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mysticsparklewings · 3 years ago

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Echolocation

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voices hearing you loud we're taking the sound back with us —Gerard Way, Maya the Psychic

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Do you recognize this line? 🎶

It’s from Gerard Way’s solo album, Hesitant Alien 👽 It’s a bit obscure, but also one of my favorites and I thought it went nicely enough with my little bat scene here for World Watercolor Month 🎨

⭐️ Like My Art and Want to see more of it? Here's All My Links! ⭐️

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I don't know about you guys, but this feels both oddly familiar and out of left field at the same time. 😆 July is World Watercolor Month, and for the last 2-3 years (as long as I've been aware of the event) it seems I've always had some assortment of things keeping me from doing it properly (the 31 Day Prompt Challenge), this year being no different. Last year, it was actually just a lucky coincidence I had a backlog piece that worked to upload for the event, so this year, I wanted to make the effort to make something with watercolors specifically for this month, even if it wasn't particularly special. On that "even if it wasn't particularly special" bit, I think I'm straddling the line here. 😉 To make a long story short(er), I'm pretty sure I put too much pressure on myself after having just spent as much time and thought on Killjoys Never Die as I did, and am experiencing a slight burnout. 😅 I had a decent amount of time to dream up a watercolor piece, but I wasted most of my time trying to settle on an idea I was happy with that seemed reasonable for how long I had to make it. As you can see, I ultimately settled on a very basic moonlit sky with bat silhouettes and a cave border. But I did try to liven it up with that faux 3D ridging and some mini-magnets! 😃 (And I should say, the overall visual was partially inspired by a drawing a friend of mine recently shared with me.) After deciding something basic along these lines was my best bet and the only thing I actually felt like making, that's when the thought of adding the mini-magnets came up, considering I've been thinking about them more lately because of Drawn like a Magnet. And just because that's the kind of mood I was in, I decided to see if there were any song lyrics I thought fit with the rough "moon, bat, cave" image I had in mind. I tossed around a few others, but I think I made the right choice with these. As listed towards the top of the description, I picked a repeating line from a song on Gerard Way's solo album, Hesitant Alien, called "Maya the Psychic." (Gerard Way being the lead singer from My Chemical Romance and creator of Umbrella Academy if the name sounds familiar but you can't place him.) While the album has not attached itself to me the way 97% of MCR's discography has, it does still stick with me pretty strongly, this song being one of my top 3 from it. (The other two being How It's Going to Be and Brother, for those curious. And while we're at it, it was not a conscious thought for me to reference this album when I also posted an alien-related drawing earlier this week, just a coincidence. Maybe subconsciously influenced.) This lined seemed to fit pretty well with the bats, and therein lies the title. It's not a 1:1 analogy, of course, but since bats use echolocation to navigate, they do in a sense hear a sound and take it with them. Or, well, maybe not "take it with them," but they use that sound to figure out where they're going since they can't see as well as they'd need to otherwise. It makes sense in my head at least, so if this explanation doesn't help you...I'm sorry? 🤷‍♀️ Anyway, the 3D...whatever you call this red/blue thing, I'm not sure. It's that thing that happens with some 3D movies if you try to watch them without the 3D glasses. I called it "ridging" earlier because that seems fitting (and "3D effect" seems too generic), but if anyone knows what this is actually called, please let me know! But the idea for this came while I was just planning out how I exactly I was going to make the piece and ruminating on the lyrics I'd chosen. I've had a set of pearlescent acrylic paints made by Crayola (as part of their "Signature" series) sitting on the sidelines for a while, and the album artwork and some promotional pictures for Hesitant Alien seem to use this effect in one form or another. Beyond that, the idea just sort of...appeared. It would make things a bit more interesting, after all... Which, now that we're getting to the art itself, it was pretty straightforward. After a basic sketch, I transferred the main lines to some watercolor paper using a black Copic Multiliner, partially filling in the bats just in case I had a hard time filling them in later. At this stage, I was toying with the idea of using a black Posca Pen (as I've acquired one of those and a white one thanks to Clearance at one of the art stores near me) to properly fill in those areas, but having (hopefully) finally learned my lesson about how badly acrylic paint pens function over gouache, I wasn't sure what to expect of them over watercolor, gouache's sister. Then, I totally filled in the moon with a white gel pen--Specifically, my Gelly Roll, as most of the Gelly Roll pens are supposed to be waterproof (or at least water-resistant) and archival once dry. I'd never tried using the white as "mask" like this, but I figured I'd try and see what happened. Ironically, I do own a bottle of Masking Fluid as of now, but I've been too chicken to try it. 😅 Maybe I need to work in a "Masking Fuild Test" piece somewhere...But I digress. This wasn't a terrible idea; The white gel pen did basically disappear once I went over it with the paint, but just enough of an impression/slight tone difference in the paper was left I had a pretty easy time filling it back in (with the Uni-ball Signo this time since I wasn't concerned about water resistance) once the paint was dry. With that in mind, I now know a potential way to handle watercolor pieces in the future if I'd rather not risk getting graphite smudges everywhere but don't want bold pen lines. 😉 Awesome! Worth mentioning; I used two colors from the Handmade Modern Watercolor set, which I haven't used lately just because the Master's Touch set I have has proven so versatile for me. But for this piece, the Handmade Modern set had the two colors (slightly dull indigo and a pinky-purple) I wanted without having to do any extra mixing, so it won the day. If you zoom in on this piece and while it was drying, the paints look super grainy or something, but I can tell you in person that's not the case; Part of the problem you're seeing is the fact I took a photo of the piece to get the magnets in there, so it's exaggerating the texture. I think the other part of the problem is I think just how the Canson L'Aquarelle cold press paper behaves when it's wet, as that happened on the Master's Touch piece I linked above too, which kinda proved it's not the paint that's the problem. To that end, cold press watercolor does usually have a more prominent texture than hot-press anyway. Once my super quick wash of paint for the sky was done, I impatiently filled in as much of the cave border as I could with black paint, careful not to get too close to the lines so it wouldn't bleed into the parts I needed to be as not-black as possible. By the time I finished that, the whole thing was dry enough I could fill the rest of the space in! 😄 I'd considering splattering on the stars, but that takes so much extra set up and I was starting to run short on time, so I just dotted and drew them in with the gel pens instead. It's not as randomized, but it does work. Then I broke out the tiniest bit of those pearlescent paints and a very small brush. Most of the color placement was guesswork since I've never done this effect by hand before (there was one digital attempt I posted once but took down later because I don't like it enough to show it publicly anymore) and it's not perfect because painting tiny details is not my strong suit because tiny brushes seem to only be capable of painting half a line with me, but ultimately I think it worked out. If anything, I think the roughness adds a kind of filter-y feel, which is kinda nice. I did add a bit of the white pearlescent paint on the moon and the biggest stars. Funnily, the paint went down more yellow/silver, and then dried too blue-ish, so I had to dot on and smear some more white gel pen on top to make it work better with the final product. I don't understand the chemistry there, but...eh...? 🤷‍♀️ And then because I was feeling adventurous, I pulled out a bit of my blue PanPastel and some white chalk that I blended out to make the moon more glowy and try to add some very soft, subtle clouds back in. The clouds are maybe a bit too subtle, but I do think it was the right call. The last step before placing the magnets (which was very straightforward for once in my life, so I won't be going into great detail on it) was to polish off the black border & bats. And you know what? The black Posca Pen actually worked with very little fuss over the watercolor! 😱 The worst part was filling in the edge of the paper where I'd taped down the edges so it would hold still while I was doing the wash for the sky...Despite being washi tape, it tore up the paper when I freed it (I've got mixed success with that anyhow), leaving a pretty gross texture. Even so, that was still better than trying to use paint pens over gouache!! I suspect thicker layers of watercolor might've been a different story, or if I hadn't been using black on black, but it's still amazing to me how much more pleasant the experience was. Worth-nothing though; I did have to tone the black to actually be black digitally once I took the photo. I more or less saw that coming, so in theory, I could've left the black sections blank and filled then in digitally, but I prefer to go as far with the traditional piece as I can, even if it doesn't end up mattering for much. ...That's pretty much everything. I know my long description style doesn't make it seem so, but this was ultimately a pretty simple piece to make. I feel like I should do direct song quotes in a similar fashion with the mini-magnets more often. 😆 I don't know if I will though, since it feels a bit better to come up with either my own or at least build around an existing quote and not just use it as-is. It does work nicely for cases like this where I'm sort of struggling creatively and the background is more of the focus than usual. I am very happy with how it turned out though. It's simple but effective. 🙂 Now, I've got some art-related decisions to make for August and I clearly don't have much time for that, so I'll leave you Sparklers with a strong recommendation to check out Hesitant Alien and pondering of 3D-whatever bats. 😉

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Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings

Hesitant Alien Lyrics © Gerard Way

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⭐️ Like My Art and Want to see more of it? Here's All My Links! ⭐️

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scripturiends · 4 years ago

Text

gave me no compasses, gave me no signs

Read on ao3

Summary: It was the one time her hunch had been wrong.

In which Han Joonhwi is acting suspicious, and Kang Sol A intends to find out why.

Rating: T

Word count: 3,848

Notes: Title taken from Taylor Swift’s ‘invisible string’: “Time, curious time, gave me no compasses, gave me no signs; were there clues I didn’t see?”

As promised, here is the Solhwi fic that I had hoped to be up before Episode 7 airs. I went straight to work after receiving positive feedback from an interest check post. As I mentioned there, the story isn’t necessarily dwelling on the current timeline, but is, for the most part, still canon-compliant. I totally made up all the legal jargon, so please bear with me. And, like the show, I decided to do ‘cutscenes’ instead of one unilinear fic.

I had a lot of fun with this little project for the past two days, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :) I’d also love to hear your thoughts, please do send me a message or feel free to comment, it would mean the absolute world to me. Thank you and let’s all look forward to Episodes 7 and 8 this week!

The fic is under the cut. As a sidenote, this fic is un-beta’ed. All mistakes are mine.

Kang Sol A swears she only drifted off for a second.

She had been burning the midnight oil for the past few days, well into the weekend, so much that the tension was radiating into her atmosphere, so much that the heat was starting to get to her head. Her Civil Code paper may not write itself, but neither could she if it took every ounce of her energy just to even sit up. So she plopped down on her bed, head heavy on her pillow, still fighting the urge to doze off.

She blinked, slowly, and as her eyes fluttered at an alarming rate, they eventually closed — just for a moment, I’ll count to ten and then wake up again — and stilled.

Birds were chirping outside her window when her eyes shot open, and that’s how she knew she messed up big-time. She woke with a start, frantically shaking off the books and papers off her person and frisking for her phone, silently praying that she wasn’t too late for her meeting with her project partner Seo Jiho, who she knows absolutely despises latecomers.

Sol A felt something vibrate from behind her, and an incomprehensible sound escaped her lips as she checked her phone. There were mountains of notifications that prevented her from checking the current time: self-set alarms, e-mails from her professors, reminders about today’s meeting with Jiho, and missed calls from a certain Han Joonhwi.

Clearing all of them at once, she finally reads: 9:07 AM. She was supposed to meet Jiho at 9:15. Sol A breathes a sigh of relief, but her momentary celebration is cut short when her phone starts to ring.

Han Joonhwi was calling again.

She didn’t even get a chance to speak yet when the voice on the other end asked, “Breakfast?”

Sol A put him on speaker phone as she packed up her things. “Can’t,” she replied mindlessly. “I have to meet with Seo Jiho and I’m already late. Eat by yourself.”

A few seconds of silence went unnoticed as Kang Sol A zipped up her knapsack and wore it over her shoulder. She finally picked up her phone and switched back to the handset. “Don’t skip breakfast, you hear me?”

Still nothing. “Joonhwi-ah.”

“Walk fast,” was all he said. And then he hung up.

That caught Sol A off guard, but she heeded the advice anyway.

She made it to the study room at exactly 9:13, only stopping by the entrance to catch her breath and tie her hair back into a ponytail. It was silent, so she half-hoped that no one would be there, but half-expected nothing less from Jiho. So she walks in, footsteps heavy, only skidding to a halt when she sees Jiho staring someone down, someone whose back looked all-too-familiar.

“You like her, don’t you?” she overhears from Jiho. “Kang So-”

Jiho suddenly fell silent at the sight of Sol A, and the man opposite him suddenly turned his head towards her. She was right about who it was — it was none other than the person she spoke with on the phone just a few minutes ago.

If Joonhwi was surprised, he didn’t show it.

But Kang Sol A did. She blinked once, and with a hint of dubiousness, she asked, “Who likes who?”

