#I feel like he just has a random assortment of tattoos all over that he got over the years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeojaa · 4 years

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( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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sidespart · 4 years

Note

For the fake fic title, if you're still doing it: Why do you hate me? (I honestly don't know where I came up with this lol)

X-Men AU!!! Found Family + Anxceit friendship. TW: child soldiers, child endangerment, abuse etc

(So typical X-men universe set up: some people are born with the X gene, which typically triggers during puberty, giving that person a mutation which normally results in cool powers. Many people hate mutants for their differences (/ bad press of people using their mutant powers for the evilz) and so most mutants live in hiding. The Xavier Institute is a school set up by an extremely powerful mutant which seeks to provide a safe space for young mutants to learn to manage their powers, get a regular education and hopes to see peace between humanity and mutant kind. The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants is a group of mutants who believe humans will never let mutant live in peace and do various anti-human, pro-mutant vaguely terrorist-y actions (there’s like a billion version of the x-men and these details may not be correct for all the versions all of the time because comics but this is the vague idea))

ANYWAY PLOT - Containment breach at the Super Secret Child Soldier Lab (SSCSL) - Subject VII has escaped. Subject VII is only 6-7 years old but his mutations were artificially triggered much younger than is normal. He can warp reality and create very sophisticated illusions, but has very limited control over his powers.

Cut too - Virgil and Dee, a couple of teenage mutants living on the street. They find a little boy with a buzzcut wandering around The Bad Part Of Town and Virgil immediately decides they need to adopt/help him (Dee makes more of a fuss about how this is not their responsibility and the kids barely even talking and do you know how hard I work just to keep you and now you wanna add another mouth to feed?? Huhh?? but obviously does not actually say no) (Dee is like. Barely any older than Virgil he’s just dramatic).

Naturally, just as the three of them have had time to bond, the SSCSL and other assorted bad guys show up to try and take VII back. There’s a big fight, Virgil and Dee have a lot more experience with flight and would probably have ended up dead if the X-men (Patton and Logan) hadn't shown up to save them.

But they lose VII.

Patton and Logan take them back to the Xavier institute to recuperate and offer to let them stay. They can go to school there, get some training and help the X-men track down VII and the whole SSCSL. Virgil says yes, Dee says no.

(So, reasoning - Virgil's mutation developed when he was 12. It was not pleasant. Various students at his school were injured and the media set up a which hunt for the mutant that caused the chaos. Virgil ran away from home because he was worried about the backlash on his family and about hurting anyone else again. So to him, this school full of mutants who can help him control his power, can offer him stability and a return to normal structures and routines, who are promising to help him get in contact with his parents if and when he’s ready?? This is like every fantasy he’s ever had come true

Unlike the other characters, Dee’s primary mutation is physical. He was born with it, its very obvious and its resulted in him being rejected for most of his life. He bounced around increasingly disturbing foster homes before running away when he was very young, so most of his memories are of living on the streets and surviving on his own. So, to him, number one: all adults are inherently untrustworthy idiots and number two: stay at a school? where they expect him to have a curfew? and, what - write essays? follow all their random arbitrary rules? rely on them for food and heat and all that shit? Completely ludicrous.)

It doesn't occur to either of them that the other one isn't going to agree with them. The resulting argument is epic and cruel, both hurling accusations at the other (Ungrateful /controlling are two of the big ones..) and both basically feeling hateful and 100% betrayed. Dee leaves and although they look for him, he’s got a lifetime experience of hiding and they cant find him.

CUT TO - 5 years later. Virgil is a (semi) well adjusted 19 year old junior X-men. He’s still a bit withdrawn, but is very close with Patton and Logan. He’s still holding out hope of finding VII one day and still firmly pretending he’s not listing out for any possible news of Dee (there were rumours some years ago of him joining the brother hood of evil mutants but then it all went quiet) who he, of course, hates for his betrayal.

BUT THEN - mysterious knocking at the door in the night. Dee, now wearing a hat and cape and calling himself Janus, has returned. And he’s brought with him a little boy with a buzzcut and a tattoo of XXII on his foot.

Janus and Virgil need to put aside their resentment and work together to help XXII, who really does not seem interested in helping them, and hopefully use any clues he can give them about the SSCSL to track down VII. But that's difficult when they’re both still struggling with their own trauma and have no idea how to reconnect - both of them want to ask why do you hate me but are a bit too scared of the answer. ...

