#tuagonia writes twc

[tuagonia]

N Sewell, peacefully, listening to their favourite big band records from their extortionately expensive gramophone. Tumbler of scotch (neat) at hand.

Alone. In the living room. Lost in thought. Staring out the window while it rains (reminiscing?).

Every so often, their foot twitches (remembering a dance they shared to the tune?).

The detective watches quietly from the doorway (they don’t interrupt).

[tuagonia]

sunflower - mason x f!detective

pairing: mason x f!detective (mia garcia)

Summary: mason thinks about mia at the town’s florist.

rating: T

warning: i think there's like...one swear word.

word count: ~1.7k

note: lol ok since i flopped at getting mason x mia done for the hotwayhaven event.... i have been waiting to write this for a while and the amazing event organisers at @wayhavensummer finally gave me the excuse I was waiting for to fully indulge in this. thanks for hosting and putting in all the great work!! This is for Aug. 18 - Flowers.

--

They remind him of her.

Large and dangling free from her ears; brightly painted papier-mâché “monstrosities”.

That’s the word he’d used to describe them, making no effort to mask his distaste.

Instead, Mia smiled widely in response, reaching up to touch one at its faux-stalks. It stopped that distracting swing, back and forth with every slight movement of her head. Chuckling, and pride lifting her cheery tone, she told Mason she made them herself.

Lemony-yellow, mossy-green, the burnt-chestnut centre.

All crammed together outside of the tiny flower shop. Dozens upon dozens of them staring back at him; yellower under the blaze of the mid-August sun.

A makeshift sign stuffed among the mass of summer-ripe bouquets reads: “TOP QUALITY. Giant Sunnys £14 per bunch”.

Mason is just looking.

He tells himself there’s no harm in just looking.

And anyway, they’re hard to miss under the hot sun. It’s not his fault they’re in the way of his usual patrol route. Quite literally.

Bundles and bundles of large sunflowers, taking up the pavement. Usually, grey and cracked, now overrun with the sight of them. The florist’s quaint store looks like a child’s plaything next to the dramatic assortment.

He has to blink, thinking the sunshine and its heat has started playing tricks on him. It’s almost as if they multiply; little suns with their earthly centres, drawing him closer.

From the moment he rounded the corner to the main square, he never stood a chance against the brilliance of them.

Mason should have kept moving. He doesn’t have time for this— to stop mid-patrol, to idle in front of flowers.

But they remind him of her.

Not just of the — and his lip curls at the memory — weird handmade jewellery.

(A set for every occasion.

Cakes and candles for colleagues’ birthdays, candy canes for Christmas, glittery hearts the size of her fists for Valentine’s Day. Tiny pieces of reflective plastic shedding onto her delicate neck).

They remind him of the sunshiney smiles. The ones she so easily tosses his way, like they’re never any work, like they could never go to waste. Always patient, always bright, always...happy.

And as he glares down at them, he realises they don’t offend him. The observation renders him sceptical, partly convincing himself he’s stopped to figure out why he hasn’t felt repulsed at the overwhelming powdery aroma.

It’s not floral. No. Instead, it reminds him of...reminds him of… Mason racks his brain and frowns accusingly at the vivid flowers opened up at him.

Mason reaches for one, fingers wrapping around its surprisingly sturdy stalk.

He’s still just looking. He just— he just needs to get a closer whiff to figure this out.

Honey. That’s what it is.

Mason’s frown deepens at the realisation. His grip on the flower shifts, the skin of his palm uncomfortable against the fuzzy stem.

Bright and honey-sweet.

(There’s that memory of her kiss, soft and saccharine as powdered-sugar; should make his teeth hurt.)

The crown of gold petals distracts him, fills him with a warm something that he’s more desperate than annoyed to figure out. He can’t place it, can’t place it, can’t place it— wants to know it.

Maybe it’s the frustration of chasing after the unnamable thing that makes him forget the purpose of stopping, the reason why he plucked the flower to begin with.

