “Ladybug fixed the worst of it but it’s still all scratched up. So, since I need to take it apart and strip it anyway...how would you feel about doing a little artwork on it for me?” He glanced up at her.

Marinette blinked again. “Me?”

“You.” Luka smiled. He pointed to one of the snake designs in the sketchbook. “I love this. If I let you know when it’s ready, do you think you could paint this for me?”

Marinette paled. “You want me to paint your guitar.”

He couldn’t help a chuckle at her expression. “Yep.”

“Your guitar, Luka.”

“Yes. Right here.” He traced a line up the side, following the curve. Luka could already see it in his mind.

“Luka, I can’t—what if I mess up?” Marinette exclaimed, and he had to catch her wrist to keep her from jumping to her feet.

“Then I’ll strip it again and start over. Wouldn’t be the first time. Marinette, I trust you, and I’d love to have your art on my guitar. But if you’re really not comfortable with it, I understand.”

Marinette sat silent for a moment. “You’re sure I won’t ruin it? Won’t painting it change the sound?”

“Not unless you pile it on super thick. I’ll show you the right paint to use. It should be fine. And, again, worst comes to worst, I just restrip it and refinish it again.” Not to mention that his mother still had every guitar she’d ever owned strewn haphazardly around the boat, though it would hurt to give this one up.

Marinette took a slightly shaky breath. “Well, if you really want me to, I guess I’m willing to try.”

Luka grinned, catching her hand and squeezing it. “Awesome. I can’t wait. Sorry for getting us off track. Did you need to talk about anything else?”

“That was all I needed to show you. For today, at least.” Marinette folded the swatches and put them back in the bag. “Hopefully next time I’ll have some actual clothes to show you.”

He didn’t want her to go. Luka fidgeted with his bracelets as he walked her back up to the deck, remembering how she had invited him to stay for Mecha Strike last time. “Do you need to go now?”

“No, I’ve got some time,” Marinette said, looking up at him in surprise. “What’s up?”

Luka grinned and walked over to dig behind one of the cases on the deck. He came up with a basketball and tossed it to Marinette. She caught it, barely, dropping her bag of fabric in the process. “I was thinking maybe it’s my turn to take you to school.” Luka gestured toward the bow. “Fair’s fair, right?”

She gave him a desperate look as she trailed after him. “Luka, I’m hopeless with sports on land! If I try to play on a boat one or both of us is going to end up in the hospital.”

Luka actually hesitated a brief second, because it wasn’t impossible, but then he shrugged. “It is a little different, but I won’t let you get hurt, I promise. Surely you’ve been here enough to get your sea legs by now.”

“Do you play a lot?” Marinette asked, bouncing the ball experimentally against the deck boards as he dragged chairs and the table and various other bits of flotsam out of the way.

“Honestly, not really. Too easy to get injured and I kind of need these intact,” he held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I play one on one sometimes with Juleka, or my friends when they’re here, but mostly I just like to come up and shoot hoops when I’m stuck on something or the music isn’t flowing. Or to avoid homework.” He shrugged and grinned, nodding toward the hoop over their heads. “So, you want to take a shot?”

He let her take a few passes at the goal unhindered to get used to playing with the gentle motion of the boat. Fortunately, it was a calm day, the river as easy as it ever got. When she seemed steady enough, he stepped up to face her.

“This is totally unfair,” Marinette groused, dribbling as Luka loomed in front of her.

“What, you want me to play on my knees?” he teased, and laughed at the way she pouted.

The next thing he knew she had ducked under his arm and past him. She tripped as she shot, but as he leapt to catch her he heard the swish behind him. Luka hauled her up before she could hit the deck and she slumped against him. “Not bad,” he told her.

“Yeah, super,” she grumbled as he set her on her feet. “One goal for one faceplant, sounds like fun.”

“Except you didn’t,” he chuckled. “I told you I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

She smiled up at him from the circle of his arms and he let her go quickly. “My turn,” he grinned, retrieving the ball. He bit his lip to keep from laughing as she tried to block him and he lobbed the ball easily over her head and into the basket.

“Ooh,” she pouted again, and he was torn between laughter and the urge to kiss those pouting lips. She was just so damn cute.

However, he found out quickly that Marinette was competitive, and ruthless enough to take advantage of his care of her, more than once faking a fall to get past him. Luka fell for it every time with good nature, and kept his promise, rescuing her from both the deck and the ball multiple times, except for one instance where she threw herself in front of the ball to keep it from going overboard.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Luka scolded, turning her face so he could see the red mark across her cheekbone. “It wouldn’t have been the first ball I lost to the Seine.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve taken a basketball to the face either,” Marinette shrugged.