This already got way to long so mutant power/ extra back story descriptions under cut!

Patton - 22/27 years old. An extremely powerful telepath/empath. It takes him serious concentration and focus to not hear peoples thoughts and its almost impossible to not feel their feelings. Some people dislike him because of this as they feel he's spying on them. Grew up in the Xavier institute and 100% believes in and is committed to the future where humans and mutants live in harmony. Has pretty limited life experience in the real world. Sometimes floats. (inspired by professor X)

Logan - 21/26 years old. Fires destructive laser beams from his eyes. Was in a car accident when he was younger leaving him with permanent but apparently harmless brain damage - until his mutation developed and he slowly realised that no matter how much he trained he just couldn't control his power. Has to wear specialised eye guards at all times to keep himself from accidentally destroying everything around him. Had big plans to go to university and was angry at his mutation for a long time for getting in the way of that. Eventually enrolled online and is now a very dedicated teacher at the Institute. (inspired by cyclops)

Janus - 15(?) / 20(?) His primary mutation is lizard/snake like scales over most of his body, but especially the left side. Has oversized fangs, and yellow eye and a short lizard tail. His secondary mutation makes him immune to almost any sort of mental based mutation (so Logan could still knock him on his ass with his lasers, but Patton cant sense anything form him and Virgil cant whammy him). Spent a lot of his life on his own and got by being sneaky, cunning and charming. Initially took Virgil in because he saw that his powers could be useful for keeping them both safe, but eventually Virgil became his first real friend.

Virgil - 14/19. Shadow manipulation and ‘draining’. Virgil can make himself (and with practice, people he touches) literally disappear into the shadows. He can also direct shadows as powerful energy ‘blasts’, but in order to do so he has to drain any surrounding living things of their energy. When his mutation first developed he took out half of the school hall where his exam was being held, leaving 15 students in a coma. (inspired by rouge/shadow cat)

VII - 6? / 11? Reality warping/illusion powers. One of the institutes first successful subjects. He was able to escape by changing the wall of his cell into a door. He finds it hard to talk but can project his ideas as lifelike illusions who can talk for him. One of his best is the image a handsome grown up Prince and he will often use this Illusion as an avatar to communicate. When he was 6 he did have some hazy memories of outside the SSCSL and expressed a desire to go home. Current status is unknown.

XXI - 7. Illusion powers (reality warping has been removed from the program by his time as subjects proved too difficult to control). Has no memories of outside the institute and is extremely uncooperative with his new captors/guardians. He does not understand the affection they’re trying to show him and lashes out a lot, often by creating a lot of extremely disturbing and graphic illusions. Bites.

#sanders sides #anxceit #virgil sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #fake fic meme #remus sanders #sidespart writes #x men au #giving it its own tag because ive been thinking about this one for a while and might do some more with it.#Anonymous

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Text

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 9

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her new friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid. (Baby Spence)

pairing: Fem!OC x Spencer

word count: 4.1k

content warnings: tattooing/tattoo aftercare, mostly fluffy!

A/N: hi! it's been a while since i updated this series, but i love it too much to leave it behind and i'm also always going to be obsessed with sub!spence. anyway, all my tattoos are stick and pokes atm so if some of the tattoo stuff if a little off, i'm sorry!

masterlist

it's really a matter of principle that keeps me bound to the promise. if I were a weaker woman, I would back down from the chair, would have shaken my head and told JJ that no, actually, I will not be getting something permanently inked on my body purely for the fulfillment of a bet.

but with most of the team around me and a couple flutes of champagne flowing through my veins, I give in. it's going to be small, even though I'm not going to see it until it's done. Penelope and Morgan being in charge of the design scares me, though. I start to get nervous that I'm going to end up with a unicorn tramp stamp.

"where are you gonna get it?" Garcia nudges my shoulder once we get inside the tattoo parlor. her eyes are traveling over all the intense artwork, which I can already tell is very much not her style. the walls are covered in intricate prints from past customers.

I think to myself for a moment. if I'm being completely honest, there's one place I've been meaning to get a tattoo, but never have. it's easy to hide, which is good. as long as the design they choose isn't horrifically embarrassing, I'll do it.

"I'm thinking..." I pull the waistband of my jeans down a little until it's right below my hip bone. "there."

"sexy." she says suggestively. I laugh.

"depending on what you guys have decided to give me, yeah." I angle for a hint, but Penny isn't caving.