...so distracted he doesn't hear when the round-cheeked vendor pops their head outside of the shop, all smiles that he feels nothing for (not her like smiles, though. Nothing like her smiles).

They mention the weather and ask if they can be of any help, but Mason’s attention slides back to the sunflower in his fist. But he shakes his head, unconvincingly but he’ll never know.

It’s the heat, he thinks. The arse-end of nowhere town at the tail-end of an unforgiving heatwave.

But just as he’s about to slot the stalk back into its bucket, the vendor stops him— shaking their head emphatically, their grin growing by the second. They sweep of their hands in a take it, take it, please motion, and send Mason off. They shoot him wink from overly-kind eyes.

Like they might be in on some big secret, and Mason will be the last in this entire godforsaken town to know.

There’s no harm in taking the flower, Mason insists, staring down into its dark-brown centre.

He’ll hold onto it until he can find the next rubbish bin, and in the mean time he’ll try not to think about how it reminds him of the dusting of dark freckles across her nose.

(He gets it now. He gets it when he’s with Mia.

He understands — finally — why everyone before her kissed his freckles like they wanted to taste the stars.

Her galaxies, his constellations. Every time they meet, Mason expects a seismic shift to take them asunder.)

His usual strides have shortened, his pace slower than normal, his senses overwhelmed by the true yellow of its petals.

For a moment, Mason forgets all about the patrol and just...walks.

It’s a quiet and lazy summer day. The sun (high and hot) urges residents to stay in the shade, seeks refuge in cool indoors. The streets are empty. Sleepy. So, he takes his time, the crease on his brow deepening with every side street he takes.

It’s hot inside his boots. That’s the only reason he’s leaning against her tin can of a car, outside of the station, holding this ostentatiously large flower.

A quick detour for some shade. That’s all it is. And when there’s a whisper of a breeze, rustling the leaves of the tree above him and the little crown of petals in his hand, it’s all the more cooler.

Mason can hear her colleagues moving in and out of the station, but pays them no mind as time moves on, still staring down at the flower in his grip. It’s far too large to twirl it with sturdy fingers, forcing him to keep studying it and wondering what exactly about it brings Mia to mind.

Lively, but not intense.

(Her laugh, he guesses. Loud and clear, broken up by giggles. The sound of it never jarring.)

A drop of sunlight, buried underground. Persists and blossoms through cracked earth.

(Her kindness, he ascertains. Not to be mistaken for weakness. As easy as she can dole-out radiant smiles, her sharp tongue can just as quickly follow.)

...like he’s been holding a piece of her this entire time.

The taut pull at his cheeks is foreign, and he lets the corners of his mouth drop.

Pointless because Mason hears a familiar drumming, a quick skip he’s grown used to over the last years.

He looks up just in time to watch Mia push through the station’s glass doors. At the top of the steps, she stops to survey the car park, and he feels a flutter in his chest when he realises those brown eyes are searching for him. He confirms it when her gaze lands on him and...that smile (the beating inside his chest is ten-fold) breaks out across her face.

She shields her face with a hand, squinting against the harsh glare of sun bouncing off windshields. With easy, unhurried steps she walks towards him and he drinks in the sight of her.

That scratchy yellow cardigan that’s become synonymous with Detective Garcia is nowhere to be seen. Probably thrown over the back of her office chair and forgotten, along with whatever work she’s been putting off all afternoon.

Dark curls scooped up and away from her neck, gives Mason a great view to the line of her throat and down her naked shoulders. A sage strappy shirt stretches down her small frame, trying its best to keep her cool in the heat...reminds him of the stalk in his hand.

He tenses.

Mia’s eyes flicker to the sunflower he’s holding and her smile (fuck, that smile will be the end of him) grows and grows.

All teeth (white, and...harmless with the dull edges) and she gives an airy chuckle.

“That for me?” she asks with one eyebrow lifting into a curly fringe.

Pushing off the car, Mason musters up his best grimace and fights back the fear fighting its way up his spine. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know why fear is the first thing that possesses him when she stands this close and gestures to the flower with a tilt of her head.