The men shared a look, and she was met with silence again, which was beginning to irk her. But she bit her tongue, took a seat across Seo Jiho, and grinned cheekily at him. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You aren’t...” Jiho replied, trailing off.

“I am by your standards. I know you,” she said matter-of-factly. “For Seo Jiho, ‘on time’ actually means ‘thirty minutes early’. Which means I’m late.”

Sighing wistfully, Sol A added, “I learned that the hard way.”

She locks eyes with Joonhwi momentarily, but he averts his gaze, expression unreadable. Sol A ignores this and tries her luck once more, eyes flitting from Jiho to Joonhwi and back. “Who were you guys talking about?”

This time, almost with no hesitation, Joonhwi finally spoke up. “No one,” he answered. “My roommate was just practicing his cross-examination skills on me.”

He stood up, giving Seo Jiho a final staredown. “They’re very poor at the moment. Help him out, will you?”

Then, without looking Kang Sol A in the eye, he gave her a soft squeeze on the shoulder, and promptly left.

Sol A’s eyes followed Joonhwi’s back, and stayed there even after he left. His touch lingered on her shoulder like a ghost, but instead of comfort, all she felt was fear. Suspicion. Restlessness. That maybe he was hiding something, and whether it involved her or not, she was keen on finding out just exactly what it was.

II.

“I’m telling you, Yeseul-ah,” Sol A insists. “Something’s up with him.”

They link arms, walking past the school entrance and into the lobby. Jeon Yeseul turns to her, hair falling perfectly into place as she lets out an angelic laugh. God, Sol A thinks. Even her laugh is perfect. But past the admiration for her Aphrodite-like features, Sol A feels like she’s being mocked.

She pouts. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do!” Yeseul defends. “You think he likes Kang Sol B.”

Sol A slides her left hand off Yeseul’s arm and holds her friend’s right one lightly. “So why are you laughing at me, then?”

“Unnie.” Yeseul wraps an arm around Sol A’s shoulder. “Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe Joonhwi-oppa likes you?”

Sol A almost choked on her spit. Of course she’s thought about it — after all, she’s a hundred percent certain that it was the name Kang Sol that slipped from Seo Jiho’s mouth a few days ago. But none of the evidence so far points to it being herself. And anyway, it’s not as if he’s shown any interest in Sol A as a woman. In fact, all he does is tease her. And she’s okay with that. And Sol B already likes Joonhwi. And they seem to be a far better fit than Sol A and Joonhwi. And it’s not like she harbors any romantic feelings for him, either.

She pushes the thought away before it could become bigger.

Sol A denies, deflects, and defends. “That can’t be right.”

“Why not?” her friend challenges.

“Why would he be avoiding me if that were true?” Sol A counters.

“People do that when they feel awkward around their crush,” Yeseul rebuts.

This is starting to feel like a game of chess rather than a conversation between best friends. “I think he’s just scared I’ll tell my roommate or something.” Before Yeseul could say anything else, by some stroke of luck, Sol A spots Joonhwi from her peripheral vision, walking past Lady Justice.

Yeseul smiles kindly at Sol A. She doesn’t doubt its genuineness, but she feels like it’s laced with mischief. “Should we test your theory, then?”

What does that mean?

“Joonhwi-oppa!” Yeseul shouts, waving at him from across the room.

She’s not going to ask him, is she?

Yeseul runs to Joonhwi, a light skip in her step. “I have something to ask you.”

Wait.

“Wait,” escaped from Sol A’s lips, barely a whisper before it started registering on her what Yeseul was about to do. And when it does, she finally sprints. “Jeon Yeseul, wait!”

“Oppa.” Yeseul bats her eyelashes at Joonhwi. Sol A was in tow behind her, feeling small but unsure why.

“Oh, Yeseul-ah,” Joonhwi greets. His eyes lit up at the sight of his friend and classmate.

While it pained Sol A to just sit back and watch, knowing that Joonhwi had been purposefully avoiding her, she let the scene unfold, trusting that Yeseul knew what she was doing.

“You haven’t been going to the study group sessions lately,” Yeseul starts.

Sol A hoped it would get a rise out of him, seeing as he was the one who started the group to begin with, but was barely showing up these days. Instead, all he said was, “The pair project in Civil Code has been holding me up.”

Yeah, right, she thinks. A second-round judicial exam passer and a former police academy student having a hard time in Civil Code? Why do I find that hard to believe?

Sol A scoffs, and Yeseul pinches her side. “Sol-unnie and I are meeting the others for lunch. You should come join us.”

“Ah,” Joonhwi drawled out slowly, as if coming up with an excuse to say no. Sol A expects it to be his next move. “I wish I could, but-”

Knew it.

“Kang Sol B will be there,” Sol A blurts out, fully aware that it’s a total lie. Still, she had to try.

Something in Joonhwi’s mood changed, and his face hardened. Still not making eye contact with Sol A, he excuses himself from Yeseul. “I’ll take a rain check today, okay?”

And without another word, he left again, leaving Sol A with the same emptiness that she had felt in the study room the other day.

Yeseul finally turns to Sol A, crossing her arms. “You’re right. He’s being weird.”

III.

A few more days without Joonhwi’s company, and Sol A was starting to feel its ill effects on her. She hadn’t realized just how much she took him for granted until he was no longer around to challenge her ideas, to annoy her over the littlest of things, to calm her down when she’s freaking out, to be her drinking buddy, to be someone she could tell any and every stupid story to, with the utmost confidence that he’ll keep it to himself or that he wouldn’t belittle her for it.

They’d been through too much together now, and even their fateful first meeting all those years ago didn’t faze him from her. In fact, her little scheme, no matter how deceitful at the time, brought him closer not just to her, but to Byeol, her mom, and to an extent, even Dan.

So what changed? What on earth did Seo Jiho say to him, and what on earth did she walk into, that made him close himself off from her? Proximity may not breed familiarity, but right now she wishes nothing more than to be in his orbit again.

Arguably the worst consequence of the lack of Joonhwi in Sol A’s life right now is having no one to eat with.

During one of her all-nighters at the dorm, she found herself with an intense craving for some ramyeon. She removed her earphones, partly to pull herself back to reality, but mostly to ask her roommate to have a meal with her. As if Sol B would say yes, but it was worth a shot.

“I’m going downstairs for a bite. You wanna come?”

No response, as expected from Kang Sol B. Sol A inwardly rolled her eyes, spinning in her chair to tease her roommate, only to find the desk empty.

She scratched her head while walking, wondering where Sol B could be at this time of night. And without a heads up, too… She was getting worried.

But it seems like her concern was all for naught, because Sol B was right where Sol A was headed.

And she was there with Han Joonhwi.

She was laughing. It was the first time that she saw Sol B laugh, maybe ever, and to see that Joonhwi could be someone who could do that for her, made Sol A feel proud. Like knowing Han Joonhwi was a privilege, not only because of the way he could make people comfortable around him, but also because Sol A had once been on the receiving end of it herself.

She should be relieved. In fact, she should be happy. Because it means that her guess was right, which means she doesn’t have to keep digging anymore. She could just tell Joonhwi that his secret’s safe with her, and they could finally go back to the way they were before... Right?

And yet something about witnessing the pair interact as a mere bystander didn’t sit right with Sol A. There’s a pang in her chest that she can’t quite comprehend — maybe she just misses him, or maybe it’s something else completely. Because if Han Joonhwi has feelings for Kang Sol B, and they’re together right now, then that leaves only one explanation: he must be avoiding her, and for a completely different reason.

It was the first time her hunch had been wrong.

Needless to say, Sol A lost her appetite and trudged back upstairs lifelessly, a bitter taste in her mouth and an ache in her stomach that she couldn’t quite place where it even came from.

IV.

Come Friday, Sol A was too exhausted to even think about Han Joonhwi. Between the endless deadlines and papers to write, her job in the copy room, and the Seo Byungju case, her energy had been too depleted and her social battery too worn out to even care that her relationships could be falling apart.

The only thing she has going for her now is the Legal Clinic, the one place where she could bury her nose deep in case digests and law readings and she would absolutely never get tired of it, because it’s the one place where she feels like she’s making a real difference, especially when people’s lives are at stake. It was the remaining part of her life where Sol A felt like she was in control, so these days, all her emotionally-charged passion was focused on this one thing.

But of course that had to fall apart too, when Professor Yang asked for her to stay after class.

He cut right to the chase. “I’ll be meeting with my defense lawyer today so I need you to consult with the client in my stead.”

Count on Yangcrates to always give Sol A a heart attack in under two seconds.

“M-me?” she stuttered.

The professor’s face twitched, ever-so-slightly, which Sol A took as a sign to backtrack and confidently proclaim that she’s up to the task. She knows there’s nothing Yang Jonghoon hates more than a quitter.

“Ah, yes, of course,” she accedes, with a little more verve.

He nods once in her direction. “And take Han Joonhwi with you,” he commanded.

She’s doomed. Not that she wasn’t doomed before, but now that Professor Yang had to drag her personal life into this, she was really in shambles.

Sol A clears her throat. “With all due respect, Sir,” she laughs nervously, “don’t you trust me?”

Professor Yang takes a moment to think about it. Sol A wonders if today’s the day she finally gets a definitive answer. But Yangcrates is as sly as ever. “This is your chance to get back at him for the Bad FaMa case. Make him your assistant this time.”

He walks away, leaving Sol A dumbfounded once again, but not before he adds, “Under my orders, of course.”

Sol A’s knees buckled at the thought. Normally, she would find this predicament to be absolutely funny, a chance to bicker with Joonhwi and learn something from him at the same time. But he’s angry at her, and she doesn’t even know why, and even merely approaching him has turned into a problem.

Everything in Sol A’s life right now is a problem. She wonders if it's getting Joonhwi back that would fix everything.

Upon leaving the classroom, she spots him getting a drink from the vending machine. She has to slap herself twice, just to mentally prepare herself, to muster up the courage to approach him again.

“Come on, Sol,” she whispers to herself. “This isn’t hard.”

Shaking off the nerves, she takes a step forward, but in a momentary state of weakness, takes another step back. “So what if he’s mad? That’s his problem. I’ve never given him a reason to be angry. He should suck it up. Not me. Come on. Just do it.”

A step forward.

“Just do it.”

A step back.

“Goddamn it.”

One final step back to boost herself forward, and she’s running towards him, pretending to be as casual as possible. “Han Joonhwi!” she calls out to him.

His eyes widen at the sight of her, knowing he has nowhere to escape.

“Did you get my text? Professor Yang needs our help at the Legal Clinic.” She smiled at him. “Let’s go.”

Joonhwi scratched the back of his head, and Sol A just knows it’s about to be another lame excuse. “I can’t. I’m meeting Sol B for our Civil Code term paper.”

He can’t even look at her, and Sol A wonders just how bad she had hurt Joonhwi for him to feel like this towards her. But that only lasted for a second, when she realized just exactly what he said. Then, her pity turned into irritation, as she accused, “Liar.”

Sol A crossed her arms, and glared at Joonhwi. “Did you forget that I’m her roommate? She went home today.”

Sol A sat across Joonhwi inside the Legal Clinic, her eyes narrowed to slits. A profound silence enveloped the room, interrupted only by a sharp inhale from her.

“You like Kang Sol B, don’t you?”

The only response she got was Han Joonhwi’s signature smirk, playful and taunting, one that said, ‘You don’t know me, and you never will’.

She hated that.

She slammed a hand on the table, and pointed at him accusingly. “Don’t look at me like that. I would have kept your secret if you just asked. Is that why you were avoiding me? Because you think I’d tell her or something?”

The same smile painted on his face, Joonhwi exhaled defeatedly. “Kang Sol A, I thought I taught you to never make any claims with unfounded bases.”

An eyebrow perched up on Sol A’s end. “It’s not unfounded,” she argues.

“Where’s your evidence, then?” he dared her.

Sol A had been waiting for this. She listed everything he had ever done — or refused to do, which was spend time with her, speak to her, or even look at her, which was absolutely the bare minimum — since the incident with Seo Jiho up to this very moment.

He waves his hand dismissingly. “That’s all speculative.”

If his goal was to rile her up, then it’s definitely working. “Then what about what I heard Seo Jiho tell you that one time? And most importantly, you straight up lied to my face.”

“Circumstantial,” he quips. “That would never hold up in court, especially not when the only witness is yourself. How are you going to be both the defense lawyer and the sole witness?”

Han Joonhwi should be at the edge of the precipice here, and yet he has managed to flip the situation over and turn it into an interrogation for Kang Sol A.