"are you ready?" Morgan asks, having returned from the front desk area, where he's been talking to the artist. I take a deep breath, peer around at the rest of the team. we look like an odd bunch in here, an assortment of ages all gathered in a dark tattoo parlor.

Spencer's watching me with a concerned expression and I realize that I've been staring around for a decent amount of time. he doesn't say anything, although I've noticed that he's got a certain face he makes right before he does-- and he's making it.

"Clea, are you sure you wanna do this? you don't have to." JJ touches my shoulder suddenly. I realize that they think I'm genuinely worried and I let out a laugh.

"yeah, I'm fine," I turn to Morgan. "lead the way, handsome."

the tattoo artist has me lie down while he preps all his tools, snaps on his gloves. everyone sees me on my stomach and Emily gasps.

"are you getting a tramp stamp?"

"what? no," I giggle. "I'm gonna get it here." I show them the spot I just showed Penelope, and Spencer raises his eyebrows. Prentiss whispers something in Morgan's ear and the suave agent smirks.

"you're gonna like this." Penny grins. I glance at the tattoo artist to see how he reacts to that statement, but he's got a good poker face, unfortunately.

"are you being serious or are am I gonna hate all of you?" I ask.

"maybe a bit of both?" Spencer says in a slightly higher pitch, looking pleased to be in on the joke. I stare at him in disbelief.

"he knows what I'm getting, too?" I point disdainfully. Morgan laughs at the attitude.

"I told him on the way here."

I shake my head slowly and turn my attention to the boy genius, who is hiding a proud smile. there's a boyish quality to it that makes me feel a little better. I have to pull the side of my pants down as I turn on my side for the artist, and a peek of my black underwear makes Prentiss let out a whistling noise. my cheeks turn pink.

"shut up."

"are you ready?" the tattoo guy asks me. it's only then that I notice we're close to actually getting this done. I have no idea what's going on my body-- but there's no time like the present, right?

"sure."

it's the buzzing of the machine when he finally touches the needle to my skin that surprises me more than the pain itself. I feel myself resist the urge to move away, but I'm still enough for him to keep working.

"how's it feel?" Emily asks.

"like getting a tattoo." I wince. Penelope softens, looking between her coworkers guiltily.

"oh no," she complains, then comes over to me and grabs my hand in hers. "is this better?"

I squeeze tightly at the stinging sensation across my thigh, but she doesn't pull away at all.

"yeah." I smile. everyone is watching me intently, so much so that it puts me off a bit. "can we talk about something, maybe? it doesn't help when you're all staring."

"sure," JJ grins. "so..."

the pressure to start a conversation kills any potential for one, and then Spencer clears his throat. "anybody wanna see a cool magic trick?"

I snort and the rest of the team lets out a chuckle as the genius pulls a deck of cards out of his pants pocket. Morgan pats his shoulder. "I hope it works this time."

"it worked last time!" Reid protests, but his cheeks have taken on a slightly rosy hue. I watch him shuffle the mysterious deck and do some fancy tricks that I've never seen before, the corner of his mouth quirking with a sudden air of confidence.

Penelope is still holding my hand, and I can feel the metal of her sparkly rings pressing against my fingers. I choose to focus on the theatrical movements that Spencer is definitely using on purpose instead of the strange, sharp pain.

he fans out the cards and shows them to me, smiling. "pick a card, any card."

"hmm..." I tap my chin thoughtfully and stare at the bright red designs covering the back. I wonder if it's a rigged deck, or if he actually knows tricks. he doesn't seem like the type of person to be into magic. but then again, Spencer is full of surprises. I grab a random one in the middle, pluck it out and memorize it. a red six of spades.

"alright, then..." he grins and slams the deck back into one neat pile, then does some weird shuffling move again and shows the fanned-out deck to Morgan this time. "your turn."

Morgan's gaze flickers between the cards and Reid's face, which is trying to suppress a smile. the dimple on the right side of his cheek twitches once. when Derek taps a card near the end, Spencer nods and does the same thing that he did when I picked one.

except this time, as soon as he's got the whole deck together, he taps them a bit too hard and they go flying. fifty-two-pick-up style, Queens and Kings and Jokers tumbling to the linoleum floor in a defeated descent. my eyes widen and second-hand embarrassment rolls in, followed by the team's stunned silence.

I even feel the tattoo artist falter a bit in his work.