Before he can respond, before he can let his tongue and fear get the better of him— Mia makes for the sunflower in his grip.

Fear tells him this should be a mistake. This memory must be a mistake; one that he’s sure will be the only one to matter in a dizzying spiral of time: Mia smiling down at this sunflower.

The leaves rustle again, and sunlight filters through, dappling the deep brown of her hair.

She makes it easy, never has to wrestle with the feeling for too long before she distracts him. If it’s not a quip, it’ll be an expression that should not be equal parts funny or cute. Spears Mason somewhere deep, somewhere he doesn’t think he’s touched before— doesn’t know if it could ever be before her.

Mia speaks to the flower, a lone fingertip running over its petals. “It’s very pretty.”

Mason watches her stroke the large leaf at the stalk, leaning in nose-first to catch its scent at the centre, eyes fluttering shut. Dark lashes meet her cheeks, and he follows the line of her freckles (darker in the summertime).

He wants to take his time here too, with the same pace as he did those side streets (seeing parts of Wayhaven he would have never traversed without coaxing).

“Yeah…” his voice is rough and unused, studying as she looks up at the way the branches move above them. Sunlight casting down on her, and that easy smile fixed on her lips. “Very pretty.”

[tuagonia]

this perfect place - ava du mortain x f!detective

pairing: ava du mortain x f!detective

summary: the detective undoes ava’s hair after a long day.

rating: T

warning: nothing really, just kissing.

word count: 570ish

note: i saw a piece of ava art, i wrote a thing. i love my wife.

--

Late summer shadows drape down the walls.

There’s the quiet silhouette of sleepy leaves and the obscure edges of her bookshelf, trapped between shade and golden light spilling through the window. At the centre of it all, the firm outline of her hand.

Lithe fingers, softened at the joints, unspooled hair slipping past her knuckles. Tickles.

This is Genevieve’s favourite part of the day.

She fits here comfortably. Perfectly. And the thought is just the thing she needs to crack her smile wide open. If Ava were looking at her, she’d ask (with subdued hesitance) to share what Genevieve finds so amusing.

Instead, dark blonde eyelashes brush the tops of her pale cheeks; her green irises hidden. Her lips, pink and promising, parted as she relaxes into Genevieve’s touch.

It must be Ava’s favourite part of the day too.

Sinking into the couch, her body sags in relief. At ease, soldier— Genevieve would quip. But traces of the commander persist. In the wide, but sure, spread of her legs. Her boots planted firmly on the carpet, and tensed shoulders in line with the cushions.

Every afternoon, she finds her place (this perfect place) on Ava’s lap. The way she leans back just enough to welcome Genevieve; an arm bracing her at the waist. The way she wiggles her boots into the fibres of the floor; safeguarding the seat she makes for her.

It’s how Genevieve knows this is much more than just love. This camaraderie. This enigmatic gravitational movement of bodies.

This is their favourite part of the day.

The gentle...gentle...gentle tug at the tight knot of Ava’s hair. Genevieve’s practiced fingers. Golden strands coming loose. Bright, aureate afternoon sun filters through the gaps of her fingers, threading through thin tendrils.

She runs her touch from Ava’s scalp, to its ends (staggers at a knot or two); helps regain its shape after a long day wound at the back of her head.

Gentle… gentle… gentle with her nails and—

—Ava sighs.

Her thumb (resting at Genevieve’s hip) twitches, starts an easy rhythm and brushes at the fabric until she can stroke the sliver of skin there.

Genevieve grazes her nose at her temple. Ava is lemongrass (maybe), last night’s shampoo (possibly), and that thing she can’t place but equates to the softest skin she’s ever kissed (surely).

Ava tilts her head, eyes finding hers (drowsy, glazed over, content), and nudges her nose with hers.

The impossibility of their kiss, like the soft pressure of Ava’s arm, encouraging her closer, will never stop surprising Genevieve. She calms the eager rush to touch, to claim, to take. Countless times Ava has soothed her frantic racing heart, her jittery palms, with an “I’m here. I’m here now.”