“You play dirty, you know that right?”

“It’s not my fault you’re a gentleman.”

“What would you have done if I wasn’t? Maybe I’m really just a caveman on the inside.” Moving quickly, he caught her wrist and ducked, dragging her over his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. “Now what are you going to do, hmm?”

“ Luka Couffaine ! You put me down right now!” Marinette kicked her feet, but she was laughing too hard to get any leverage.

“Make me,” he laughed back. A squeal behind him made him turn towards the gangplank. Rose was hanging off of Juleka’s arm, shaking her slightly and whispering in her ear. Juleka’s expression was blank.

“Oh, hey Juleka.” Luka tried to act casual, as if he didn’t have his sister’s most adorable friend slung across his shoulders. “Hey, have you seen Marinette, she was going to stop by today but—”

“Luka!” Marinette screeched, and he winced.

“Okay, okay, don’t deafen me,” Luka laughed, setting her down. Her face was red as a cherry, either from embarrassment or from hanging off of him, and he held onto her arms to steady her. “You’re all right? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“I’m fine,” she smiled, and then socked him in the arm. “You jerk.”

“Ow! You deserved it, you little cheater.” He shoved her gently.

“Taking advantage of your weaknesses is not cheating.”

Juleka was smirking, which he could have handled, but Rose was looking at them with hearts in her eyes, hands folded together in front of her. Luka blushed hotly and cleared his throat. “You girls up for a little two on two?” he asked, just for something to say.

Juleka snorted. “Yeah, no thanks. I like all my limbs intact and between Marinette and Rose—”

“Hey!” Rose pouted.

“I should probably go soon anyway,” Marinette said, checking the time on her phone. “I didn’t realize how late it was, I’m supposed to be home for dinner. Thanks Luka, I had a lot of fun. I’ll check in with you both about the fitting when I’m a little farther along.”

Luka retrieved her bag and gave her his hand up the gangplank. He leaned against the rail, watching her go.

“You are so transparent I can see Notre Dame through you right now.” Juleka muttered at his elbow.

“Oh, Luka, you’re so in love!” cooed Rose, hugging his arm on his other side. “I’m sure things will work out somehow.”

“Thanks Rose.” He freed his arm and patted her head. “I’ll be okay either way. Don’t worry about me. I’m going back below, you girls have fun.” He squeezed Juleka’s shoulder as he went by, and heard her sigh.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” she mumbled to Rose just before he was out of earshot.

She was right, but even Juleka’s pessimism couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. It was a good day. He was just going to leave it at that.

#quickspins #finding harmony #backlog #lukanette #i am lukanette trash i admit it #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug #ml fics

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birdwonder · 5 years ago

Note

Hello lovely! Your writing sure leaves me all fuzzy and warm, it is just so wholesome! Note aside may I please request a scenario with Rohan (seeing as he is your pfp) and an artist s/o, but they are body painting eachother? I feel like he will enjoy painting on skin for it is very different from cloth or paper, thank you and have a good day!

|| wow, an artist s/o sure seems popular! this is my third request for one and i’m living for it. thank you so much for the praise, i can only hope that this fic and any future ones will make you feel the same ! also, Rohan is one of my favourites and i assumed the most creative jjba character would be a good ‘mascot’ for this account.

tw: body painting is typically nude, so underwear will be worn and the reader’s gender will be ambiguous, but they have a bare chest. so like ... small, nonsexual nudity ?

Rohan Kishibe | Body Painting

Rohan was not a man of intimate affection. At least, not to the degree of a tooth rotting man who waits on hand a knee for whatever their beloved may desire.

His gentle kisses on your lips and temple were short and quick in public, contrasting to how drawn out and occasionally desperate they could be in the comfort of his home. It warmed your heart like a fire place soothed someone coming in from the snow and you returned each display of affection in kind to respect his boundaries.

Reminding you that you were both his muse and the love of his life was always a top priority when he wasn’t working himself to the bone in his home studio, something you worried about but you knew pestering him about how he cared for himself would only further his stress more. You were like a deity to him, his source of inspiration for when he had nothing.

From the strands of your head to your lips’ unique shape and feel against his own, Rohan appreciated and doted on every detail your face had to offer.

Your body was no different to him as well. The form, the feel, each individual spot, scar or mark was so mesmerising. He couldn’t get enough every time he looked at you, whether you were doing a mediocre house hold chore, or trying to allure him with a sway of your hips, captivating him like a moth drawn to a flame.

With all his high praise for you, it was no surprise that the suggestion for body painting came up.