Nothing can hide her frustration anymore. “I would never be the lawyer in my own case. Look, it’s still evidence. You asked, and I gave it. Seriously, Han Joonhwi, what’s with you?”

Instead of a direct answer, he points out, “You rely on your emotions too much.”

Almost immediately, she shoots back, “And you rely on the law too much. This isn’t a courtroom. This is a human conversation.”

He purses his lips, unable to say anything, and Kang Sol A continues. “You’re too stubborn.”

“And you’re too nosy.”

“You’ve benefited from it more than once.” Sol A’s patience is getting thinner by the second. “Can’t you just tell me what I did so that I can either apologize for it or call you out for being wrong?”

“You and Sol B are hardly friends. What reason would I have to be afraid?” Amusement gleamed in Joonhwi’s eyes; Sol A was astounded by how he could stay so nonchalant about this. “Think.”

She glared at him, but still ceded. Damn his tenacity. “Fine, I’ll play along.”

She rolled her eyes, and in a blasé manner, started to think out loud. “I overheard Jiho ask you if you liked Kang Sol, and then you started avoiding me. Yeseul asked you to join us for lunch, and when I said Sol B would be there, even though she really wasn’t, you declined. So I thought it was her that you liked. But it doesn’t make sense, because I saw you two hanging out at the cafeteria that one night-”

His arrogant expression changed to one of shock. “You did?”

“-and then you straight up lied to me about your plans. Unless you two are already dating-”

“We’re not,” he interrupts once more. Sol A eyes him with suspicion. “We’re not,” he repeats indignantly.

“-it could only mean that you do like Kang Sol…”

Joonhwi starts slowly nodding, face a little flushed, but somehow urging her on to continue.

“...just not B. You like-”

“Kang Sol A.” Professor Yang enters the room, calling out her name.

She’s sure her professor asked her to do something, but she was unmoved. At this point, she doesn’t think anything could pull her out of her reverie for the rest of the day.

A veil that covered her eyes was lifted, and she had never been so pitiful of the blindfold that Lady Justice wore. The scales Kang Sol A carried, as heavy as the burdens she was facing, balanced with Han Joonhwi holding them up with her. She wanted nothing more than to take his hand right at that moment, to feel the heaviness in its entirety, and thank him for staying anyway.

They don't talk for the rest of the day, but Kang Sol A is unbothered.

Her questioning attitude may have always gotten her in trouble in school, but this was the one time she was glad to be wrong.

Epilogue

Han Joonhwi fell asleep on his desk again.

He normally finishes up all his revisions early, but because of his agitation, the cold table seemed to be more inviting than the bed, where he simply ends up tossing and turning.

Despite the stiff neck it was bound to cause, he’s been doing it for days, only being woken up by his constant 8:30 alarms. This time, however, it was his gracious roommate Seo Jiho who finally interrupted him from his slumber.

Jiho slammed a sealed instant ramyeon pack on Joonhwi’s desk. He groggily looked up at his friend, whose hair was still disheveled, and asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s from Kang Sol A.” Before walking away, he deadpanned, “Do your own bidding next time. I’m not your messenger.”

Joonhwi took the cup ramyeon, spotting the bright yellow sticky note on it, not unlike the ones he’d put on Sol A’s notebook, or occasionally, her forehead. He smiled to himself as he read the message, walking out to heat up some water for breakfast, but not before carefully displaying the note on his bulletin board for the whole world to see.

Han Joonhwi,

For a second-round judicial exam passer, you can be so dense.

I like you back, you idiot.

Now stop sulking and have breakfast with me.

Idiot.

Send me your thoughts/fic requests here!

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yoshkeii · 3 years ago

Text

"𝙵𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜"

࿐ character(s): Daichi Sawamura, Asahi Azumane

࿐ genre: sfw, soft/fluff

࿐ type: (au) headcanons

࿐ requested by: anon

⌦ boyfriend male!reader (he/him)

⌦ genshin impact x haikyuu!!, modern settings

⌦ ‘can i request an au headcanon (basically genshin impact x haikyuu!!, modern settings, but the vision bearers are rarer than post traveler time and there's still spiral abyss where vision bearers help discovering new information and artifacts, and getting paid from their country for that) So, daichi and asahi's boyfriend(a vision bearer, which element is up to you to decide.)(also separetly) reacts that their boyfriend just give them an old flower artifact that he found that reminds male!reader of his boyfriend‘

A/N: an interesting concept !! thank you for requesting, im not good with reactions but- ihopethisisokay,, i dont think i did well on this,, khai writes hcs weirdly pt. who fucking knows.

asahi azumane’s give flower: wanderer’s troupe or viridescent venerer

𝙳𝚊𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚒:

》 staring at the rosy-red petaled flower that was supposedly made into a brooch, a piece missing that would make the item stay on the wearer. your eyes glossed over the item, identifying cracks and scratches on the metallic bronze pieces that accompanied the ordinary looking flower, that somehow was in one piece. just... slightly off-colored. before jumping as your name was called by another vision-bearer with two others by the way towards the exit of the Abyss floor, you began to hurry over to them as you gently slid the “Gladiator’s Nostalgia” into your pouch. the name you had read before within a dusty journal, remembering it so clearly with a much vibrant image than the real one you had now. but it oh, so reminded you of your beloved boyfriend, the one waiting for you at your shared home. 《

→ Daichi didn’t know he would be dating a vision-bearer, no one would’ve thought of a thing really. they were such a rare sight to see out in public- especially in the modern days. but that only just added to the many surprises you came home with after your days of working in the “Spiral Abyss” is what they call it.

→ giving him the faded-out red flower as soon as you walked through the front door, a bright smile across your face, was a sight he would never get tired of. except the slight worriedness would built up seeing scratches n bruises along your skin the more he stared...

→ eventually leading him to treating your injuries properly, maybe a slight scold or lecture here and there-

→ “Love, you know you have to be careful. Especially with fire! I know you have a Pyro vision, but that doesn’t mean mess around- and play with fire itself- You aren’t immune to it.” “..even worse that you tried using your abilities to cook..”

→ “He-hey it was a one time thing-!! and I was really curious ‘Muraaa..” you whined, wincing and pulling your face away with a pout as Daichi pressed a cotton swab onto the cut along your cheek.

→ “Yeah yeah, lil’ember.” He muttered the nickname, swiping a thumb over the bandaid to cover the cut. “..there you are done, now go get a change of clothes dirty boy- I have to put the first aid stuff away.”

→ seeing you disappear pass the door frame of your shared room, he went back to pack and close the first aid kit. before his eyes wandered towards the flower you had given him earlier, which was just idly sitting there on the counter. Daichi picked up the flower holding it gently in his palms, feeling the petals with his free hand.

→ he stared at the flower for a long moment, observing the petals before noticing the scratches on the metal pieces attached to the brooch. he smile gently, beginning to realize this was a gift to him, a gift that you gave and probably risked your life to nag.

→ sighing deeply at the thought of you getting hurt, knowing how clumsy you can be, he went off to the shared room where you would be. just to make sure you dont... do something stupid.

→ “Y/N?” Daichi had softly called out, seeing your head peek out from the closet as you slid a shirt on. he motioned his hands upwards a little, still holding the faded-brooch in his palms.

→ “Oh! The Gladiator’s Nostalgia? The flower, do you like it??” the way you had ecstatically replied, he could imagine a puppy’s tail wagging so fast. your eyes shimmering as you awaited his answer.

→ “I love it, ember, it was really nice of you to give it to me.” “..although I hope you didn’t get hurt too much... to achieve it. I bet this was hard to get-” He spoke softly, genuine about the words slipping through his lips.

→ “Well actually... not really-” seeing Daichi look at you in confusion, “..I’ve seen that artifact set a lot on my runs with my team, but are often- broken’n’damaged. So I- I could never give you one-” “There’s also different ones apart of the same set for yours!! I might try to collect the others for you... or more.. flowers..”

→ “Wa-wait-,, there’s more-?” he longed on his question, before he could let out another word he noticed how you started to ramble. talking about interesting details of the items you could get him on your adventures and battles, and all he did was listen. settling down on the edge of the bed while you went on.

→ you were so passionate with your job, what you were doing as a vision-bearer. it’s what he liked about you, or well... loved about you. although he wonder if every Vision-bearer were the same, he’d still take you, . date you, just as who you are. with, or without a vision. and ofc he will keep an eye on what gifts you decide to give him in the mere future.

𝙰𝚜𝚊𝚑𝚒:

》 being an Anemo Vision bearer, your able to adapt and flow with whatever could come your way. making elements spread across the battlefield with one set of moves or to crowd-control them into one spot for the others to strike the unfortunate foes. time to time you would stumble upon the “Viridescent Venerer” set in the fallen loot of opponents or the scuffed chests that were stashed at the end of battles. they looked so different than most artifacts, especially the flowers. common artifacts were genuine real flowers, making them have the same aspect as any other flower, withering and fading into nothing but dull-bland colors. but the Viridescent Venerer’s flower did not, it was just a white wild flower that used to cover the earth. and it has not withered one bit, and still gives off an exquisite fragrance you noticed as the times you ran by it... and well of course noticed it as the scent was what you usually smelled since you had one as part of your outfit. 《

→ Asahi had always pointed out the flower on your outfit, the “In Remembrance of Viridescent Fields“ is what the books would title it, but in short you just called it the Viridescent Venerer flower or just... Viridescent for Asahi’s sake.

→ he had always complimented on how it looked beautiful and pretty, especially when his beloved boyfriend is wearing it.

→ as days of works and floors of the Spiral Abyss, you managed to find a new piece of the Viridescent to use. unlike discarding the one you currently you had, you had an idea that came into mind, finding you sliding the newer artifact into your bag before leaving off to home. a smile brought onto your face.

→ now cuddling in each others presence, you both chatted about your days. already cleaned yourself up from your days works. hand in hand with soft laughter erupting from both of you, before it died off into comfortable silence.

→ “Azumane, love?” you simply called out, knowing you caught his attention instantly as you felt movement from him. “You certainly like the flower on my fit.”

→ “Well it really is- pretty. Like knowing how regular and most flowers wilt and wither- That one hasn’t! An-And I believe its the same one you wore the day we met too-” he noted.

→ to only be surprised at his memory of these types of things, you laughed- making him startled and a bit embarrassed.

→ “You sure have quite the memory, to even remember that image? I’m impressed, so I assume... it has caught your eye since the start? Just like I was to your own vision~” you cooed, getting up from his grasps before disappearing pass a corner of a wall.

→ confusion expressed on Asahi’s face, sitting up from his position on the couch before his eyes caught the glimpse of the Viridescent in your hand.

→ sitting on the edge of the couch, you motioned the flower towards him, a gentle smile across your face.

→ “I would simply like you to have mine then, it is quite old- and worn from the times I’ve had it through my lifetime. But I think it’ll be a nice gift from me to you.”

→ hearing the words being slipped passed your mouth, he felt tears daring to fall from his eyes- Asahi did not know why. but imagining keeping the Viridescent you had for who knew how long-

→ it would be something he would cherish, something he wouldnt let go.

→ exchanging gentle kisses across your face in exchange, trying his best not to cry the joy. because it was so touching- so simple yet so poetic to give. he didn’t think he deserved one.

→ and from that afternoon, Asahi had kept it. he had kept it safe and sound, bringing it with him whenever you were never there. so he had something to calm him down in anxious moments. he had a memory of you in a flower that would never wither.

#at-dusk;- 🌆#folder 📁;- 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚞 #daichi x male reader #asahi x male reader #daichi sawamura x male reader #asahi azumane x male reader #haikyuu x male reader #hq x male reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #x male reader #x reader

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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years ago

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Off the Record

Hello!! I am super excited to finally post my entry for @levihan-drabbles competition :D The prompt was super interesting and I had a tonne of fun writing this one!

The prompt I received was: Hange posts a picture of Levi somewhere and it becomes a meme.

(For those curious, this is the meme I used for inspiration)

Hange pushed her plate across the table and grinned at him. "Levi! Fancy seeing you here! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Levi's lip curled.

"You know what," he said. Hange braced her elbows on the table and rested her chin atop her knotted fingers.

"Enlighten me."

Colour rose in Levi's cheeks. For a moment, Hange felt a little guilty. For all Levi's grumbling and grunting, Hange had never seen him angry before.

"That bullshit article."

"Ah. Was there a problem?"

Hange met Moblit in a small cafe a little way down the road from the newsroom. She was in good spirits—her morning had been productive; she'd made steady headway with research for her next interview, finished the final edits for a few smaller tabloid pieces she'd been meaning to brush up, attended three short, perfunctory meetings on tedious company policy, and laid the groundwork for another exciting interview opportunity.