No need to state the obvious. No need to say: “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instead shows it with the firm press of her lips on Genevieve’s waiting mouth, free hand cupping her face as Genevieve’s undoes her hard work at the back of Ava’s head. Her hold at Genevieve’s waist brings her closer and she tips her head back; gives into the unyielding kiss.

Their shape in the shadow (fading by evening’s greedy ingress) is an indecipherable nothing. But to Genevieve it’s everything.

To Genevieve, it’s the perfect place.

[tuagonia]

reverie - nate sewell x detective

pairing: nate sewell x detective 

summary: Nate unwinds in the bath after a long day. (aka i wanted to talk about nate not fitting in a tub, just shh...let me have this.)

rating: uhh… T? nothing, really, but he is in the bath.

word count: 448

note: i don’t wanna talk about it...

--

He slicks his hair back. 

Darker, heavier, dripping. Long fingers catching over the shell of his ears, stopping to cup the sides of his neck.

Eyes (with the droplets clinging to already wet lashes) concede with a tentative flutter, serenity working into reluctant muscles. Perfumed water with bergamot and lavender suds hugging and slipping down the planes of his chest. Sweet, light foam gliding off a ribcage, floating away and forming part of a larger colony.

Gentle pressure works the knot at his nape, rolling his head in agreement.

A stream of air blows past wet lips, features (with rolling, rapid rivulets sliding down the high points of cheeks) twisting into brief discomfort. Upper lip curling to one side, a flash of teeth bared at no one while fingertips knead the skin warm.

Another breath, fuelled by contentment and laced with simplistic delight.

Bathwater dribbles down the side of the clawfoot tub, pools at its golden base. His feet kick up on the porcelain lip, unable to accommodate the full stretch of him. Ankles crossed one over the other, they twitch in response (a reflex he has carried with him from his previous life) to a dreamy tune of impressionist paintings forged into melodies. 

The slight movement causes a delicate silver chain to glitter in the light, roped where his leg finally ends (resting wet on the brown flesh stretched taut over firm bone). 

Another twitch and more water trickles down from powerful calves-- from the sleek and smoothed over dark hair of his legs.

An endless arm rises from the lukewarm depths and lays across the brim. Elegant, pianist fingers tap along to a grainy tune playing from the gramophone in the corner. 

It’s silent, despite the occasional clumsy slip, metal ring clinking on porcelain as he chases after the running arpeggios.

He hums, barely audible, as to not upstage the art in progress, but shows his appreciation nonetheless. The first note, rough in his throat-- smoother the longer he warms the folds there. A tremulous melody not quite reaching the edges of the intended rhythm, stretching to welcome the quaver.

The crackle of the needle running over the silent groove fills the room. A frequency he has come to enjoy over the years. Finally, he has a sound he can attribute to the murmur of peace.

“My, my,” and he rolls his head along the bath’s high-back, stopping when he faces the door (a rogue pearl of moisture skates down an eyebrow, down the side of his face, craddling the underside of his stubbled jaw). Eyes gently fluttering open, dreamily staring ahead, he greets his favourite guest with a soft, lazy smile. “It appears I have an audience.”

[tuagonia]

mistletoe - adam du mortain x f! detective

Pairing: Adam du Mortain x f!detective Summary: The detective catches an unsuspecting Adam under the mistletoe during the division’s holiday party.  Rating: G/T (to be sure).Pretty tame, just fluff. Warning: alcohol mention. Word Count: 2.3k  Note: I just really really wanted to write this scene that cropped up in my head during a  f u n  bout of insomnia. I’d like to think this takes place teetering on the edge right before the deep romance sweeps these two fools away. Anyway i used this fic as a way to get over my fear of writing for twc and to get to know my detective... before i launch into the other ideas i have.

—

It’s not that she’s drunk.

No. Not drunk. 

Happy, most definitely, and loquacious. More than the usual amount of conversation that he’s used to. And more laughter. 

Definitely more laughter. 