One thing that brought the two of you together was your mutual interest in art, including painting. Therefore, when he approached you with skin friendly paint and new brushes, suggesting it as your next date, you happily complied.

You could be the most modest, self-conscious person there was in the wonder but with Rohan, showing skin was never an issue because each time he saw you, a string of compliments wrapped around you and pulled you closer to him. So, when it came to stripping yourself of every piece of clothing you had aside from your underwear, you had no qualms and felt no pressure.

After a short session of setting up a large sheet across the floor, both you and Rohan stood in the middle of the room in almost nothing. “Would you like to go first?” You prompted, a hand brushing up and down your goosebump covered arm from the chilled air.

“Gladly,” the man replied, unabashedly stepping forwards, his pale and surprisingly nicely toned chest in your line of sight until you looked into his eyes. Despite his terse words, you knew that he felt nothing but excitement.

He laid you down across the sheet, dead in the centre, and placed a leg on either side of your stomach, straddling your hips almost if not for his slight hovering over you. A smile ghosted onto his face as he took hold of a clean paint brush beside your head, bending down to kiss your cheek. With the silk like hairs of the brush, he swiped it gently over the other side of your face making you stifle a small laugh.

The temptation to chortle only worsened however when his chaste, gentle kisses tracked down your neck to your chest, the brush still following in his affections’ shadow which sent a track of shivers down your back. “Stay still and silent, cher, I am only getting you ready for when I start painting so you don’t move about and ruin it,” Rohan calmly instructed, not moving his head from the valley of your chest before moving down to your stomach, above your abdomen.

From there, you had managed to bite your lip and maintain half of a poker face, your loving and enamoured eyes that were following your lover ruining half of the façade.

If this was any other day, Rohan would have disregarded the paints surrounding the both of you and kiss you with such chasmic fervour that your night would seem endless and pure bliss, but for today there was one thing meant to be on his mind and it was to turn your temple of a body into a filled canvas.

His hands placed themselves upon your shoulders, thumbs pressing softly under your arm, and traced down to prompt you to extend and expose your arms outwards. “I’ll start now, so just lay back and relax. I’ll only work on your torso and arms, if anything feels wrong just tell me.”

The air you blew from your nose was a sign that you wanted to laugh a little. As cold and distant as Rohan seemed to others, he was nothing but kind and gentle with you. If you could awe at him, you would if it didn’t mean he would then whack you with some paint.

Closing your eyes and laying your head back, you listened to the sound of a brush clinking against the rim of a glass cup, presumably to wet it, and then moving against a palette. Next, you felt the thankfully not so cold tip of a brush spread paint across your chest, the movements of it seemingly side to side and clockwise circles.

Once more, you nibbled on your lower lip to prevent any jolting and laughter, fingers scrapping the sheet beneath you to contain yourself. A small hum from Rohan gave the idea that he appreciated your efforts, the familiar, mellifluous sound of a brush being cleaned resonating suddenly.

You sighed softly as he did his thing. What could you paint on him when it was your turn? A portrait of a person would seem a little peculiar, although it would work well in an abstract sort of way. A landscape would do well too, something like a sunset perhaps? The purple of the gradient would compliment his hair well, and you could incorporate some other colours and shapes possibly to bring out the emerald hues he looked at you so tenderly with.

For a while, the routine of paint being suffused across your upper arms and torso continued with the occasional pause for Rohan to take a look at you or to pick up more paint. It was strangely therapeutic for both you and Rohan, who was taking great care in what he was doing, making sure that his didn’t accidentally pressing against wet paint or have it too watery to run down.

“Hm, just a bit more,” he told you, “you will have to lay down for a while so it can dry.”

Understandable, really. It’d be a shame to ruin something so bold and adventurous due to premature standing up.

Once the feeling of paint had stopped, you both stayed in pleasant silence for the wet feeling on your skin to subside and harden. Well, it was silent until Rohan bent down a little to blow onto the paint, causing you to suddenly giggle.

In a second, he slapped a hand over your mouth and tutted, using his other hand to guide the more dried side of your stomach down as your back had arched slightly from your laughter.

“Sorry,” a meek squeak muffled from his hand, something Rohan chuckled at. After ten minutes, that felt like hours, you had the “ok” to open your eyes.

The two of you sat up, Rohan on his knees in between your legs, and stared into each other’s eyes. Without bothering to see what he had painted, you wrapped an arm around his neck and brought him in for a kiss, finally allowing yourself to freely smile and laugh. “That was so much fun! It felt so funny!”

“I can imagine, it was just as nice to paint on you, it is a shame I had to cover you up but you make for a lovely canvas, my love,” the manga artist hummed, feeling more at ease than he had all week after powering through a large amount of new panels to publish.