"oh." Spencer says. JJ puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Spence, it's fine."

"no, no, it's not-- I practiced this, like, fifty times last night--" his face is bright red as he drops to his knees. Penelope glances once at you and you return her stare with a pitying expression. Emily goes to help him, then Morgan and JJ.

"let me just..." he gathers up the remaining cards that they hand him, putting them back together into the pile again. I watch as he goes through them, somehow counting at lightning speed before frowning. "we're missing one."

everyone looks around, but it's obvious that there aren't any more stray cards lying about. I feel bad for him, not only because it didn't work but because he practiced it so much. I've been wondering what he does on the weekends-- magic tricks never even crossed my mind.

then Spencer's face lights up.

he comes over to me and gestures to my side, right by the spot where the tattoo artist is working. "may I?"

"uh--" I glance down at where he's pointing, the small patch of bare stomach. "sure?"

his fingertips graze beneath my tummy, between my skin and the smooth leather of the tattoo table, and snatch a card out from under me. it's barely a touch, but my breath hitches in my throat. my fingers tighten just slightly around Penelope's.

he holds up a red six of spades. the enormous grin on his face gives him away. "this wouldn't happen to be your card, would it?"

I gasp and nod, amazement on my face before it's wiped away by the sharp pain of the needle. Spencer displays the red six of spades to the whole team, then basks in their surprised applause.

Emily's smiling in disbelief. "you really had us going for a second."

"wait, wait--" I poke his leg and Spencer turns to me. "how did you do that?"

there's no way he could have hidden it there without me knowing; if he had slipped a card beneath my bare skin, surely I would have felt it. but the magic man just shrugs and shakes his head at me.

"a good magician never shares their secrets, Clea."

this time, the blush spreads over my cheeks. he's cocky right now, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not enjoying it. he's in his element, I realize, even if it is an unexpected one. and as he puts the cards into his back pocket, the group erupts with questions.

he's done magic before in front of them, but they seem to be awestruck by his performance this time. admittedly, I think the whole klutz act really added a nice dramatic element to it.

I'm mostly quiet for the rest of the tattooing process, although everyone else is chattering about the trick and how well the ink is going to turn out. I'm still wracking my brain for ideas of what they chose, but I honestly don't know. I've been banned from peeking.

maybe this was a mistake-- I've only recently joined this team, and already allowed them to decide what's going to be on my body forever. at least it's small. and maybe I'll actually like it; who knows?

when the artist lets out a satisfied sigh and turns the needle off, however, I find myself twisting around and staring frantically at the new design.

"oh my god."

it's a tiny airplane, with two dotted loopty-loops behind it. just small enough to be adorable.

"what do you think?" Garcia asks, eyeing it herself. they all gather around to admire the new design that sits on the outside of my upper thigh. I giggle.

"I love it."

"don't sound so relieved." Emily laughs. I can't help the bubbly excitement in my stomach.

"sorry, I just didn't know what to expect."

Spencer is staring at the ink when he turns to the tattoo artist. "how long until you think it'll be healed?"

the guy stands up to get treatment stuff for it. "I'd say about two weeks, but it varies from person to person." he leaves to grab cling film.

"I thought for sure you'd be the one to know that." I smirk at the genius. he shoves his hands in his pockets, makes sure the artist is out of earshot, and then looks back at you.

"I do know." he scoffs.

"uh huh." I laugh.

"actually, for the record," he lowers his voice. "I'd recommend at least three weeks instead of two. the last thing you want is infected flesh."

"yum, Spencer. thanks for that image." I smile with wide eyes and he shrugs.

...

it's quiet when I shut the door of my apartment shut behind me. I've got a bag full of supplies with me to clean the new art, and I'm feeling lethargic after getting lunch with the team. because Rossi wasn't around to foot the bill, I made the mistake of offering to pay.

we've got the day off after the most recent slew of cases, so I've determined to spend the rest of my day well. I could curl up with a nice documentary, or I could scrub my kitchen and do a little tidying up around here. god knows the film of dust on my bookshelves needs to be wiped away.

oh my god.

am I boring? maybe. possibly.

I shake the thought from my head and bring my things into the kitchen to organize. after spending a few hours cleaning up, I go out grocery shopping, then come home to sit down with a book. my errands take up so much time, I don't even notice the DC sunlight sinking beneath the harsh lines of the city, drenching my apartment in a silky darkness poked through with lit lamps.

it's already 9pm and I kind of want to hang out with someone, but I doubt any of the team wants to spend any more time with me than they did before lunch. or they might have plans with their families.

well, I know one person who definitely doesn't have plans.