It’s an unrefined, rough, pitched-at-the-end sound he’s grown used to (fond of?) over the last year. 

Where the more uncouth the subject... the more untamed it becomes, and fighting the stiff edges of his mouth to remain in place becomes an active task.

There’s something so unsuspecting about it too, like how everything concerning her has been up to now. 

Olivia dances with Felix and Nate, and his oldest friend attempts to teach her how to move with the steps that feel like a lifetime ago. Where her shoulders, ankles, hips twist and she turns on the spot.

She sways with the motions of days gone past, as if she’s caught time in her hands — the elixir to it in her mug of wine clasped firmly in her grip — and Nate praises her. 

Adam didn’t catch the name, he didn’t care for it six decades ago and he doesn’t think he’ll bother remembering it now. But he’s certain it’s something as ridiculous sounding as it looks... if she weren’t doing it surprising justice.

When she spins in Felix’s arms, the silver, sparkling discs of her dress catch in the station’s white light and he’s dazzled...more than he usually already is.

No. Not drunk.

Just happy.

In the handful of instances she stops by him during her social rounds, she asks if he wants anything -- a refill of the uninspiring wine? -- and his responses are short. Yes. No. Good. Hmm. And when he doesn’t have the words he manages a slight shake of his head or a passive shrug.

Too distracted by the smile on her face, the mischief he can see twinkling behind her eyes. Sometimes, he can believe it. That she was a troublemaker, up to no good with too much time on her hands, and not this...woman...this decorous facade of pencil skirts, unscuffed heels, and neatly ironed blouses.

He can hear it in the deep, unearthed tone she takes when she lands a passing, unassuming, coquettish comment.

The reason he keeps his answers mono-syllabic.

He watches as she hovers over the snack table, where the food has undoubtedly gone cold, compiling a paper plate of random assortments and grabbing a tin of soda. And when he can no longer see her, he follows the sound of her heels out of the main floor towards the entrance -- barely visible from the wall he’s been hugging all night.

Olivia places the plate on the officer’s desk currently on graveyard duty. He's been longingly listening to and watching the party taking place just a few steps away. But he thanks the detective kindly, playfully clinks tin against mug of wine. 

She meets his eye on the way back -- brief, ever so brief -- before turning her gaze downward.

“You should come,” she said, directing her attention to the rest of the group. She avoided his stare, almost always avoiding his stare when it came to matters of bypassing his jurisdiction. But flitted reflexively to him, and then swivelled back to Nate and Felix (briefly over Mason), and she repeated. “All of you. You’re practically honourary members of the division.”

And although she didn’t say it to him, Adam knows (hopes?) she expected him to answer the invitation. 

Earlier in the evening (much earlier because how long is this going to go on for?), Nate asks him if he’s enjoying himself and Adam muddles together a gruff answer.

His response, with the words “work commitment” hardly audible, prompts bark-like laughter from the second-in-command and claps him on the shoulder before heading back towards the crowd. 

At the end of the night, which finally arrives right when Adam decides he can’t take another rendition of the tracklist that’s been on loop for the past four hours, he stays behind to help the detective clean up.

He sends the rest of the unit home, much to Mason’s relief and much to Felix’s displeasure, and volunteers to make sure the detective catches her cab and gets home safely. 

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself after Felix winks at him, corralled out of the station by Nate.

And then they’re alone... save for the officer who’s gone on his break. 

She moves about space, clearing paper cups and forgotten plates of food in a large garbage bag. And she talks, and talks, and talks. 

Adam loses track of what exactly, he’s just too busy listening to the quality of her voice. A little hoarse after all the chatting over the music and enthusiastic laughter. It gives it a new edge, one he could grow to like -- the sudden deep, tender quality of it. 

Definitely not drunk as she launches into a spiel about something or other Nate taught her last week.

She tends to do this, jabber on about absolutely nothing in particular when it’s just the two of them. And although he prefers silence, he welcomes it. Because sometimes she’s not actually talking to him, instead using the stoic agent’s still presence to bounce ideas off of. 