“Oh hush,” you shushed, finally getting up onto your feet and glancing into a mirror to see what he had done.

“Rohan, this is amazing!” To your surprise, a magnificent starry sky had been spread across your body, a mix of colours similar to Vincent Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ covering you with amazing detail. From your shoulders and chest, there was primarily black and deep blue that faded down to lighter shades of blue, yellow and white stars of all varying shapes and sizes sprinkled across you. Even silhouettes of structures were added, and if you squinted hard enough you saw two minuscule figures close together.

When you turned to face Rohan to directly appraise his work, you saw that he was holding a camera and began to take a few shots of you. At first, you felt sheepish until you remembered that this was Rohan and it wasn’t like anyone else would see the photos; over his dead body they would.

You struck a few poses, even sprawling across the ground again for a clear view. With a clear gratitude, he helped you back up and kissed your forehead. “Wonderful, absolutely magnificent,” he muttered into your hair.

“Not too bad yourself, honey,” you teased, moving back to bend down and pick up a paint brush that you dragged from his cheek all the way down to the hem of his boxers. “Now, I think it’s my turn, wouldn’t you say?”

#rohan kishibe #rohan x reader #x reader #jjba x reader #request #jjba

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thewhumperinwhite · 4 years ago

Text

FBI: Confrontation

Simon makes some questionable decisions.

Previous: Rescue / Interrogation / Awkward / Painkillers / Father / Flashback / Visitation / Intravenous

This is simultaneous with Intravenous so Simon is not yet aware of the events of that chapter.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: past child abuse, referenced death/murder of a child, abuse of power, systemic injustice, slut-shaming and feminized slurs relating to it, suicidal ideation referenced in the least respectful way possible, gore.

----

Simon parks illegally outside of the biggest house he has ever seen in real life, and before he gets out of the car he pulls his arm out of the sling and tests the range of motion he has in his shoulder.

It hurts to raise his arm, and it hurts to make a fist, but not too much to manage. He leaves the sling in the car.

The house— actually it’s probably big enough to be safely classed as a “mansion,” big and square and ugly with ornate columns and banks of windows that may as well be one big billboard reading “old money”—is surrounded by a fence slightly taller than Simon is himself, with clearly electrified wire at the top; the gate is carved stone and metal but clearly more functional than decorative. There’s a buzzer beside it with a keypad and a camera above it.

Simon holds down the buzzer and fishes his badge out to point it up at the camera. There’s no way anybody’ll be able to read it but it’s been Simon’s experience that people don’t actually read the badge, just having something to hold up confidently is enough, and the almost unbearable level of rage hammering in Simon’s temples is currently translating into complete, serene confidence that has the person manning the buzzer scurrying to open the gate faster than Simon can say “Agent”.

“Please come in, Agent Blake.” This voice is new, not the first one that answered the buzzer, and it sounds fussy and exasperated, like Simon is here to make a customer service complaint. Simon bounces once on the balls of his feet. That doesn’t sound like the voice of Heinrich Lange Senior, which makes it the voice of an obstacle he’s either going to go around or through. “Stephens will show you in. I can give you a few minutes.”

Simon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t greet “Stephens,” either, when the nervous-looking security guard comes around from the gatehouse to escort him up the needlessly-long drive to the front door of the mansion. Stephens tries twice to engage Simon in conversation, and Simon doesn’t even consciously decide to ignore him, it’s just a consequence of the size of the feeling in his chest, so big he can barely even recognize it as anger anymore. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Simon knows the owner of the stuffy little voice the second he sees him. Stephens the security guard leads him into a parlor off the house’s palatial entrance hall, and a man in a crisp gray suit is already seated at a meeting table waiting for him. He has narrow wire-rimmed glasses, an earpiece, and a tablet he’s holding like a clipboard and busily tapping away on, though he sets it down with a heavy sigh when Simon enters.

“Thank you, Stephens,” the man says, and gestures at the seat across the table from him. “Please sit down, Agent Blake.”

Simon doesn’t sit.

“I want to talk to Heinrich Lange,” he says, hearing his own voice in his ears like it’s a stranger’s, the voice of some very calm reasonable man he has never met.

The fussy man sighs heavily, steepling his fingers in front of him on the table. “So I understand. Agent Blake.” He looks at Simon, with tired eyes and pinched lips that are clearly supposed to send the message I am far too busy and important to be meeting with you. “My name is Carl Schoffstall. I manage the Senator’s affairs. I understand you were a member of the team responsible for finding his son Arthur.”

“Art,” Simon says immediately, without even deciding to. Carl Schoffstall twitches slightly as though in discomfort.