I pull out my phone and hit Spencer's contact before I can talk myself out of it, knowing full well that it's not a big deal but still becoming a little nervous. it rings three times before he picks up.

"hello?"

"hey, Spencer."

"Clea. what's-- what's up?" he sounds more confused than anything. probably because I just saw him about an hour ago.

"I know it's late, but do you wanna come over? I'm bored and I feel like you know more about tattoo cleaning than I do." it's a weak excuse.

"why would I know more about tattoo cleaning--"

"you know damn well why, Reid," I laugh. "don't fish for compliments."

there's a slight laugh on the other end of the line before he replies. "I'll be over soon."

I wait patiently, preparing two mugs of coffee in the meantime. I'm sure we'll both want the caffeine, because I have no urge to turn in early tonight. my stomach twists a bit when he calls to tell me he's here, and I go to let him in. I'm not nervous.

except I actually am a little bit nervous when I open the door and there's Spencer with a shy smile and a coat that's a bit too big for him. it hangs off his narrow frame, and I realize that it must have just started raining. his hair is wet and there are dark spots on his clothes where the water has seeped through.

"get inside, my god." I move aside so he can come into the apartment and warm up. he walks in, looks around at my walls. I realize that he's never been here before. "welcome to my humble abode, Dr. Reid."

"it's nice." he compliments without much emotion. I lock the door and turn just in time to see his hand shaking at his side.

"thanks. let me take your coat." I glance out the window, where I now notice the rain pelting the glass.

Spencer shrugs off his jacket and hesitantly lets me hang it on the hook by the door before turning to him with my hands on my hips. "so, how are you?"

"I'm good," he smiles a little and runs a hand through his hair. "I actually read an article on the way here about those psychedelic mushrooms we were discussing the other day."

"is that, like, our thing, now?" I joke and gesture to the couch, where two mugs of hot coffee rest on coasters. he sits down gingerly on the cushions, sitting at the very opposite end of the couch from me.

"I can send it to you, if you'd like." he smiles.

"please do. I've been hoping for some titillating reading, recently." I hand him the mug and he stop before taking a sip.

"how many sugars did you put in this?"

"relax, genius, I'm not out to get you--" I catch his eye. "yet."

he giggles and takes a sip, then another. the smile tugging at my lips is too obvious for my liking; I'm just glad that I got the amount of sugar correct. it would have been funny to ambush him with a sweetness attack, although I think making him come here in the rain was punishment enough.

"have you ever had oat milk?" he asks out of the blue. I frown.

"yeah, why?"

"just wondering. I'm lactose intolerant and was considering trying it."

"you're lactose intolerant?"

"mhmm." he nods enthusiastically.

"I watched you eat three yogurt cups in a row yesterday." I chuckle at the memory of it. he eats so much and remains as skinny as a telephone pole.

"I love dairy." he shrugs it off. I pull my legs up beneath me on the couch and give him a serious expression.

"well, personally, I think oat milk tastes horrendous and it makes me want to vomit, but you should try it."

"noted."

we start to talk about various nondairy alternatives for coffee and it ends up being a surprisingly fun conversation. talking to Spencer has its own charm-- it's not just a conversation, it's a fully immersive experience. from his ambitious vocabulary to the unconscious gestures he makes, all of it keeps me hooked.

I rest my cheek on my palm, elbow leaning against the back of the couch while I nod along to him talking about almond farming. he's got a disdainful expression on his face as he brings up its environmental consequences, punctuating every few sentences with another sip of his coffee.

the rain is still pouring outside. thunder occasionally rolls over the sky and shakes the windows in their panes. my eyes flit from his face to the view when a flash of lightning catches my attention.

"--sorry, we should clean your tattoo." he seems to catch himself mid-thought, realizing that he came here to help me and not just rant about the business of almonds. I smile.

"no worries. this stuff is interesting to me, too."

"there's this documentary out now about it, too, that I've been meaning to watch."

"really?"

"yeah!" his face lights up. "if you want, we can--" he clears his throat. "we can watch it together."

he blushes as he says it, and I can tell that he's worried about how his intentions will come off. he can't take it back, so he runs the pad of his index over his middle finger and fidgets in a subtle way.