She felt good. And now she had the pleasurable prospect of a hearty lunch, a passable cup of coffee, and perhaps best of all, Moblit's company. His company, and his camera.

Hange threw herself into the seat opposite Moblit the moment she spotted him, hunched over his laptop in a corner of the cafe. He lifted his coffee cup just in time for Hange to clatter against the table, the thin metal frame rattling precariously. She offered him a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," she said, and then, "got anything exciting?"

"I don't know about exciting. Interesting, maybe, but no breaking news."

Hange flagged down a passing waitress with one hand, and waved Moblit off with the other. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter," she said, then paused to order a drink and her favourite sandwich. "Tell me anyway."

"I got a tip-off from a waiter at Sina's."

Hange's eyes sparkled behind her glasses. She sat forward in her chair, folding her arms on the table top as she leaned closer. "Who?"

"Take a guess."

Hange grinned at him. Moblit was not one to play coy; he did his job and did it well, and reported his findings efficiently. To leave her to question it meant one of two things; he had photographed someone very high profile indeed, or it was somebody Hange was, for better or for worse, well acquainted with.

Or perhaps, if she were lucky, it was both.

"Let me see him, then."

Hange had taken far too much time in the cafe with Moblit. He had given her a rundown of all the details he'd gathered during his field work that morning, and shown her through his extensive photo gallery. It was impressive, the kind of archive Moblit could cultivate with only a 45 minute breakfast window.

Hange had been delighted. Moblit was right; it wasn't breaking news, nothing particularly thrilling, but there was a corner of the Internet, Hange knew, that would delight in a trashy little article just like this. Something quick and simple to bulk up the social media feed for the afternoon.

Plus, there was a series of pictures Moblit had snapped, a cluster he'd thought to be of no real merit, that Hange simply could not pass up.

She could lay down no facts with a story like this one. There was no hard-hitting investigative journalism to be had, but she could at least offer some speculation based on her knowledge of the subjects involved, and spin a tale juicy enough to get people talking.

It took little time at all to put the article together. Hange scribbled up an outline for the contents—the location; Sina's in downtown Hizuru, a luxurious restaurant serving five star meals at every hour of the day. High in quality, sickeningly steep in price. The time of day; 9am. To the best of Hange's knowledge, this was rather out of character for the subject. He was an early riser, but according to their interview last March pending the premiere of his newest movie, he wasn't the type to eat much at all before lunch time.

And then, the company. Eren Yeager was a relatively well-known actor, barely an adult at nineteen. He starred in his first role a decade earlier, and had seen commercial success in multiple movies and TV shows ever since. He had been something of a prodigy in his younger years, bold and precocious, possessing a natural talent many actors years his senior couldn't even hope for. As Hange understood it, he had recently hit a rather troublesome phase. An interesting line of inquiry, but despite his talent and his fame, Eren's presence was simply a cameo, compared to the subject of the article Hange was drawing up.

Levi Ackerman.

Levi is a fan favourite and a media delight. He's attractive no doubt, and his performance in any and every role is almost always met with critical acclaim. Outside of his career, however, he's an elusive thing, silent in any matters pertaining to his private life. He avoids any public event like the plague, and rarely shows his face at premieres or award ceremonies if he can possibly avoid it. He gives interviews only when required by some contractual obligation or other, or else when the journalist in question is so painfully persistent that it is simply easier to give in than to keep fighting.

Little of his personal life is known, but it is impossible for someone in Levi's position to avoid interacting with anybody at all, and even the great Levi Ackerman is not above scrutiny.

There are rumours. Several of them, accounts from fellow cast members, from staff, from directors, and even Erwin, his manager, has alluded more than once to Levi's sour disposition. He is prone, Hange has heard, to fits of anger, and is easily disgruntled by minor inconveniences. His dislike of anything unclean or untidy is the stuff of legends—Hange has seen this first hand, at their very first interview. He had entered the room, scowled at the chair before sitting in it, and given Hange a thorough once over before announcing, with no hint of humour, "your glasses are filthy."

Hange had found him both fascinating and quite delightful, in his own strange way. When he acts, Levi sounds eloquent; he is a master of emotive performance, wringing the last drops of anger, despair, or grief out of each and every word, or else injecting the perfect giddy jitter, or a tremor of humour when the scene called for it. As soon as the cameras stop rolling, though, Levi's tone becomes flat, and without a script, his words are clumsy and crass. He communicates poorly, quick to throw insults and crude remarks. Hange has interviewed him a number of times—she counts herself very lucky that Levi will consent to her requests without too much fuss, these days—and each time she finds herself spending half of their time together translating his answers into something a) family friendly, and b) understandable to the everyday reader.

There is nothing for Hange to translate this time. Moblit managed to speak to the waiter after Levi and Eren had vacated in hopes of gleaning any small tidbit of knowledge regarding their conversation, but the venture had been hopeless. The pair had grown silent upon the approach of any staff member, and spoke in tones too hushed for anyone nearby to hear. They learned nothing they couldn't extrapolate for themselves from Moblit's pictures; Eren looked sheepish, avoiding Levi's gaze in favour of staring into his drink, while Levi—

Levi looked furious.

Every picture featured his signature frown, which, in and of itself wasn't enough to assume Levi to be in any mood besides neutral, but some of the photos show a hint of bared teeth or pursed lips, with his brows pulled lower than normal, the space between them deeply creased. Hange found herself curious as both a journalist and as an acquaintance. They may not be friends, but Hange liked to think she knew Levi a little better than most people, at least. She could find nothing in their past interactions to suggest any relationship with Eren beyond the strictly professional. They had over a decade between them, and though they had worked together on more than one set, neither party had ever said anything to insinuate so much as a friendly attitude between them.

There was no resolution to her queries to be easily found. And luckily for Hange, this particular piece didn't require any. It was a gossip article, something spicy, jam-packed with buzzwords, what-if's and more questions than answers, designed to make people wonder. Levi's name in the title would be enough to draw people in; Eren's name was an added bonus. But the star of the show was Moblit's photography. Hange arranged the images she had chosen in a grid. In context, the pictures were intriguing, depicting a particularly ferocious part of Levi and Eren's exchange. Out of context, they looked a little ridiculous. Both would bring readers onto their home page.

Satisfied with her work, Hange queued the finished article for review, and turned her attention back to her schedule.

The article launched mid-afternoon. Hange watched, somewhat satisfied, as it was received much as she had expected it to be. The activity on their Twitter account skyrocketed, the tweet in question garnering more likes, retweets and replies in the hour after it's post than any other they’d dropped in the last month.

Hange had allowed it to slip from her mind after the first hour or so. She received praise from her bosses, and a text from Moblit, jokingly demanding she pay him even more handsomely for his work than she already had, and her cousin had called her in the evening on a quest for insider gossip she could share with her friends, but that had been the end of it. Hange thought of it no more until early the following morning, when she had stopped by the quiet little cafe beneath her flat for breakfast and her favourite coffee.

She had been polishing off her pancakes when the bell above the door chimed. She had paid little attention to the newcomer, until a shadow passed over her table, and a familiar voice said, "Oi, shitty glasses."

Hange looked up to see Levi Ackerman himself standing over her, his face twisted in a scowl.

There are perks of being reasonably acquainted with Levi. Hange always gets to conduct his interviews, and Levi only ever turns her down if her request is unreasonable. Like that time she demanded he meet her at this very coffee shop for "just a quick piece, about the cameo you did for the new season of Titans", only to show him she'd bought a new pair of glasses—"look, all clean!"—and, when pressed, admitted there was no interview at all. He had been far more hesitant to indulge her in smaller affairs after that, but Hange was still lucky enough to be his only regular interviewer after big releases.

More interviews means more commission for Hange, and more high profile work with other celebrities. Yes, being acquainted with Levi has its bonuses.

But it also has its downsides. Namely, that Levi will not hesitate to turn up at her regular coffee shop to berate her after she has posted some complete and utter wank at his expense.

Hange pushed her plate across the table and grinned at him. "Levi! Fancy seeing you here! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Levi's lip curled.

"You know what," he said. Hange braced her elbows on the table and rested her chin atop her knotted fingers.

"Enlighten me."

Colour rose in Levi's cheeks. For a moment, Hange felt a little guilty. For all Levi's grumbling and grunting, Hange had never seen him angry before.

"That bullshit article."

"Ah. Was there a problem?"

"You're a piece of shit, you know that?"

Hange sat back in her chair and sipped at her coffee. Levi's face was full colour now, a pale pink flush from his neck right up to his hairline. Hange gave him a measured look, then kicked out the chair opposite her.

"Sit," she said. "If you have issues, I'd be happy to discuss."

Levi looked for a moment like he'd like nothing more than to strangle her. Then he pulled out the chair the rest of the way, and dropped himself into it.

"I don't give a fuck about the article," he said. "It's shitty gossip anyway."

Hange raised a brow at him. She opened her mouth to continue when, without prompt, a young waitress approached their table, practically bouncing on the spot as she stopped and gave Levi a dazzling smile. Her cheeks were flushed prettily, and Hange would have thought she were simply starstruck, if it weren't for the light of mirth in her eyes.

"Good morning, sir. Can I get you anything?" She gave Levi no chance to respond, before plowing on. "Water? Or tea, perhaps? Forgive me, but you seem a little upset. Might a nice tea calm you down?"

Levi grit his teeth. "No, thank you."

Hange almost apologised to the poor waitress on his behalf, but she didn't look bothered at all by his rudeness. In fact, she had barely turned from the table before she snorted in laughter, and caught her giggles in her hands as she scurried back behind the counter. A second passed, before all three waitresses snickered.

"That," Levi hissed, "is your fault."

Now Hange truly was confused. She furrowed her brow at him. "How does that have anything to do with me?"

"You and your stupid article," he said. Hange looked back to the waitress, who looked to their table again before falling into a fresh fit of giggles. Hange turned back to Levi, a little sympathetic.

"I think she just fancies you."

"You're trying to tell me you really don't know the mess you've caused?"

Hange shook her head slowly. Levi watched her closely, searching for proof of the lie, but Hange's earnestness must have shown through, for Levi's anger abated a little, and he slumped back on his chair.

In lieu of a verbal explanation, Levi pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, typed something out, and scrolled a little way, before placing the phone on the table and sliding it towards her. Hange pulled it closer with a frown.

The screen displayed Twitter, and showed the feed beneath the search for Levi's name. Hange scrolled a few posts, eyes widening little by little as she went.

Levi was right. The contents of the article were of little significance at all. The photo grid, however, had gone viral overnight.

It showed four pictures of Levi and Eren, taken in succession. Each one showed only a portion of the back of Eren's head, but Levi's expression in every frame was more animated than Hange had ever seen him outside of his movie scenes, and each was more distraught than the last. Face tight, jaw clenched, teeth bared, with his finger pointed condescendingly in Eren's face. The second last picture shows his brows arched and his lips pressed into a thin line, and the final one—

Hange had laughed at it in isolation when Moblit had shown her. She had fully expected it to garner a few laughs, but she hadn't expected a photograph of Levi furiously slurping his tea to become a meme in less than 24 hours.

"I see," Hange said, as she calmly slid the phone back to him. "In my defense, you don't help yourself. It wouldn't be half as funny if you didn't hold your tea cup so weird."

"In my defense," Levi snapped, "If you didn't post it online nobody would have anything to laugh at."

Hange crossed her arms on the table and leaned towards him, smiling pleasantly. "In your defense, you wouldn't have been so angry in public if it weren't for whatever Eren had to say. What was that about, by the way? I'm terribly curious."

Hange expected a very Levi response to her prying; a scowl, perhaps a quick kick under the table, an 'It's none of your damn business, four-eyes', if she were lucky.

What she got instead was a haughty sniff, and a gruff, "He's fucking my cousin."

For a moment, they were silent. Either Levi's anger at his new meme status had temporarily disabled the part of his brain that blocked any mention of his private life from slipping past his lips in the wrong company, or something about Eren's indiscretion had rattled him so much, he couldn't keep silent about it. Either way, he looked increasingly surprised—and horrified—at himself for saying it out loud. Hange's eyes were wide, and Levi's were growing wider by the second. Of all the people to slip up to, he had slipped up to her. An entertainment journalist, the one person in his life who thrived on this kind of insider knowledge.

Hange swallowed. Levi was still staring at her like a deer in headlights, no doubt painfully aware that there was no taking back what he had said now.