“I take it you’ve spoken to the boy, then,” he says bleakly.

Simon raises his eyebrows and nods, because wow, this should be good.

Schoffstall sighs and takes his glasses off, folding them neatly on the table in front of him, so he can look up at Simon with the utmost seriousness. It’s like he’s trying very hard to look like Simon’s disappointed dad. Simon is so angry he almost can’t even feel it anymore, like he’s just barely hearing the blood roar in his ears from a different room.

“Then perhaps you’ll know what I mean when I say that Arthur Lange is a very troubled young man,” Schoffstall says. Simon almost wants to laugh. “Candidly, Agent Blake, he was traumatized by his younger brother’s accidental death several years ago, and I don’t believe he ever fully recovered. Is that why you’re here, Agent Blake? Has Arthur been feeding you stories about the manner of his brother’s death? Whatever he’s been saying, Arthur wasn’t even present at the time of the accident.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Simon says.

Schoffstall blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. Then he huffs, glaring at Simon. “Well, Senator Lange has nothing to do with your case, Agent Blake, and I think you’d be much better off to leave the Senator to grieve in peace, thank you.”

Simon does laugh at that, a single harsh bark. “Oh, haven’t y’all heard? His grieving’s a little early, he hasn’t succeeded in getting Art killed yet.”

Schoffstall pales, his hands skittering across the table to find his tablet while still staring at Simon with alarm. “Agent Blake,” he says in a mock-scandalized voice. “I have no idea what you—”

Simon leans forward, drops his palms on the table, leans just slightly into Schoffstall's space. He honestly has no idea what expression is on his face right now, but it makes the smaller man lean back and clutch his tablet to his chest like it’s a shield. “You ‘manage his affairs,’ huh? All his affairs? You didn’t make the actual call, but you must’ve known about it, right? Or maybe he didn’t feel like he needed help killing his son. Maybe that’s all old hat to you people by now.”

Schoffstall actually gasps, this time, and now he’s frantically tapping away on the tablet. “Agent Blake,” he says, looking back up at Simon and pressing the tablet back to his chest like Simon is going to try to read it over his shoulder. “I can assure you, I would know about any phone call— the—” Schoffstall trails off, raising a hand to his earpiece, and then he sags in his chair, letting his forehead smack into his hand, and mutters to himself, “Wonderful.”

When Schoffstall looks back up at Simon, most of the scandalized how-dare-you-even-suggest act is gone, and he looks like a normal overworked publicist. “Senator Lange has agreed to speak with you,” Schoffstall says flatly.

“Has he,” Simon says. His heart picks up, and the feeling in his chest is too large for him to tell if it’s anger or excitement.

“God,” Schoffstall says, and gets to his feet. “I’ll walk you up. But for the love of God, Blake, don’t antagonize him. I’ve done enough cleanup for one week.”

Simon thinks he might be smiling at Schoffstall now. Certainly he seems to be baring his teeth.

——

Simon hasn’t done much research on Heinrich Lange, Sr., but he remembers the old man’s military background the second Schoffstall opens the office door and he sees the man standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to them, at full parade-rest.

Schoffstall opens his mouth, and then Heinrich Lange turns at the sound of the door and shoots Schoffstall a withering look and the little man sighs, gives Simon a mocking all-yours gesture into the room, and leaves, shaking his head.

Simon closes the door behind him.

Senator Heinrich Lange is a broad and taut sixty-five, wearing a suit like he’d rather be wearing a uniform. He looks at Simon, still half-turned toward the window, his big heavy wooden desk unoccupied between them, and waits for Simon to talk first.

Fair enough, Simon thinks, his good hand clenching in anticipation.

“You’ll be happy to hear that your son is going to live,” Simon says, still in that same distant reasonable voice. Heinrich Lange’s face doesn’t change. “It was touch and go there for a while. Some of the hospital staff were taking bribes to deny him medical care. But we’re working on tracing that attempt on his life back to its source.” When Lange still doesn’t respond or move or blink, Simon adds. “We’re working on that right now, actually.”

Lange narrows his eyes at Simon, and what he says is, “Leaving the boy to his own histrionics isn’t exactly a murder attempt.” He turns more fully to face Simon. His face is totally impassive. “It won’t hold up that way in court.”

Bold of you to assume you’ll make it to court, Simon doesn’t say. “Your son is in the ICU, Lange. Denying someone life-saving care is murder, Senator.”

Heinrich Lange rolls his eyes. “I know my son,” he says, “and whatever shape he’s in, he got himself into. If you asked him, he’d tell you to hold the pillow over his face yourself, Agent.”