"that sounds like fun." I don't want him to feel weird. we've only hung out a few times, and I'm sort of looking forward to it.

"great," he straightens and adjusts his shirt, which has gotten slightly rumpled from his curling up on the couch. his tie is crooked, too. "where are the cleaning supplies?"

"in the kitchen."

"perfect, we should be doing it in there anyway." he stands, pushes a bit of his hair behind his ear while he waits for me to follow-- and I do, albeit with a wince from my tender side. it doesn't hurt as much as I expected.

he follows me into the minuscule kitchen and doesn't hesitate to start going through the things the artist gave me to take home. there's some foam wash and special moisturizer for it, not a lot. it's small enough that the care will be minimal, which is reassuring.

it's only when Spencer's washing his hands that I realize I'll need to unbutton my pants again in order to reach the tattoo. which means this is about to get at least slightly awkward for the both of us.

he turns around just in time to see me unzipping my jeans and his eyes widen.

"how else do you expect to clean it?" I laugh, and he gulps, visibly. his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and he nods in understanding.

"y-yeah, of course." his eyes are everywhere but on me. suddenly, my kitchen walls are incredibly interesting.

I shove down the waistband of my pants until they're just below my upper thigh, then I sit up on the counter and clear my throat. "I can cover some of myself if that makes you more comfortable."

"no, no, that's okay--" he speaks too quickly, then recognizes his mistake. "it's okay. this shouldn't take very long, anyway."

without another word, I shrug and watch him delicately peel away the film. his fingertips are back to barely touching my skin, just like when he pulled that card out from beneath me, and I stop breathing for a moment.

there's also a gel-like substance under the covering, which he tells me is just standard petroleum jelly. Spencer moves with a near surgical (and altogether unnecessary) precision. his eyes are glued to my skin as if forcing them not to stray to my now exposed panties. it doesn't feel sexual at all because it's not, thankfully.

when he uses the foam wash and begins to rub it into my skin, he frowns with concern and looks up at me. "is this okay? you can do it yourself if--"

"it's fine, Reid," I answer too quickly this time. heat rushes to my cheeks. "I honestly thought this was going to be a more complicated process than it really is."

"it's pretty simple, especially for something this small." he shrugs. "obviously, you don't want to get it infected, so I'd just think of it as treating a cut."

silence in our respective positions at the moment makes me nervous, so I change the subject.

"magic tricks, huh?" if anything, I need to distract myself from the way his hand is rubbing over my skin in a totally nonsexual and platonic way.

he relaxes a little, lifting his gaze to mine with a somewhat pleased countenance. "yeah, I love magic."

it's like peeling back a corner of wallpaper and seeing a shade of red beneath; not a lot, but enough to pique my curiosity. "a man of science?"

Spencer shakes his head at the air of faux sophistication I pour into it. "the world needs some wonder."

he says it in an offhand way, although I feel the weight of it from the way he runs a damp paper towel over the last of the cleansing foam. his touch presses into me and his eyes are lowered in a slightly distant way.

"how long have you been into it?" I fight the urge to ask a million questions at once.

"since I was a kid," he jerks back to attention. the grin on his face tells you just how special this is to him. "I used to buy all the books and practice for my mom constantly."

"did you ever do the trick with the never-ending string of handkerchiefs?" I recall one of the only classic moves I know. Reid laughs.

"that one's easy."

"what about the coin behind the ear?" I throw out another one.

Spencer straightens, doesn't even bother to set down the paper towel, before reaching up behind my ear and pulling away with a shiny quarter set between his thumb and forefinger. "you mean this one?"

there it is again, that confidence I saw in the tattoo parlor. he's standing just close enough for me to notice, and I grin as I snatch the metal out of his hand and set it on the counter beside me. "thanks."

"no problem." he laughs.

"you should do that more often."

"the coin trick? I'd go broke." he jokes. I laugh at the rare appearance of Spencer's playful side, hoping to get a bit more of it before we have to go back to being serious at work.

"magic in general, I mean. I think it would brighten up the office a bit."

he thinks about it for a moment, washing his hands again. the sound of the faucet reminds me to put my lotion on my leg. I get to it while he thinks of what to say.

"yeah, maybe you're right."

"I still find it funny that you're into that kind of stuff." I say honestly. of all the things for him to nerd out about, this feels almost comically unexpected. but Reid only gives me a shy smile before replying.

"it always made my mom laugh when I was a kid."