Hange doesn't take a great deal of pride in what she does. She feels satisfied when her stories receive the reception she'd predicted, validated in her ability to analyse their consumer base and make accurate assumptions about what will hit and what won't, but the work itself feels dirty, at times. An opportunistic scavenger feeding on whatever carrion they can find, no matter how rotten it may be.

This is a perfect opportunity. Salacious details of Levi's interpersonal relationships, right from the horse's mouth. If it were anyone else, Hange would be scribbling every word verbatim in her notebook.

But this is Levi. Levi, who seems jarred by her last article (though Hange will maintain this, at least, is no real fault of her journalism, and also, absolutely hilarious) and was clearly, for whatever reason, incensed by Eren's actions.

Hange brushed her palms over her thighs, and picked a speck of lint from her trousers.

"This is nice, isn't it?" She said, "having breakfast together. We should do it more often. It feels good to just talk, sometimes. Off the record."

Levi blinked rapidly at her. He opened his mouth, but, still too shocked by his own loose tongue to speak, he said nothing. Hange pulled her phone from her bag and fiddled around with it some, tapping here and there, until she found what she was looking for. She turned it to Levi, and said, "I think this is my favourite edit so far."

Levi finally pulled his gaze from her, and looked down at the screen. It was truly something, the way the picture snapped him out of his stunned silence. Hange had never seen someone's face pinch up so rapidly.

"Come on, it's kinda funny. And look! That's Tony Stark, right? People are so creative. And maybe, if we're really lucky, Buzzfeed will do a compilation article of all the best ways people have used your new meme."

Levi rolled his eyes at her. It looked strange, with his face so tightly twisted. Hange chuckled at him.

She nudged his ankle beneath the table with the toe of her shoe. "Lighten up, you look constipated."

"Oi, out of the two of us I'm not the one who's full of—"

"—Full of shit, I know, I know. That honour is all mine."

They lapsed into another silence, this one marginally more comfortable than the last. Hange finished the last of her coffee and checked her emails, while Levi tortured himself some more by scrolling through his Twitter feed. After a short while, he spoke again.

"That...doesn't sound bad," he said.

"Hm?"

"What you said about talking more. Off the record. It doesn't sound bad."

It was Hange's turn to flush. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she occupied herself by rifling through her bag in search of nothing.

"Yeah?" Her voice, an octave higher than usual, cracked around the vowels. She cleared her throat, "will you have more gossip for me? It's almost painful that I can't share it, you know."

"Good. I'll share as many secrets as I've got, if it'll bother you that much."

"Sounds terrible," Hange said. She tore a clean corner off her napkin and scribbled her personal number onto it. She slid it over the table to him. "Text me."

Levi pulled a face at the piece of napkin. "Is that used? Gross, shitty four-eyes." He pocketed it anyway.

Hange didn't know what else to say. Levi didn't seem to either, and so he stood, and tucked his chair back in. Hange turned her eyes down to her empty plate. Her stomach and chest felt strange, almost sickly, but in an oddly pleasant way.

Levi rapped his knuckles on the table. Hange jumped, startled, and looked up at the sound.

"This part is on the record," he said. The corner of Levi's mouth quirked into a small, barely there grin. "I heard from a reliable source that Eren was so scared on the set of Last War that he pissed his pants. Twice."

#Levihan #snk #my writing #THIS ONE WAS SO FUN I would like to revisit this one day #I enjoyed their dynamic hehe

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

Text

In which Martin and Gerry help Jon acquire a cat, among other things.

“Martin, look!”

A phone is shoved in his face; on the screen is a tiny black kitten sprawled on a carpet with the headline “Free to a Good Home!!” Martin knows where this is going.

“Finally time to bite the bullet, eh?”

“We could surprise him!” Gerry’s voice is animated as he waves his phone in the air. Martin loves when he gets like this, unguarded and sweet. “You know how stressed he’s been. Honestly, I’m shocked we haven’t gotten one already.”

“Well, he’s certainly been hinting at it.” Martin gestures broadly at the walls of the bookstore, decorated with various cozy knick knacks and art they’ve picked up at charity shops. There’s no less than three oddly majestic cat paintings along with a shelf of tiny porcelain felines, not to mention the gaudy clock that has cat breeds instead of numbers. Jon has...particular taste. “Not very subtle, is he?”

“Should I message them, then?” Gerry squints at the screen. “We met them at trivia a few months ago - Mara, the one with the-”

“Green hair, yeah.” Martin remembers the night rather fondly. Gerry usually spent most trivia nights scowling in the corner and making snarky commentary with Jon, but on that particular occasion he had a few drinks and was considerably more relaxed. He managed to charm half of the bar with his stories and wit while Jon stared on, adoration clear on his face. “But you know Jon would kill us if we didn’t let him have a say. You know how he gets, he needs to prepare-”

“-buy ninety toys-”

“-think up a ridiculous name.” They both laugh at that- Jon’s got a penchant for renaming their friend’s pets when he doesn’t think their moniker “suits them.” He’s gotten into more than one fight about it. “Text him so he doesn’t stay late, though. I’m not staying up until midnight again.”

“On it.”

_______

They hear Jon before they see him.

The door creaks open, alerting them to his presence as Jon lets out his usual long-suffering sigh (Gerry fondly calls this mood ‘The Bouchard Blues.’) His clothes are wrinkled and his eyes are barely open; from the slight indent on his face, Martin reckons he fell asleep at his desk again. Gerry meets him at the door, grabbing his bag and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Rough day, love?”

Another sigh, this one a bit more huffy. “Elias came in at half past four with a box of ninety random documents and wanted them all organized by tomorrow. Impossible, of course, unless I stay the night-”

“But you came home!” Gerry says it with a sort of wonder in his voice; Jon very rarely stands up to his boss, no matter how ridiculous the ask.

“W-Well, you said it was important,” Jon looks between them with large, worried eyes. Always assuming the worst. “It’s nothing bad, is it?”

“Jon, I thought the twelve reassuring texts and afternoon phone call put that to rest,” Gerry replies as he steers them towards the couch. “Suppose I should’ve just told you. I wanted it to be a surprise.” He unlocks his phone and scrolls until he finds the ad, handing it over to Jon.

His eyes immediately light up, alert and awake. “Cat!”

“Cat,” Martin agrees, settling down beside them. “We were thinking of getting one for the bookstore-”

“Of course,” Jon’s smiling that rare, bright grin and Martin melts just a little. “It’s only logical. And I do like black cats-”

“Damn it!” Gerry groans, startling them both. He throws his phone down on the couch, crossing his arms in a sulk. “Someone just claimed her. I knew I should’ve said something-”

But Jon’s already fishing his phone out, his smile not dimming in the slightest. “There’s a shelter not too far from here- I’ll see if we have to make an appointment. Martin, can you call Georgie? She’s got an excellent carrier for the Admiral, and she can probably recommend other necessities-”

They end up going to bed at midnight anyway.

________

“I still don’t see why we had to order so much,” Martin complains after another confirmation email lights up his phone. The credit card bill’s going to be astronomical this month. “Surely we’re overpreparing. We don’t have room for the deluxe cat tower in the shop, and we certainly don’t need one for the flat as well.”

“I assure you these are all necessities, Martin.” Gerry and Martin are both fairly tall, but even they have trouble keeping up with Jon’s brisk pace, sharing a fond look over his head. Jon managed to find them a Saturday appointment with a rather impressive combination of wheedling and charm. When it came to cats, Jon didn��t pull his punches. They made it to the shelter in record time and Jon burst through the doors, his next words full of self-importance. “We’re expected. Jonathan Sims.”

They’re led back to a large room by an amused assistant, Jon at the front of their little line. Martin watches as his eyes light up upon seeing the many cages that lined the wall; even Gerry seems a bit excited, though he tries to hide it by hanging back. Gerry’s never been much of an animal person; he shares Jon’s distaste of loud and jumpy dogs too unpredictable in their behavior. He only just started getting used to the Admiral, and that was through much prodding on Jon’s part. Jon’s love is surprisingly infectious.

Jon peers into each cage intently, answering every inquisitive noise with a prim “Pleased to meet you.” One of the first cages contains a fluffy brown cat with curious eyes and Martin stops to poke a finger through the door. “Walnut” (as provided by a helpful nameplate) does not respond, though she seems interested.

Jon’s already halfway down the row before he stops in his tracks, eyes trained on a large, grumpy ball of gray fur sitting right at the bars of the cage. He’s missing an eye, and he begins to growl as soon as Jon nears him.

“This one.” He declares, staring as if entranced. He hasn’t even touched it or attempted to pet it- they’re locked in some sort of silent standoff. Martin’s reminded of those romantic comedies Jon and Gerry hate, where couples lock eyes across the room and it's love at first sight. He surreptitiously takes a picture. Adorable.

“Jimmy?” The assistant inquires. Jon scoffs at the plainness of the name. “He’s been here awhile. Not very friendly, I’m afraid.”

“No, not Jimmy.” Jon offers up a hand, and the cat comes closer, sniffing at it with suspicion. After a few moments, he butts his head against Jon’s hand, earning a smile. “Lance Corporal.”

“No.”

Jon swivels around, eyes narrowing at Gerry’s words. It’s the first time he’s spoken and he’s got one eyebrow quirked up in amusement. It’s a good look on him. Jon, however, is having none of it and he puts a hand to his hip. “And why not?”

“It’s such a mouthful.” Martin has to agree; it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “I’m not going to call him that. What about Lance?”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

Martin sighs; Gerry and Jon get along like a house on fire but when they bicker, they bicker. He eyes the cat that’s now rubbing against Jon’s hand and purring; he hopes the its sudden geniality will extend to Martin and Gerry. Jon would pick a cat that’s just as prickly as he can be.

Martin gives it a good look, coming up beside Jon at ‘Jimmy’s’ cage. The cat immediately stops its gravely purr, it’s eye now trained on Martin. It’s unnerving, Martin never thought a cat could radiate authority but this one surely managed to. If any animal deserves a title, it’s this one. “What about the Captain?” he asks in a fit of inspiration.

They both turn to look at him; Gerry amused, Jon thoughtful. “Go on.”

“It’s a title, you always liked the naval ones.” Jon nods in agreement, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “He looks like an old sailor, very distinguished. I dunno, I think it’s cute.”

“The Captain,” Jon whispers in awe as the cat resumes rubbing against his hand. “Martin, that’s perfect. Inspired, even.”

He can’t help preening a bit. “Thank you.” Gerry rolls his eyes.

And then there’s the moment of truth- the assistant opens the cage door and Jon steps forward with all the solemnity of a man about to be knighted. He reaches out his arms and the cat lets itself be picked up, going limp as Jon brings it to his chest. He sighs in contentment, giving himself one more moment of bliss before he perks up and opens his eyes.

“Now pick yours.”

_________

Three. They’ve got three fucking cats.

Martin and Gerry immediately began to refuse, but Jon was insistent. “The Captain is obviously very partial to me, and I think you should have some say in who we adopt. If we each get one it eliminates any favoritism. It’s only logical.”

There was nothing logical about it. Three cats and three people in their tiny flat, or worse, destroying their bookstore. They didn’t have the space, the cats might not get along, it would be too expensive. But Jon wouldn’t hear of it, countering every point in a calmness that was borderline unnerving. Martin shot Gerry a pleading look; he’d gone silent after the initial refusal, content to let Martin do most of the arguing, but he just shook his head in amusement- he knew how this would end, and Martin did too. As the final nail in the coffin, Jon deployed the eyes and that’s how he found himself in the front of a taxi with a lapful of Walnut. She’s a friendly thing, instantly purring on contact and meowing whenever he turned away. Martin hadn’t the heart to turn it away.

Gerry took more time. He slunk around the cages and the cats seemed to sense his reluctance. But soon he came upon a small, sleek black cat, not unlike the one from the Facebook post. It was a tentative thing, barely coming to the edge of its cage to sniff at his fingers, but Gerry was determined, patiently waiting the fifteen minutes it took to get him to warm up. Martin didn’t point out the similarities between it and a certain goth, though he shared a knowing look with Jon.

“I’ve got it - the Unfathomable Void.”

“Dear God,” Martin muttered, rolling his eyes. So dramatic, the both of them.

Jon snorted. “That’s a bit much.”

“Okay, Lance Corporal.”

“Excuse me-!”

“Settle down, boys,” Martin put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, he looked liable to pounce. “If that’s what you want, go for it. But we’ll call him Void for short.” Gerry nodded, seemingly satisfied. Jon continued to scowl, though without any heat.

The cabbie was definitely not pleased at having to cart around three men and three cats. He muttered the entire drive while Jon bounced in the backseat, cooing at his companion. Gerry sat much more stoically, though Martin didn’t miss the tiny smile as the cat nipped at his fingers. Jon’s insistence on multiple supplies was starting to make sense now. He definitely planned this from the beginning, sneaky thing.