Simon has to catch his breath. He doesn’t say, your son held on to life by his fingernails when I would have given up a dozen times over, your son is nineteen and you and the devil combined couldn’t kill him and he’s twice the man you are; because he does not actually care what Heinrich Lange thinks, he’s here to talk about what Heinrich Lange has done.

“That’s not what he talked to me about, actually,” he says instead, and Lange sighs with exactly the same impatience Schoffstall had.

“You’ve been listening to him talk,” Lange says in a tired voice. He sits down heavily at his desk, no longer looking at Simon. “Look. How much do you want?”

“What,” Simon says.

“Whatever I’ve done, Agent, I can’t undo it now,” Lange says down at his desk, scrubbing a hand across his forehead like a tired old man. “Whatever the boy’s been telling you, he’s got no case against me. He just wants to dredge all my mistakes up again so he knows he’s not the only one still thinking about them.” He shuffles papers around on his desk, like he thinks he’s making some great admission. “Well, I— there’s not a day I don’t think about what happened to Michael. And once Arthur’s succeeded in getting himself killed, I’ll be alone with it, which will be punishment enough. You can tell him that if you want.” He runs a hand through his close-cropped gray hair, and then looks up at Simon. There’s a pen in his hand, and now Simon realizes there’s a checkbook out on the desk, too. “But first tell me how much it will take to get you the fuck out of my sight, Agent.”

“Jesus,” Simon says. He’s literally nauseous at this point. “I don’t want your fucking money. Christ.”

“Then what the fuck are you here for?” Heinrich Lange snarls, pushing himself up to his feet. “I suppose you’re here to sweep to his rescue, like the other one. Been telling you lots of sob stories, I imagine, about his terrible unfeeling father. He wasn’t here when Michael died, do you know that? He makes all the right noises now about how much he loved Michael, how all he cares about is justice for Michael, but that night what he cared about was drinking and whoring himself around half the East Side.” Lange’s face twists. “I suppose you already know about that,” he spits. “Is he well enough to fuck you yet, or did he promise to suck you off la—”

Simon punches him in the face.

Lange stumbles back into the window, eyes and mouth wide and shocked, raising a hand to catch the sudden gush of blood down his chin from his busted nose.

The desk is heavy, but not so heavy Simon can’t shove it out of the way with one arm and his hip if he really tries.

Lange launches himself at Simon the second the desk is out of the way, which is admittedly a surprise for the two seconds it takes them to crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and then Simon’s head is blessedly empty except for fighting protocols so well-trained his conscious mind doesn’t have to get involved at all.

Their training seems to be roughly equivalent, but Lange is sixty-five and out of practice, and Simon has recently been shot.

Lange lands on top of him and his first punch lands hard against Simon’s eye socket; it will bruise and gives Simon a few seconds of seeing stars but it’s a rookie move to punch solid bone with unwrapped hands and Lange’ll regret it tomorrow; Simon drives his fist up into Lange’s age-softened belly and it’s easy to shove Lange off of him; Lange is immediately winded and looks almost offended. Simon thinks that’s what happens when you’re used to punching unarmed children and grabs for the collar of Lange’s shirt, yanks him down to sink his fist into the old man’s kidneys again.

Lange shoves Simon away by the shoulder, and by sheer bad luck his thumb lands squarely on the bandaged gunshot wound in Simon’s shoulder and Simon feels an immediate hot gush as it bursts straight back open. He stumbles back with a strangled yell.

Lange’s eyes flash like a predator seeing wounded prey, but Simon isn’t prey yet; he kicks Lange hard in the sternum when the old man darts forward to go for his shoulder again.

The fight is short and very messy.

Simon’s fist crashes into Lange’s teeth and he feels two of them give. Lange bodytackles him into a bookshelf, sending his spine back against the edge and then giving three hard jabbing hits to his wounded shoulder. Simon brings his knee up into the old man’s stomach and when the old man stumbles back he brings Simon with him, pulls him down by his jacket, jams his fist into Simon’s ribs.

By the time Schoffstall throws the office door open and four armed security guards pour into the room, the office floor is covered in loose pages from the bookshelf and shattered knickknacks from the desk, and Simon and Heinrich Lange are panting roughly in unison, Simon with a fist full of Lange’s shirtfront and Lange about to jam his thumb back into Simon’s shoulder. There is blood all down the front of Lange’s shirt and soaking the sleeve of Simon’s jacket.

“Senator!” Schoffstall practically squeals, and Lange shoves Simon away—Simon staggers dizzily against the wall, just barely keeping his feet—and yanks his shirt back into place, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve.

“Get him out of here,” he snaps, jerking his chin at Simon, and two of the guards descend on him. They’re about to seize him by the arms but they pull up short at the absolute ruin that is his shoulder and sort of awkwardly push him upright instead.