"is she also good at it?"

"tricks? no," he chuckles. there's a washcloth between his long, slender fingers that he's been using to dry them for the past two minutes. at this point, I think he's doing it to keep from fidgeting. "she says it's an old fashioned thing, and that only made me wanna do it more."

"well," I cap the bottle and set it down on the counter, pull my jeans up and lean against the counter with a smile. "I like old fashioned."

Spencer gives a friendly smile. "me too."

taglist (add yourself here or message me to be added/removed!): @reidsconverse @donald4spiderman @awritingtree @gingeraleluke @bewitchedbibliophile @multixfandomwriter @xoxomgg

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metalheadkells · 3 years

Note

Can u do the sunday morning walk of shame au drabble thingy.❤️❤️

“We met each other on a Sunday morning, both doing our walk of shame” AU

“Too old for this shit,” Marshall mutters to himself as he gingerly crouches to retrieve his keys from where they’ve fallen to the floor of his car, careful not to exacerbate the soreness in his muscles.

He catches his reflection in his side view mirror when he rises to his feet, and winces anew at how awful he looks, rumpled and unshowered and sallow-skinned. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, his brain keeping him up with obsessive playbacks of a hookup that had turned more than a little weird earlier in the night. The worst part is, he can’t blame anyone but himself for it. He had opened the lid on some of his most closely guarded kinks, deciding for some reason that that was a thing he wanted to do with a random call boy about five times bigger than him and a decade his junior.

Marshall shoves away the utterly humiliating scenes that try to creep back into his consciousness and slams an iron door over them, shuddering with the mental effort it takes.

Focus, asshole.

Keys in hand, Marshall locks his car and ensures the brim of his hat and the hood pulled over that are firmly in place before slinking into the convenience store, empty but for the clearly sleep-deprived cashier and someone else perusing the assortment of Hostess snacks.

Marshall keeps his head down and moves quickly, snagging two Red Bulls and a bag of plain pretzels. He’s furiously debating between Cool Ranch Doritos and a Slim Jim, because god damn it he needs a not-depressing snack right now, when someone jostles him, immediately putting Marshall’s body on high alert.

His heart races and his hand goes to his phone in his back pocket as the guy says, “My bad, man,” in a voice that sounds worse than Marshall feels.

Marshall doesn’t respond, and doesn’t look at him, backing up to put a safe distance between them and turning to resume his miserable shopping.

“Hold up,” the guy says, like a realization is dawning on him, which… “Eminem?!"

Fuck.

Marshall whirls around and shushes him aggressively, his temper flaring. “Be cool. What you want, an autograph? If you have a pen on you, I can - ”

“Bruh,” the guy says, and at least he’s lowered his voice so as not to ping the drowsy cashier’s radar, “You don’t even fuckin’ recognize me, do you.” Marshall glances up into his face for the first time, blinking. And…

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Wow. Nice, dude.” Machine Gun Kelly curls his lip, awe giving way to pure scorn like he’s stepping into a well-worn costume, which isn’t even as ugly as the literal costume he’s wearing - a painfully bright neon green sweater with a transparent panel in the front that exposes a slice of his tattooed chest, ludicrously oversized jeans that appear to be covered in black paint splatters, chunky silver hoop earrings just large enough to be considered effeminate.

“You’re blocking the chips,” Marshall says, keeping his voice perfectly and infuriatingly level.

Kelly’s glare grows even fiercer, somehow. “Fine, whatever. I’m too hungover to fight your old ass anyway.”

Marshall takes a deep breath through his nose. “You don’t wanna antagonize me right now, trust me.” “Ha, sure. You pissed yourself when I touched you just now, but sure. I’m super threatened.”

Don’t explode don’t explode don’t explode don’t explode

“Fuck you, have a nice day,” Marshall manages, gritting his teeth and starting to take his Red Bulls and his depressing pretzels over to the cashier, not even caring to resolve his Doritos vs Slim Jim dilemma anymore.

“Wait, wait,” Kelly blurts, sidling up to block his path once more, big palms open in front of him in apparent surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, stunning Marshall into stillness. “I had a rough night. Like, a really rough night. But I’ve put so much thought into what I’d say to you if we ever ran into each other like this - which by the way, what the fuck are the odds - and I don’t wanna fuck it up just ‘cause I feel like ass.”

Marshall stares at him for a moment, and then, when he doesn’t elaborate, says, “Well? I don’t got all day.”