Not like he minds. 

He’ll be whatever she needs him to be.

Adam tenses, unaware of where the thought could have surfaced out of so easily. He shocks himself out of his trance, out of following the detective around the room with soft, measured steps. Out of the unconscious non-committal noises he punctuates breaks in her speech with. 

He stops just short of the doorway of the kitchenette. 

Olivia turns to face him after dumping a number of coffee cups in the sink. She quirks an eyebrow, wiping her hands in a tea towel before casting it aside. Her mouth opens, but whatever witty remark she has ready dies in her throat.

Adam can’t decipher the zoetrope of emotions that flicker then disappear, hiding and lurking behind a wily smile. Her mouth is the colour of wild berries, purples and reds, and the crisp jasmine notes in her perfume remind him of a frosty mid-afternoon -- low winter sun in his eyes as he wades through a forest.

He can’t look right at her.

Gleaming winks of silver, a peek of white teeth, and a twinkle behind a dark curtain of hair.

“What?” 

He can scarcely recognise his voice, mostly a husky and unexpected croak. 

A full view of pearly teeth and the stretch of Mondeuse Blanche shiraz-coloured lips.

Adam almost misses the throw-away manner she points a finger up in the space in between them. For a fraction of a second, he’s distracted from the sudden kick of her heart and flickers his gaze to where she’s directing him.

Obnoxious oval-shaped gold leaves, thickly crowded plastic branches, and pearly-coloured fake berries hover in the space he’s decidedly placed between them. His stomach lurches in immediate recognition of the artificial plant.

“Mistletoe,” she chuckles an airy sort of sound. Different from all the crass, rough gleeful noises she made all night. 

A sound, maybe, she might wield against his sanity?

Adam’s gone rigid, the heat he’s been staving off all night makes a mockery of him, only egged on by the tugging of her lips when he glances back down at her. 

She steps closer and he can’t react fast enough, genetic mutations damned under her vexatious gaze. Her heart thumps a little heavier, a chaotically determined sound he can’t fend off. 

His own heart starts up that racket he’s grown to call reckless. 

“I heard,” she begins, so close now he can see the little scar on her nose from an old piercing. Tannin, oak, and jasmines -- the sparkling and sweet scent of violet from her lipstick, “that it’s bad luck...to refuse a kiss under the mistletoe.”

The click of the ‘k’ and the hiss of the ‘s’ in that word hanging so heavy in the air, the breath of its remnants brush his cheek. Faintly, his mind wanders between two realms. One of old wives tales and superstitions where a kiss is required for every berry in the bunch and, the second, how, if it weren’t for those heels, where would that breath have landed instead?

Her sly grin is tickled by his lack of response, the stiffness creeping into his muscles and his conflicted expression.

“Commanding Agent, do you -- maybe -- want to help me…” she begins, another step closer and this time he doesn't think he wants to move, “fight off any unnecessary misfortunes?”

Adam doesn’t recognise himself. He doesn’t know where it comes from, or how he’s sanctioned the movement of his body. It’s minimal, but to Olivia, who has spent the last year fighting off the hunger from the nearly nonexistent mementoes, it’s colossal. 

The smug smile on her face nearly slips.

It’s the tiniest, faintest, barely discernible half-nod as his gaze refuses to leave the curve of her lower lip. Fuller, rounder... he’s thought of the seam of her mouth longer than he’d like to dwell on.

She moves forward and there are no thoughts just the drumming in his chest that pounds a deafening beat. Her hand finds his first, a comfort from the heat roaring inside him, and he responds by tracing the lines of her palms with jittery fingertips. 

Olivia shivers and why does that thrill him? He wonders how long until she decides to put him out of his misery.

Please. Please. Please. The thumping against his ribcage wants to meet the erratic pulse of hers.

Roused by his response, her other hand so warm and soft draws a curious path up his arm, over the swell of his bicep and past his shoulder before it hesitates to fully press at the back of his neck where he knows she can feel fevered skin. 