Schoffstall is hammering desperately at his tablet. “I’m calling the police,” he squeaks, but Lange makes a harsh sweeping gesture at him.

“Don’t,” Lange says in a nasally voice. He’s looking at Simon like he’s impressed, like he thinks they’re respectful rivals now, or something.

“You don’t decide what’s punishment enough,” Simon says, and he spits at Heinrich Lange before they drag him out.

——

Simon has seven missed calls from Rona. Rona never, ever calls him more than once, but as he’s staring down at his phone in the car it rings again.

“Where the fuck are you,” Rona snarls, and doesn’t give him time to answer. “Actually, I don’t care. Get your ass back to the hospital now. You fucking moron.”

Simon’s—fairly confident he can get back there without passing out. Maybe he should call a taxi just to be safe. “Lange paid off the nurses to leave Art alone,” he tells her, by way of an explanation. “He already killed his other son, and he wants Art dead.”

“Does he really,” Rona says with absolutely no surprise, and Simon can hear her teeth in her voice, and knows that at least thirty percent of her anger is directed right at him. “Apparently,” she says, and Simon goes cold to his bones at the sound of her voice, “he’ll have to get in line.”

#fbi au #whump #original whump #fist fight #reopening wounds #past abuse #child abuse tw #protective #protective caretaker

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charginger · 6 years ago

Text

long flight ahead

“James if you don’t stop bouncing your leg I’ll throw you off the plane and you’ll be swimming back to London.”

The messy-haired boy turns his head to face Sirius with a grin that contains the faintest trace of an apology, but mostly just looks amused. “I’m not even touching you, and I’ll go right to sleep once we’re in the air anyways. I just get nervous about the takeoff.” He nudges Sirius with his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you aren’t excited to be going home?”

Sirius is. He and James had embarked on what was meant to be a weeklong trip to New York, but they ended up staying in the city for closer to a month. Their primary goal had been to check out a football team interested in signing James now that he was out of university (“They had a gorgeous pitch, but under no circumstances will they get me to call it soccer.”), and it turned into 3 weeks of James sitting in on a few practices while Sirius got to check out the New York City art scene he’d always heard about. He was also freshly graduated, with a Fine Arts degree, and wanted to have some fun before actually looking for work.

It was a good trip, but now they’re on a plane at six in the bloody morning and someone has already kicked his seat twice from behind him.

“Just because you’ve all but signed a contract with the Lions doesn’t mean you need to jostle my seat the whole flight. I’ll get crabby.” Of course, at that moment, there’s another sharp hit to Sirius’ seat from behind. The timing makes James snicker, and Sirius closes his eyes to take a deep breath.

“You’re already crabby and we haven’t even taken off yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. Just wipe that haughty expression off your face before the flight attendant explains to us the responsibility that comes with sitting in an exit row. They might deem you unfit to help save lives, then you’ll have to give up this leg room.”

It’s several minutes later while they’re waiting for permission to take off when yet another kick reaches the back of Sirius’ seat, and he decides to say something before he needs to deal with nine hours of seat kicking. He loosens his seatbelt enough to twist and face the aisle seat behind his.

“Pardon me, but there is somebody actually sitting in the seat you keep kicking-” The bite dies from his words once he gets a look at the man behind him.

“I’m so sorry mate, my leg just keeps cramping, but when I try to move around- I just don’t have that much space back here so- I mean that’s not an excuse, honestly,” the man comments, mostly to himself. “I’ll be more careful with bumping your seat.”

The stranger is not American, that’s the first thing Sirius notices. His accent curves around the words into something more familiar than the harsh, spitting New York cadence that had been a shock upon first exploring the city. He could be from Wales, maybe?

Sirius doesn’t contemplate the origin of his accent for longer than a moment in his mind, because a much more pressing realization is holy fucking shit this is not a bratty 13-year-old kicking his seat. This is a beautiful man. This is a very tall and beautiful man. His long legs seem to be folded almost in half in front of him, one mid-adjustment is pulled halfway to his chest and the other is mostly poking into the aisle beside him. He’s wearing a pullover sweater and joggers that come up just too short on his legs, revealing mismatched socks, both with clashing tartan prints. And if Sirius is being honest with himself, he’s only half paying attention to this man’s apology because his curly brown hair keeps falling just over his eyes. There is also a silver hoop piercing in his left nostril that just didn’t seem to go with the rest of his style, but Sirius finds himself staring at it for maybe a second or two longer than is normal before responding.

“No, don’t even worry about it! I mean, looks like you’ve got a lot of leg to handle there.”