“Oh no,” Jon suddenly said upon entering their flat, struggling with the carrier in his hand. Martin’s starting to think he shouldn’t have picked such a massive cat. “I forgot this was for the bookstore!”

“Well, yeah.” Gerry sat his cage on the ground, kneeling down beside it. “I figured mine or Martin’s would do. The Captain’s not very friendly, Jon.”

“But what if they get lonely? We can’t split them up.” Jon’s eyes dart around the room, growing more conflicted by the second. “Perhaps we should keep them all at home.”

“There’s no room, Jon! And no one’s here during the day.” Martin surveys the room- the three carriers already seem to take up an enormous amount of space, not to mention the living creatures inside of them. And all of those packages, that damn tower…

“You can take them back and forth. Commute.”

“Christ, we did not think this through.” Gerry’s smiling even as he says it, watching as the Unfathomable Void slowly makes his way out, sniffing tentatively at the air. Walnut’s content to stay in her cage, and Martin tucks her in a corner away from the other two. Jon’s already got the Captain out, holding him in his arms and refusing to let him go.

“You’re right, we didn’t.” Jon agrees, tucking his face in the Captain’s fur. “We should’ve gotten four-”

“Fuck’s sake, Jon!”

“Let’s talk about this later, alright?” Gerry takes Martin’s place as the voice of reason, a rare occurrence. “We’ll keep them at home, let them get used to us, and then we’ll figure out the bookstore situation. No sense getting worked up about it now.” Jon sighs, cradling the mass of fur to his chest and plopping down on the couch. Martin’s sure they’ll be at it again tomorrow; Jon sniping as Martin tries and fails to put together a massive cat tower, Gerry groaning about whatever surprises the cats left for them in the morning. The next few weeks were going to be stressful, to say the least.

For now, though, he sits with his partners once again until midnight, watching their new additions roam about the flat and ignore each other. Jon frets, Gerry sighs, and Martin unsuccessfully attempts to steer the conversation towards anything but cats. By the end of the night, only Void manages to feel at home, curling up in Martin’s favorite armchair (much to his chagrin). Could’ve gone worse, Martin cheers himself with. They’ll get used to the flat. And the bookstore. Probably.

Later that night, once their partner’s asleep and snoring softly between the two of them, Martin turns to Gerry, borrowing Jon’s patented sigh.

“We’re gonna get a fourth cat, aren’t we?”

Gerry’s voice is just as resigned. “Yeah, reckon so.”

“Christ.”

-------

Others in the JGM series:

What We’re Given and What We Make

At the End of the Day

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945809

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #jonmartin #jongerry #gerrymartin #christ this is a lot of tags #pointless fluff honestly #but fun #when i picture jon's smile in this fic its messisauce's art tbh #you know the one

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bookphobe · 4 years ago

Text

PLUTO AS AN IMAGINED NETFLIX SERIES + (PARTS OF) TITLE CARD

tina can you please actually write instead of avoiding it by making graphics and daydreaming did anyone hear something?? no ?? ok good.. anyway... ive been seeing amazing netflix mockups of wips lately and decided to give it a try for pluto!

read below the cut for more info + taglist !

template i used for the netflix bits here. & if anyone's curious, the font i used for 'Pluto' is called NoMark

Here is pluto: the netflix series!!!!!!!!!! everyone close their eyes and imagine it... and pretend it's there and that it's good. okay. alright. i imagine the title card & credits bit to be more sophisticated- that's only a rough idea of how i imagined it hehe. writing scripts for shows & film is actually one of my writing dreams! visual media has been something i digest much easier than novels nowadays (just stating facts �� creating this blog is a part of my process of trying to get back into reading and Literature in general) and while things like shot composition and other aspects of filmmaking i'm less knowledgeable on, screenplays i find really interesting

Episode List

1. MORSE — Javi takes in a runaway. A young writer recounts his harrowing ordeal following his recent arrival to the town of Fell Island.

2. SWALLOW'S EDGE — Elsa adjusts to her new life, but her past keeps a tight grip. An experienced hiker finds themselves in a rocky situation.

3. WHAT'S IN A NAME — An odd presence visits the diner. A park ranger investigates a rumour surrounding the woods.

4. WONDERLAND — A chance discovery makes Javi question his decision. A determined mother shares her story and searches for her missing daughter.

5. FROM THE WOODS — Elsa tries to get closer to Nico, but her intentions are not what he thinks they are. Cosette puzzles over what she saw.

tv pluto is a bit different than book pluto in that book pluto is, in my head, much shorter than how i imagine tv pluto to be (about 2 seasons, 8-12 eps max?? 😗), and so there would def be more content added that focus on the interpersonal reationships in tv pluto. things like storylines etc would have to be shuffled around & adjusted as well because tv and word are different mediums after all. also pluto employs the framing device - there's an outer story, concerning the customers & employees, human and non-human (wink wonk), and then they spill their tales, the inner stories; the idea of exploring that concept on tv pluto, especially with the added advantage of visuals, is cool!! and ,,, a little bit ambitious tbh since the outer story is also complex-if not more-than the inner stories. that being said the tales told during the episodes are pretty short and won't take too much of the episode time so actually hmm there'll be enough room for everything i imagine. the show would have the same vibes as these images

(CURSED™️). lots of scenes would b framed as if you were just looking in, a bystander watching these people, or watching thru the pov of the town itself as it watches its organisms' every move. notable songs in this soundtrack (i will post a link to the spotify playlist soon 🤪🤪) include strange fruit by billie holliday, and you are my sunshine, sung by johnny cash (after seeing annabelle: creation that song has not ceased in reminding me of demons LMAO). i'm a big fan of innocuous enough songs being turned into songs being paired w things that r the complete opposite of its original vibe u kno it's so Unsettling

❤️ pluto taglist @carlyiswriting @berinswriting @nightmares-and-fireflies @aetherwrites @oasis-of-you @odysseywritings @haldimilks @chloeswords @isherwoodj @avi-burton-writing @themillionthdraft @ryns-ramblings @kitblogsthings @writingbyjillian @pamsdrabbles @piyawrites @bijouxs @ravens-and-rivers @spencers-tomes

#i imagine... a show would work too for tsonr #as for gods returned #if GR were to turn into a show it'd be animated definitely #atla-style or netflix's castlevania-style #wip: pluto #netflix #myedit #writeblr community #atlastracking #etherealcove #writing #writeblr

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poppysmc · 3 years ago

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I Don't Know How You Do It But I'm Forever Ruined

Notes: This has been sitting in my drafts for so so long, unfinished with a different song and Im just obsessed with this song right now so I thought I'd go ahead and post it.. sorry for the mistakes I don't have a beta so they're all mine. I'm just slowly getting back to writing again, please be patient with me. ❤️

Song: Off my face - Justin Bieber

(One shot)

Last and certainly not the least…. Ms. Morgan Hughes, she’ll be gracing us with her angelic voice, singing… uhh… Off my face? Thomas reads the cue cards, slightly puzzled, he thought Morgan would be doing stand-up, he and Morgan’s posse endured long nights of practicing her stand-up routine and now she’s just gonna sing, it’s not even vetted on.

He glances to the side, silently confirming if it was right. Morgan nods and smiles nervously. He in turn smiles back, giving an encouraging thumbs up and a whisper of ‘good luck’ as she takes to the stage.

Some of the audience chuckled at the name choice, adding to the ever growing lump lodged in her throat. This is definitely not her best idea and before she could go ranting about the title, some of her friends clapped and cheered, giving her a slight boost of confidence.

She wrote thet a few months ago, absently plucking at the guitar strings. She’s got the same few chords stuck in her head for week. Only god knows how she pulled the lyrics out of her muddled brain.

How does one go about sharing her feelings for someone who has no idea? Said someone sitting front and center with a scowl, sitting next to her parents. She has no idea she wrote it for her, she sighs in relief.

For a split second she could see Poppy’s attention snap up to her, smirking and raising her eyebrow in question. Morgan rolls her eyes at her and settled into her chair and just like Poppy’s face never moved, her scowl was back in place, listening to Chloe rant about her talent to her right.

She starts plucking out the intro, it’s now or never.

One touch and you got me stoned

Higher than I’ve ever known

You call the shots and I’ll follow

Sunrise but the night’s still young

No words but we’re speaking tongues

If you let me I might say too much

Sometimes people just enter your life and burrow themselves so deep into it that for the life of you, you couldn't remember when it all started. This case was different, Morgan could vividly remember a day it all changed, how it became harder for her to even look Poppy in the eye for more than a few seconds. How her warm touch roughly pulling her back to the argument now seemed to burn through her sleeves, pressure slightly softer. She used to meet her hot gaze, faces only inches apart spitting out vicious insults without thinking much, now she didn’t have the same fire in her veins she seemed to have arguing with Poppy.

The need to antagonize her fizzled into something else, a warmth that threatens to overtake her made itself a home in her chest.

---------------

Morgan wanted to stay home, as much as she enjoyed parties, it wasn’t something she wanted to do regularly. Sometimes it gets a little too much to handle, the music felt too loud, the people got too close, the eyes on her felt stifling. She wanted to be free just this one night out of expectant looks but Zoey is too convincing, her puppy dog eyes are too powerful for a mere mortal like herself. She made a condition to just be at the party no over the top expensive clothes, just herself.

“I’ll come but just to be your glorified chauffer.” She dresses herself in something simple, a pair of black pants and flannel. “I just want to be invisible this one night, Zo.”

“Fine by me, but if your fashion choices end up splashed all over The T tomorrow don’t come crying to me.” Zoey shakes her head, the slight dig on her wardrobe is softened by a thankful grin.

“You get dragged on The T once, and no one lets you live it down.”

“Because I’m pretty certain I said don’t go out in that, it’s suicide. So yeah I would never let it go, you wore socks with your flip-flops and had the audacity to show yourself in public.”

“It’s not even my fault, sunny ran out the door. I had no time to check what I was wearing."

“You’ll never learn. Whatever will you do without me?” Zoey smirks and shakes her head affectionately. "Stop stalling and let’s go. My carriage awaits dear chauffer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Please allow me to escort you down, boss.” Morgan bumps her shoulders with Zoey as she passes by to grab her jacket. She opens the door and offers her arm, Zoey laughs and loops her arms around hers.

The party was already in full swing once they arrived. The music was blaring; the bass makes Morgan’s chest thump along erratically with every beat. “Text me, okay? I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Sure. Thanks for driving.” Zoey winks and beelines for the bar. In a few seconds she loses sight of her.

Morgan trudges through the house, the crowd gradually thins as she makes her way farther to the back. She exhales in relief finally free of the maze of drunk students with no boundaries, nobody seemed to pay attention to her, thank god for the dim lighting. The backdoor swings open, she breathes in the crisp night air. The door shuts and party fades into muffled thumps. She sat on the porch steps, her side leaning against the banister, oblivious to the pair of eyes quietly observing her.

After a minute of silence, Morgan sucked air through her clenched teeth, surprised at hearing someone pointedly clearing their throat behind her. The rate in which her head whipped back almost made her dizzy. When she recognizes who the person was, she could already feel the headache coming through, she almost swallows her tongue in disbelief. Of all the people she didn’t want to see her tonight was Poppy, yet here she was, alone with her.

“What are you doing back here?” Poppy asked, voice devoid of any venom just genuinely curious.

“Do I need permission to be? Who made you queen?” Morgan scoffs, the slight bite in her voice comes through and makes Poppy smirk.

“Belvoire.” Poppy cheekily answers, earning an undignified snort from Morgan. The slight tension momentarily forgotten.

“Should have seen that coming.”

“The party’s raging inside and little miss newbie sits here. What are you doing, really?” Poppy asks not unkindly, voice tinged with concern and curiosity.

“I could ask the same to you.”

“I asked first.” Poppy frowns impatiently.

Morgan sighs, opting to just answer just to avoid trouble. She didn’t have the energy to make up excuses nor to argue. “I don’t feel like partying today. I’m just waiting for Zoey to get flat out drunk and drive her home. My turn.”

“It’s- It’s overwhelming inside. I just want to be alone for a while.” The honesty in Poppy’s answer momentarily throws her off.

“Do you want me to go?” Morgan asks, feeling like she’s intruding. This must be the longest record they ever had being civil to one another, actually speaking without the sarcastic comments and the insults. It makes her feel out of place and awkward.