It takes her an eternity, staring up at him with hooded eyes, dark fluttering eyelashes almost touching the tops of her cheeks. And he’d wait until whatever comes after that eternity.

This is the closest she’s ever been to him and he can’t help but revere the details he once took for granted. 

Olivia rises and the hand behind his neck cautiously coaxes him to meet her. 

And then, right as he thinks the world beneath his feet as he knows it will be thrown off its axis, she tilts her head a fraction and the hot press of her mouth meets his blushing cheek instead.

She lingers and everything amplifies. 

She is a dizzying bottle of Chianti, left out in the sun too long, and warming him all the way down with each indulgent sip.

A field of blooming shrubs of jasmines.

Warm, brisk, spring morning sun.

He hears her deeply inhale, and does he have the same effect on her like she does on him?

His heightened senses register the moment she parts and moves away, suddenly cold and left with the weight of the cream of her lipstick.

Her touch is deliberate, soaking up the feel of his skin, the fine hairs at his nape, under her gliding palms -- and she settles back on her heels.

The imprint of her lips remains on his cheek, willing it to singe him -- mark him -- so he never has to forget what they feel like. The pressure of her mouth, the moment her breath shuddered. 

Olivia makes to touch his cheek, to wipe away all evidence with the sweep of her thumb, but Adam stops her. He catches her wrist with reflexes she’ll never get used to.

He closes his eyes and he tunes in to the demanding call of his heart, thundering, thundering, thundering. And it won’t still. 

Just a moment longer. 

Is what it would ask.

Just a moment longer, so he can memorise the feel of her mark on his skin -- of the instance she cherished him, made room for him, during a fleeting blip that will be her life. 

Olivia moves again, fighting against the gentle strength of his hand, and she rubs the pad of her thumb once, twice, three times. Until the smudge of her affection is reduced to a memory.

She smiles, unlike the smiles she shared earlier. There is no arrogance, no teasing, no playful ridicule. 

She smiles -- with those lips that have touched him.

A sharp ringing echoes in the tiny kitchenette and, like he’s waking from a deep sleep, he blinks away the haze of their bewitchment. 

As if nothing happened, Olivia digs into her purse, sources her mobile and answers. The conversation is brief, he doesn’t follow any of it, still reeling from her magnetism.

“My cab’s outside,” she says when she hangs up. 

Still paralyzed, Olivia meets his eye and grins, before she drops her gaze to the floor.

She shakes her head and releases a small, anxious laugh. She touches his arm when she moves past him, out of the kitchenette, and heads for the exit.

He watches her leave, listening to the light click-clack of heels, still shaking her head and-- he practically hears the smile in her voice when she calls out behind her. 

“Happy holidays, Commanding Agent du Mortain.”

--

Note II: Yeah, it’s The Twist. Nate was teaching Felix and Olivia the twist....because I said so and because i hc N being really into the 60s/70s music scene....long legs.....in....flared....jeans. So many typos. But if I didn’t post it when I did I was never going to post it.

[tuagonia]

wip whenever 

saw @hartfeld share their wip and thought...mayhaps...i share too?

She juts out her chin— gesturing to the filing cabinet Adam leans on, wordlessly requesting access. 

The movement is fluid, side-stepping one another in a brief, but odd dance: imposing figure versus lithe lines. But she’s close again. Close enough that he can unpiece the notes in the fading perfume she spritzed on her wrists this morning (smoothed over the sides of her neck where spring’s first heat has warmed skin).

Without sparing it a second glance, the stamped page is tucked away in a suspension file. Olivia gives the drawer a light shove and it glides to a close; and with it the smell of aging paper and fresh ink.   

Honeysuckle, amber and—

She props an elbow at the top of the metal cabinet, the side of her face squishing into her palm (round, soft cheek), and she studies him with an impish look.

I know something you don’t know.

you see this? i tag you, you are it and i (politely) demand to see what you’re working on.