James snorts at the bumbling comment, and Sirius wishes he had said anything but that, with just too much enthusiasm compared to the irritated tone he had just a moment ago.

Luckily, the stranger doesn’t look offended, just slightly amused, and the faintest blush graces his face to make way for a small, kind smile. Meanwhile, Sirius can’t help but wonder if it’s just the poor airplane lighting, or are those really freckles he sees? As the man seems to draw a breath to respond to the leg comment, which Sirius would really just like to move on from, he changes the subject. “You’re Welsh, I’m guessing?”

The man’s parted mouth twitches into the ghost of a smirk, and Sirius hopes it’s because he recognized the accent rather than the definitely red tips of his ears. Of course he had his hair pulled up into a bun, and he can feel them burning under the scrutiny of the man’s gaze.

“Spot on. I lived there most of my life before moving to London a few years ago.”

“That’s so cool!” Sirius responds, again, much more enthusiastic than he means to.

The man releases the faintest breath of a chuckle before both of his thick brows furrow, “Definitely cool. The ever exciting rain-and-sheep combo lends to a thrilling life.” The man keeps a straight face but the sarcasm is obvious.

James is, at this point, silently shaking at Sirius’ expense, but takes a deep breath before finally turning around as well. “Tell you what, mate, why don’t we switch seats? We’ve more leg room in the exit row and I get less motion-sickness in an aisle seat. It’ll be mutually beneficial.”

The man’s eyes flick from James back to Sirius for a second before smiling and nodding. “As long as it’s mutually beneficial.”

“Brilliant.” James quips, and starts gathering his neck pillow and headphones. The man makes himself busy gathering the book and small bag he has with him, and Sirius takes the opportunity to turn back around and deliver a sharp elbow to James’ ribs.

“You don’t get motion-sickness you prat.”

“I also won’t get any sleep on this flight if you’re planning on badly flirting with Freckles McLonglegs back there.” So they were freckles. “You can talk about how cool you think sheep are.” James pats Sirius on the shoulder before shuffling into the aisle, and within a moment the tall man is sitting right beside him and looking very grateful to be able to stretch his legs.

Sirius at this point realizes he doesn’t know the stranger’s name, and pulls a bit of his usual confidence out of his arse to extend a handshake, “My name is Sirius, by the way.”

“I’m Remus,” he accepts, with a warm and calloused hand.

Sirius barks a quiet laugh and adds, “Well I’m glad your parents gave you a shit name, too.”

“Well I say you’ve got it worse. At least there aren’t many puns to be made with ‘Remus’.”

“Oh, on the contrary. Name puns are one of my redeeming factors.” Sirius is glad to receive a laugh from the man- Remus.

“I can’t imagine they’re all that creative, you sure you want to call that redeeming?”

Now, Sirius has dealt with making jokes about his name for 22 years now, and the familiarity of the topic gives him a confidence boost. He puts a hand to his heart in mock-offense.

“Bold words from someone who was violently kicking me in the back not 5 minutes ago.”

Remus lets out a laugh so low it can almost be described as a giggle.

“I really am sorry,” he says after a breath, “My mum likes to joke that I still haven’t grown into my legs.”

Great. The cute Welsh man who wears sweaters, blushes, is endearingly tall, and upon a closer look- yes, he definitely has freckles, is also a momma’s boy. Sirius wants him.

With a ‘here goes nothing’ attitude, Sirius comments, “I’m sure your boyfriend doesn’t mind, though.” It’s not an original line, but who wants their time wasted?

Remus doesn’t seem to mind the choppy segue, as his smile doesn’t falter when he responds, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Sirius furrows his brow as though Remus has presented him with a complex equation to solve. “I see…” Sirius raises one shoulder into a shrug, “Were you looking to change that by any chance?”

Remus giggles (fucking giggles) once again, and with his ears slightly reddening from where his hair curls over them replies, “Well, I did run into this fit posh bloke not too long ago. I was thinking about asking for his phone number.”

////////////////////

okaaay wow I’m nervous to post this, but I had the idea in my head and got it written down so might as well? I’ve been following other hp writers/ creators for awhile and love all of the content that gets put out by them, so I figure if anybody out there likes what I have to write I should just go for it.

if anybody wants to send me ideas of other things to write please feel welcome!! I have some other things I’m working on right now as well but I’d love to hear from anyone who has anything to say.

I’m gonna go ahead and tag some blogs I really love down below, I can’t get them all in (there are soooo many amazing and supportive people on here wow) but I really appreciate the inspiration from you all!

#wolfstar #meet cute #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #hp #harry potter #marauders #non-magic au #meegwrites

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