“You could do whatever you want. I’m not the queen of anything right now.” Right, cause technically it's Chloe. There’s something in her tone that makes Morgan’s heart clench, yet she shrugs it off as the bass from the party. To Morgan’s never ending surprise, the blonde pats the spot next to her on the bench. “The floor is filthy.” Poppy clarifies when she makes no move to stand. A disarming smile crosses her face, Morgan guessed her hesitation must have been showing.

Morgan stands and dusts herself off. “Who are you and what have you done to Poppy?” She asks with a grateful smile, sitting down the furthest she could from the other girl.

“I have half the mind to kick you off this bench.” Poppy grumbles.

“There she is.”

Poppy huffs out a half laugh and after that there’s just silence. After a while she could see the slight tremble in Poppy’s hand in her periphery. She wordlessly shrugs off the coat she’s wearing and offers it to the other girl.

“What?” Poppy blinks, eying her coat suspiciously, making Morgan chuckle in disbelief.

“You’re cold. Take it or go inside.”

“Fine.” Poppy slips on the offered garment, appreciating the warmth it gave to her cold limbs. She wasn’t thinking while she burrowed herself further, letting Morgan’s scent envelope her. She stared at Morgan, feeling guilty for a moment. She moves closer, Morgan shivers when their shoulders touched. "Thanks." Poppy whispers, if it wasn't for their proximity, Morgan might have missed it. She hoped the shadows hid the small smile spreading to her lips.

“I’m sorry for taking your coat. I just couldn’t go back inside. I-” Poppy trails off, breaking her gaze away and staring farther up the yard.

“It’s okay, I offered. You don’t have to explain anything.” Morgan understood, after today everything changed, she lost her spot to one of her friends. Morgan was somewhat surprised that instead of Poppy's explosive anger, she opted to just sit here and mope.

She jumps a little when her phone vibrates in her pocket, she could see Poppy smirk in the corner of her eye.

"Jumpy."

She reads the text and taps a reply, frowning. She turns to Poppy. She doesn't even know why she's explaining but it felt wrong to just go without saying anything. A part of her wanted to make this moment stretch a little longer, so she hesitates.

“Apparently Zoey doesn’t need me to drive her back. So... I guess I'll head back home." Morgan stands not having an excuse to stay longer and makes her way to the door, hands hovering over the door knob to open it but not before doing something stupid like asking her so called enemy if she wanted to drive around for a while.

“So… Do you still want company? We could drive around for a while?” Morgan mentally chastises herself for the suggestion. Of course Poppy would say no it’s not like she-

Morgan looks back at Poppy, she sees her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. Morgan’s gaze flickers down to her lips, wondering if they’re as soft as they looked. The moment passed and she breaks her gaze away just as Poppy decided.

“Sure but let me just get my stuff.” Poppy stands and makes her way to the door, Morgan standing motionless, hand over the handle. She reaches for it, her fingertips grazing Morgan’s, the slight static made her pull her hand away abruptly.

“Sorry.” Morgan breaks through her short circuited brain and moves to hold the door open for Poppy. “I’ll wait for you out front.” Morgan makes her way back through the crowd, her mind reeling at what happened back there and what mess she got herself into.

---------------

She continued singing, her eyes accidentally meeting Poppy’s gaze again, her scowl was replaced by an unreadable expression, attention now focused solely on her and Morgan almost faltered. She breaks eye contact and stares at the back wall, ignoring the burning gaze upon her from those familiar eyes.

Your touch blurred my vision

It’s your world and I’m just in it

Even sober I’m not thinking straight

Cause I’m off my face in love with you

I’m out my head so into you

And I don’t know how you do it

But I’m forever ruined by you

-----------------------

The sound of the door opening breaks Morgan out of her deep thoughts. She could see Poppy walking towards her with a sour expression, she's still wearing Morgan's coat.

“What happened to you?” Morgan’s warm hands reaching out to her, settling comfortably on her shoulder. Poppy stares at her hands, she pulls it away like she’s been burned.

“Just drive.” Poppy mumbles, trying hard to be composed but failing.

“Where to?” Morgan pretends not to notice Poppy's agitation, barely glancing at her so she won't feel uncomfortable. She unlocks her car slipping inside while Poppy stares at the abomination in front of her.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful but your truck is… I don’t know how to say it without offending you? But maybe it could use a good wash? Like you drove through mud to get here. I don’t know, maybe we could go to a carwash, my treat.”

"That’s about the rudest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and you said a lot of insulting things before." Morgan rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t mean that Betty, you just got a little mud on you.” She murmurs quietly.

“You named your car… Betty?”

“What? No I didn’t.” Morgan could see Poppy’s amused smirk even in her periphery.

“You’re such a dork.” Poppy can’t help but laugh at her mortified expression.

Morgan distracts herself from the rapidly rising heat on her neck by fiddling with the radio before driving off. The sweet sound of the guitar filtered through the car and she smiles triumphantly, previous embarrassment pushed to the back of her mind. She doesn't notice Poppy's expression soften.

Morgan drives her car through the carwash. They watched the water and the soap assault her car, the material of the brushes made a repetitive sound along with one of her favourite songs. Poppy had her seat leaned back, watching the machine rid the car of dust and mud. There was something mildly intimate about it, Morgan could move her right hand then they would be grazing Poppy’s, she could do it, she wanted to do it. But all she could manage was a slight twitch in her pinky, her hand doesn't move any closer.

“Do you ever feel like there’s a hundred people around you in a room, yet you feel alone?” Poppy breaks the silence, tilting her head slightly to the left to look at Morgan.

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes people may be looking at you yet feel as if their staring right through you, like your nothing. Oh! Like a ghost.” This makes Poppy chuckle.

“Yeah like that. It would have been easier if we were ghosts at least then you know why.”

“Did you feel like that back at the party?” Morgan wanted to say how that would have been impossible that no one could have seen her, she’s seeing her now. She wondered how could anyone ever take their eyes of her, she always seemed to be the brightest thing in any room she entered and now even in this dingy carwash she looked so radiant. How sometimes she thinks that she picks fights with her just for a chance to be bathed in her light. Thoughts she doesn't think would ever cross her mind trickled slowly and became a raging river. Now that she found herself here with her, without anything familiar to fall back on, anything just to distract herself out of her dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, I don’t know. It was easier to be alone than surrounded but feeling alone. Do you get it? At least I know, I chose to be alone.”

“I get it.” If she had the ability to say more she would have but these few pathetic words are all she could manage. This time her hand reaches to squeeze Poppy’s. A quiet comfort to reinforce her words, she understood.

“Thank you.”

Whatever atmosphere they created in that moment fell apart when Morgan had to move her car forward and exited the wash.

“Where to now?”

“Your turn to choose.” Poppy mumbles, still staring blankly outside.

“Okay, I know a place. You're gonna love it."

“I’m not going to let you pick anymore.” Poppy complains, standing in front a fluorescent lit diner. It almost glowed but in a weird way, like a bat signal for the weary.

“Hey! They make the best food.” Morgan steps forward and drags her companion along when she hesitated.

Warmth and the ambient sound of cutlery grazing the plates makes Morgan smile. She always came here when she’s feeling lonely, missing her parents, their farm or when she’s stressed from school, for trying to fit in like a robot.

“Come. Don’t just stand there.” Morgan looks back at Poppy, her breath caught in her throat. Poppy looked ethereal against the most basic place there ever is. If you said diners were some kind of portal to somewhere else she’d accept it and move on, for she looked like she existed out of place, alien, untouchable as she was beautiful. For the second time this day her gaze flickers to Poppy’s lips, she realizes that she’s saying something and Morgan’s mortified of being caught staring like a fool.

“What? Is something on my face?” Poppy is thankfully oblivious.

“No, it’s perfect.” Morgan quietly whispers while Poppy checks herself in the diner’s window, her words falling into deaf ears.

Morgan balls up pieces of her straw paper places it over some torn up tissues, stacked together. She’s fidgeting under Poppy’s presence; she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

She's startled when Poppy lightly grasps her hands stopping it from tearing up another piece of paper. It’s been minutes of watching Morgan tear up even rectangles of several tissues, a girl could only take so much.

“You’re making a mess.” Poppy chastises her like a child. She would have laughed but Poppy still hasn’t let go of her hand, it’s making her blush like an idiot.

“Sorry. It’s just that the food is taking a while huh?” Morgan stealthily tries to take her hand back but Poppy only holds it tighter. When they're not arguing, Morgan found that she doesn't know how else to act around her.

“Stop tearing paper like confetti.”

“Sorry.” Morgan sheepishly apologizes and Poppy lets go of her hand, hiding hers under the table, flexing it, she could still feel the warmth of her hand in hers.

The food arrives and Morgan smiles widely. Poppy stares, pretending she's interested in what food Morgan ordered. She admits to herself that for all the times she stared at her she never noticed how beautiful Morgan’s smile was. Arguing doesn't leave one space to insert a smile. It made her heart skip, imagining how it would be like if it was directed at her.

She almost misses Morgan stealing a fry off her plate. “Hey! If you wanted some you should have bought your own or at least politely asked.” Poppy mock glares at her companion, taking one of the crumpled balls and flicking it, hitting Morgan right between the eyes. They watched as the paper landed right into Morgan’s half empty milkshake glass.

"Your face!" Poppy laughs, wishing she could have captured it on camera.

Morgan found that she liked Poppy's laugh when it was genuine. “You better buy me another. You ruined mine.”

“What? It’s almost all gone anyway. All the needless calories you’re consuming will bite you in the ass someday.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Just have the rest of mine.” Poppy slides over her milkshake, Morgan grins and takes a sip right into Poppy’s straw. Poppy noticed first, eyes widening. Did She just… A revolting question crossed her mind, how would ‘Morgan’s lips feel like pressed to mine.’ Shes never felt jealous of a piece of plastic before in her life.

Morgan freezes when she realized what she’s done. She just had an indirect kiss with Poppy through the straw. “Sorry. I got excited.”

Poppy opens a new straw for her water, blowing the other end right into Morgans face, another bulls eye, she’s killing it. “Don’t overthink it.” She dismisses the act but her brain does summersaults inside her skull.

They finished eating, the last few of Poppy’s fries stolen right under her nose. She pretends she doesn’t see her sneaking a few of the fries away, she just lets her. Mind preoccupied with important things like Morgan’s lips.

------------------

Can’t sleep ‘cause I’m way too buzzed

Too late now you’re in my blood

I don’t hate the way you keep me up

Your touch blurred my vision

It’s your world and I’m just in it

Even sober I’m not thinking straight

Even if she doesn't look or at least tries her hardest not to, she could feel Poppy's gaze on her, burning, willing her eyes to look back. There's something wildly intimate about singing a song to someone and in the sea of strangers you know it's just for them. No matter how many people sang it, to another, to themselves or just for the heck of it, the song only belongs to the person you made it for. Just for her. They could never feel the way she felt when she wrote it, how her feelings were entwined with every word.

In her periphery she could see Poppy stand and make excuses to her parents. She left, she didn't see where she went, she doesn't dare look anywhere near where she was, she's a coward like that. All she could feel is disappointment. It takes everything in her not to show it on her face. Was it too late to change her talent to stand up?

----------------------------------

"Come on Poppy, pick a place already. I've been driving around for hours! People will think we're stalking someone around here." Morgan whines in the driver seat taking yet another turn around the block.

"It's been exactly 20 minutes. You're such a baby." Poppy looks at her phone for any places that might still be open around this time. "Turn right, that's not right. Right! Not left."

"Great, now were going in circles. Pull over." Poppy grumbles.

"What?" Morgan looks confused for a moment but does what she’s told anyway, parking along the street.

"Get out." Poppy moves to exit the car.

"What are you..?"

"I'm not gonna hijack your car, just let me drive. You suck at following directions."

"...."

They switch seats, Morgan slumps and mopes in hers. Poppy fights back a smile.

“Would you look at that it only took 2 minutes.” Poppy smiles smugly.

“I did all the navigating you only had to turn once.” Morgan complains, getting out of the car and looking around the parking lot. “What the hell Poppy, a 711? You could have told me, I could have turned anywhere and found one.”

“Like hell you could. You don’t even know your left from your right.” Poppy laughs at Morgan’s offended expression. They walked in, shoulders brushing together and Morgan shivers, insisting to herself that it’s because it’s cold.

Poppy smiles, victoriously pulling out what they came here for out of the fridge.

“A freaking capri sun? We drove all the way here for that?” Morgan complains, ready to throttle Poppy. Though there’s something endearing in her expression, that proud smile for finding something she was looking for.

“Just go find something you want.” Poppy shoos her away, grabbing a few more pouches of juice. She shakes her head and walks off in search of snacks.