[tuagonia]

wip wednesday

just feeling particularly proud of something I’ve been working on for Adam (hitting a wall right after I came up with the opener) and thought i’d share:

let me put it under a cut for implied/inference to nudity lol, 18+, dni if not. Just to be on the safe side.

Maybe the rock will crumble under his hold. 

Staring at her, drenched in August sunbeams, Adam can’t comprehend how he is still standing, breathing, after finally learning the grace of her arms, her thighs, her heat.

And here she is again, bared before him, treading through the stream. Ethereal, sent from Achelous himself, she gazes at Adam as if he’s worthy of her reverence.

[tuagonia]

i’ve gotten to a point in this fic where i’m like: “what was the point of this again....?”

[tuagonia]

i didn’t manage to finish this drabble/turned fic for nate x eva, from the Wayhaven Monthly prompt list - yesterday’s (22nd) word: fairy tale.

But it sounded something like this:

It is simply too easy to be bewitched by Nate.

...and that was just the problem with Nate.

When Eva thinks of love, she does not envision bouquets of freshly cut flowers delivered to her desk, deep procolomations of passion and devotion scrawled on neatly folded parchment (her named signed in his ink), or the lost time spent talking into the early hours of the morning where voices grow soft, hoarse, peculiar.

She does not recognise it as her own, nor the words she speaks.

(and the bla bla bla bla and then ends all sad and then swaps to Nate’s pov and it’s his turn to give his take)

--

It is simply too easy to be captivated by Eva.

...and that was just the problem with Eva.

[tuagonia]

Will we get to see more of Adam and Olivia soon?😏

you been spying on me, anon? did you bug my computer? how did you know i’ve been hyperfixating on the near-centenarian vampire and the loudmouth detective?

i’ve got wips lined up for these two...here’s a preview of what’s to come if ever get my act together lol

“The River” fic - adam x olivia mendoza

Extortionately priced medical textbooks fill her mind, glossy pages fanning out on her dorm’s floor— roommates tip toeing into gaps of a forgotten carpet. 

It’s all rippling, taut muscles— latissimus dorsi flexing, overlapping with the twist of his oblique.

Hard ridges and clean lines creating grooves, adorning his body like some ancient carving. 

A language she doesn’t recognise, but is earnest to master its fluency.

this one just has the working title Time - adam x olivia mendoza

Adam watches her toss a weathered manila folder on the desk. He answers with a quiet hum.

“You wanted to...” and he hates that she’s making him say it because what does it even mean, really? He exhales a defeated breath. “See me?” 

She smiles that incorrigible smile, like she’s been clued into a damning secret — one that, without a doubt, involves him.

and i’ve got another one with the working title that just says cigarette thoughts - not too sure we’re i’m going with that one yet. 

[tuagonia]

Hey!

I love your Choices story and I'm playing TWC now, just wondering if you've a master list for that as well?

Oh hello you, you sweet sweet lovely anon!

Thank you for dropping by and for expressing interest🥺.

I will put a masterlist link in my bio soon. I haven’t done so because I only have one story called Mistletoe for Adam x f!detective. But you can find any stories for the time being through: #tuagonia writes twc 

(or, alternatively, if you want to block fics)

Thanks again <3

[tuagonia]

it’s happening. i’m writing the green dress fic.

[tuagonia]

masterlist

works rated E/M will be tagged as nsft/n*fw and will link to my AO3.

adam du mortain x olivia mendoza

mistletoe - T -the detective catches an unsuspecting Adam under the mistletoe during the division’s holiday party.

that stupid ache - M (on AO3) -the detective contemplates lighting a cigarette after a night with bobby, and has a tense conversation with adam.

wip: be the overflow

wip: time

wip: prompt - accident

nathaniel “nate” sewell x eva gonzalez

darling, darling - M/E (on AO3) -eva was never meant to read the words nate penned late one evening.

nathaniel “nate” sewell x nb!detective

reverie - T -nate unwinds in the bath after a long day. (aka i wanted to talk about nate not fitting in a tub, just shh...let me have this.)

mason x mia garcia

wip: pressed flowers and charcoal lines

-