Morgan comes back with an armful of sweets and chips.

“We just ate. What are you doing? Take these back, I won't buy you all these.”

“You said something I like. I like them all. Come on aren't you rich?” Morgan dumps her haul in the counter, the cashier looking back and forth from them, looking for a sign that it’s okay to scan the items.

“Are you just an overgrown kid or what?”

“Pop, you just bought a juice in a pouch, you have no right to judge me.”

“Fine.”

Morgan carries three bags worth of snacks back to the car, Poppy not attempting to lift a finger just because she paid.

“Your turn. Pick a place.”

Minutes later they're on a cliff overlooking the city. Fading notes from a song playing in Morgan’s car filtered to the back.

“I'm surprised you didn't get lost.”

“I don't suck at directions. You're the one that sucked at giving them.” Morgan says in self-defence. She unlatches the back so they could sit on it, holding Poppy’s waist, helping her up. If Poppy noticed her hands shake, she didn’t say anything. They sat closer together, leaning against the side. She could feel the cold seeping into her shirt, making her shiver. Poppy notices and moves to take Morgan's coat off.

“No. Keep it on.” Morgan stops her, cold hands over equally cold ones.

“But you're cold.”

“I'm not.” Morgan attempts to refute it but her hands are freezing.

“I can see your teeth chattering.”

“I like it on you.” She smiles softly.

“What?”

“I don't want you to be cold. Just take it, don’t be stubborn.”

“If you speak of this to anyone, I would personally kill you in your sleep.”

“Why would you do- oh.” Morgan stared in confusion, then realization.

Poppy moved to sit in the space between her legs, leaning her back into Morgan, taking her hands and wrapping them to her waist. Her hands rubbing over Morgan's freezing ones. To say that she was now warm was an understatement, she was burning from the blush that overtook her body.

“If you wanted to be near me so bad you could've just asked.” Morgan grins, chin propped on Poppy's shoulder.

Poppy huffs and attempts to get up. Morgan's arms stop her, wrapping tighter, keeping her in place. “Don't move, I might freeze to death.”

“That's what I thought.”

They had a toast with the Capri sun pouches, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. They sat there talking for hours, the company was too enjoyable to give in to exhaustion or cold.

From the time they were talking Poppy shifted her position, now sitting on Morgan's lap, staring up at her while she told a story about their farm animals, making her scrunch her nose in disgust at one of her retellings.

They stared at the sky surprised to see the day chasing the night away. How long have they been talking? Morgan looks at her phone and even more surprised that it's nearly 6am. Time went by so fast.

“I always wanted to see the sunrise from here. Thanks for the company.” Morgan smiles softly, running her fingers through her hair to distract herself from Poppy.

No one mentioned how one of their hands are still interlaced together or how Morgan's thumb drew circles on the back. Especially not Poppy's lips softly grazing the underside of her jaw.

They watched in silence, both aware that as the night was done, so will this new moment they found together.

“I'll take you to back to your dorm.” Morgan reluctantly says, unwilling to move. It was Poppy who moved off her first.

Morgan slides off the back of her truck smirking at Poppy. “Want a piggy back ride?”

Poppy scoffs. But positions herself anyway, her arms wrapped on Morgan's shoulders, Morgan's hands holding her legs securely as she closes the small distance to the front of her car.

They drove back in silence, neither speaking of the moment, afraid it will be over soon.

Morgan stops her car in front of Poppy’s sorority house, tapping her fingers anxiously against the steering wheel. No one talked nor moved for a minute or two, they just stared at each other feeling the change in whatever relationship they previously held. Poppy’s alarm goes off, effectively ruining their moment.

“I guess... I'll see you later. Good Morning, Poppy.” Morgan smiles softly, hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles going white, stopping herself from reaching out.

“I’ll… see you later. Thank you for driving me around.” They both know they will see each other but not in the same capacity as tonight, they will be back to being rivals, enemies, whatever the school made them out to be. She could see Poppy fighting a losing battle against herself before she reached out and kissed the corner of Morgan's mouth. She turns away like nothing happened and exits the car without looking back.

-------------------

Cause I’m off my face in love with you

I’m out my head so into you

And I don’t know how you do it

But I’m forever ruined by you

Cause I’m off my face in love with you

I’m out my head so into you

And I don’t know how you do it

But I’m forever ruined by you

Morgan stands and bows to the applause, yet she felt empty. It all felt useless somehow, she wasn't even there to hear the rest of it. She makes her way backstage, turning the corner as the next talent comes up. She felt like running but before she could turn and walk away, Poppy pushes herself off the wall and approached her. She gulped, unsure of what to do.

“Your voice is very beautiful.” Poppy tells her, voice almost as soft as a whisper. She's searching Morgan’s terrified eyes for something. “The song, did you write it?” She asks all the while moving closer, hands fiddling with the lapel of Morgan’s suit.

All she could do is nod, not trusting her voice at the moment. She takes a step back and another and another until her back is against the wall but Poppy follows her every step. Thank god they seemed alone or she would have burst into flames in embarrassment. Poppy steps closer until their bodies are almost touching.

“Who did you write that song for?”

“I...”

“Tell me.” Poppy looks up almost pleading, wanting to hear what she hoped to.

“It’s for you.” Morgan presses herself even more to the wall, wishing it would just swallow her up. She closes her eyes but it flies open when she heard Poppy gasp. “Are you surprised or?” Morgan trails off, observing Poppy’s expression going from astonished, to happy and outright tearing up.

“I can’t believe you wrote that song for me, I thought that there was someone else.” Poppy breathes in relief, Morgan’s hands wrap around her waist, supporting her weight.

“Just you.” Morgan says breathlessly. Watching her break into a smile made all the nerves she had vanish. She pulls her into a tight hug, smiling when she feels Poppy sink into the embrace. Her head leans on her shoulder and she rests her cheek on her hair. Poppy pulls back and smiles before leanig up and kissing Morgan.

#poppy x mc #poppy min sinclair #fanfic #we dont hava capri sun only zesto #one shot #please go easy on me whoever reads

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scfttwice · 3 years ago

Text

lines and squiggles

> chaeyoung likes doodling “temporary tattoos” on jina. fans jump to conclusions every time they catch sight of the drawings.

jina adored chaeyoung's drawings. the latter had her own unique art style that distinguished her works from those of others. sometimes when jina saw chaeyoung doodling something, she'd eagerly sit by her to watch, or try to join in and draw something as well while asking chaeyoung for pointers. and every time jina did so, chaeyoung was always happy to guide her.

jina also loved chaeyoung's tattoos; some of them were designed by chaeyoung herself, after all. two out of the ones that weren't her design—the arrow heart under her right ear and the flowers on her left fingers—were designed by jina (and modified by chaeyoung), an honor which chaeyoung offered and jina gladly accepted. during some of their few lazy evenings, when the maknaes would do nothing in particular except lie around in their dorm's living room, jina would find herself absentmindedly tracing and admiring the tattoos on chaeyoung's skin while she busied herself with her phone.

during their 'more & more' promotions, as twice were waiting in a waiting room for their turn to pre-record their performance in a music show, chaeyoung spent the time sketching in her notebook. when jina noticed this, she was almost immediately at chaeyoung's side.

“whatcha drawing there, chae?” she asked, her question accompanied by a curious head tilt. chaeyoung grinned as she looked up at jina and showed her her notebook. drawn all over the page were various fruits and drinks—strawberries, grapes, watermelons, soda cans, and cocktails, to name a few—all in chaeyoung's signature style.

“you're such a great artist, chae,” jina complimented as she continued to admire the drawings, eyes scanning over the same page repeatedly. “you can make any lines and squiggles look like a masterpiece.”

“hey, your art has been improving too,” chaeyoung reminded her. “still, i'll never be as creative and artistic as you,” jina countered with a subtle pout.

chaeyoung only shook her head slowly in amusement as a response, before she gently took jina's hand and rested it on the table. grabbing her pink, purple, and red markers, she began drawing little flowers on jina's wrist. it made jina smile, out of both happiness and feeling ticklish.

chaeyoung had drawn on jina's skin many times before, mostly on her hands and arms. although she'd get ticklish every single time, jina loved it when chaeyoung did so. “it's like getting a temporary tattoo,” jina had remarked once. “designed by someone close to me, so it's much more precious.”

“will you ever stop being a scaredy cat and get a real tattoo?” chaeyoung had asked her upon hearing her comment. jina immediately shook her head. “no way. i admit, i'm way too scared for that.”

when twice were called to record, jina performed with her members on the stage just as they had rehearsed, having had completely forgotten about the flowers drawn in marker ink around her wrist. it wasn't until after they were done recording and were back in their waiting room did jina catch a glimpse of the colors on her wrist.

“oh no, i forgot about this,” she muttered to herself as she gently rubbed her wrist. “i hope it wasn't caught on camera.”

back in the dorm later that night, as the school meal club were having dinner together, the flowers on jina's wrist still hadn't washed out. not that she was complaining though, she loved them.

“uh, jina,” dahyun, who had been scrolling on her phone, called out while eyeing jina's “temporary tattoo”. “you might wanna take a look at this.”

jina turned her attention to dahyun, who showed her her phone screen. it displayed an article posted not even half an hour ago, talking about how fans online were in a heated debate over whether jina had gotten a tattoo or not. the article made sure to provide a zoomed-in picture of jina's wrist from their music show performance earlier, which clearly showed the colorful inked flowers.

scrolling down, jina found that even the comments section of the article itself was filled with heated discussions over the matter.

“i think jina really did get a tattoo this time”

“no way, i'm sure it's just chaeyoung's drawing again”

“it's exactly like the previous issue about jina's airport picture!! the hearts spotted on her arm weren't actual tattoos!!!!”

“the flowers....it looks like a real tattoo....”

“maybe it's just make up for this stage?”

jina let out a huff of frustration after skimming through the comments of arguing netizens. “looks like i'll have to give an explanation...again.”

chaeyoung was also reading the article and comments over jina's shoulder. she gave a sheepish grin as she turned her gaze to jina. “i guess i shouldn't draw on you right before we have to record.”

“even when we're not recording anything,” tzuyu chimed in. “our fans still manage to find chaeyoung's drawings on jina in any pictures.”

“they have a really keen eye when it comes to idols,” dahyun added in a lighthearted tone.

jina sighed. “yeah, that's true. i'll start a short vlive later, to clear things up.”

she stayed true to her words. she washed up after dinner and went back to sit in the living room, turning on a vlive on her phone titled “talking about my tattoo”.

in hindsight, the vlive title was a huge click bait, but at least it'd attract the attention of more people to watch. it would get the word out faster.

“hi, everyone,” jina greeted once there were enough people in, waving using the same hand that had the flowers. “i'm sure many of you are wondering about this,” she said while holding up her wrist.

“i actually came on vlive tonight solely to address this matter. i saw an article earlier, discussing the rumor that i've gotten a tattoo according to pictures of me taken during our music show performance today. but actually, it's not real. chaeyoung drew on me again, like she had drawn the hearts on my arm a few months ago. that picture of me also went viral and rumors circulated. so this time i wanted to quickly explain to everyone that i don't have a tattoo.”

the chat section of the vlive was full of differing reactions. some fans were disappointed, some were relieved, and there were even some who boasted about knowing the tattoo was fake from the start. jina stayed on vlive for a little bit longer to continue entertaining her fans, before she wished everyone a good night just after she had passed the 15 minute mark.

once the vlive was off, chaeyoung poked her head into the living room. “you're not asleep yet?” jina looked up at her and asked, a soft smile on her lips, which chaeyoung returned with a wider one. she walked over to jina and sat next to her on the floor. “i couldn't help but overhear your vlive,” chaeyoung said. “you shouldn't have told them the truth so soon. it would've been fun to watch them make funny theories.”

jina chuckled. “true, but i'd rather not let them make a big fuss over it.” chaeyoung nodded. “you're right.”

“so now that you cleared the rumors up, can i...?” chaeyoung trailed off, continuing her question by holding up an orange marker pen while smiling cheekily. jina laughed when she understood what it was that chaeyoung wanted. granting chaeyoung's wish, she held out her arm to her.

jina watched in amusement as chaeyoung happily doodled little paw prints along her lower arm.

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likecastle · 4 years ago

Text

In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.” Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier��s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought. “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

“No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

#the witcher #witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #gerlion #some background yennalt here #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #hairdresser!jaskier #i can't believe i wrote modern au witcher fic and still wound up writing a bath fic #the witcher fandom loves baths apparently #somebody please help me title this thing #i need a title that isn't when the rain washes you clean you'll know

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