Kelly grimaces, and Marshall wonders if he’s already regretting apologizing. “Just, like - I need a minute, alright, my brain ain’t all there.”

“You can’t blame that on the hangover,” Marshall snarks, “It’s the first thing I ever learned about you.”

Unexpectedly, Kelly looks more tired than angry at this comment. “Fuck, man, I’m tryin’ here.” He scrubs a hand over his face, drawing Marshall’s attention to his red-rimmed eyes, to the fresh bruise blooming on his left cheek and the specks of dried blood caught in his wildly tangled hair.

Something catches in the center of Marshall’s chest, and because he’s weak and exhausted and really fucking stupid, he says, “C’mon. We can talk in my car. I’m not tryna hang around here long enough for some other asshole to recognize me.”

Kelly shrinks a bit, fidgeting and casting his eyes around the store skittishly when he says, “Um. A’ight.”

“You’re not gettin’ anything?”

“Nah,” Kelly says, “I’ll just wait for you.”

Marshall buys him a packet of Sour Patch Kids from the checkout counter anyway, and when he quietly hands them to him as they’re walking through the gas station to Marshall’s car, Kelly gives him this look that’s as wide-eyed and grateful as if he saved his fucking life, or something equally significant. It makes electricity shoot up Marshall’s spine, and he instantly thinks, No. Anybody but him.

And yet, he is folded into the passenger seat of Marshall’s car, and he has sugar crystals on his fingertips and the corner of his mouth, and he is confessing dangerous truths as freely as blood pouring from an open wound, and Marshall is maybe kind of fucked.

#emgk #anon #asks!#mine #m: fic #requested #longer than i expected...uh. ok lol

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yansurnummu · 4 years

Text

Gingerbread (AO3)

Crow isn't very good at baking, but James is there to help.

(Crow/Young Wolf)

Crow sees the ship fly overhead, and he finds it hard to suppress his grin. He starts toward where it was heading, out on the flats of the Tangled Shore, a giddy feeling in his chest.

Eventually, he catches up to it – an old Eliksni ketch, the hull a patchwork of scratched metals and chipped green paint, Thief Queen's Hubris painted on the bow – off in the distance, parked in the gulch. As he gets closer, he can see the side hatch open, the owner of the ketch sitting on the cargo ramp next to a box of tools, conversing with a Vandal some meters away.

Crow's heart flutters at the sight of him, in that dirty green cloak, hood pulled back to reveal messy black curls. He can feel Glint nudging him to approach.

James' face lights up when he notices him, giving a friendly wave. The Vandal nods in Crow's direction, chittering respectfully.

"Thank you, Avris," the Wolf addresses the Eliksni, "I'll make it up to you. Be safe, now."

"It is my pleasure. You've done enough for us," they say before turning, "Crow," Avris bows before picking up their rifle and taking off.

Crow looks at James curiously, and James looks at the ground, a sad smile on his lips.

"I've been… looking for a friend of mine. Avris said she might'a seen her," he explains.

"Is she here?" Crow prods.

"On the Shore? No," he sighs. "Her ship was seen on the outer edges of the Reef, but that's all I got."

He doesn't elaborate, and Crow gets the sense that it's not something he wants to talk about. He stands, picking up the crate of tools and descending the ramp. "Anyway," he digs out a handheld drill from the seemingly unorganized crate. "How's things?"

"I'm doing okay," Crow smiles, watching James fit the drill bit and begin work on unscrewing a panel on the hull. "I, um…" anxiety rises in his chest as he rests a hand over his messenger bag, "I brought you something."

James looks at him, surprised, nearly dropping the now loose steel panel. Crows bites his lip, digging through the bag and procuring a small container. The Wolf sets the panel and drill down, giving Crow his full attention.

"I… well," he stumbles, holding the box in his hands nervously. "Last year, you showed me kindness when I had nothing. And you… continue to show me kindness," James approaches him, and Crow gives him a sheepish smile. "So… this is for you. Happy Dawning."

He holds out the small box, and James takes it gingerly. He regards it with wide brown eyes, and Crow worries he might have overstepped, misread him–

But before he can finish that thought, James is throwing his arms around him and he has soft lips on his own. Crow's arms move around James' waist and he can't help but smile against his mouth. They part after a moment, the man's arms around his neck and a grin on his face, and Crow's breath is stolen by how precious he is.

"Fuck, that's so sweet of you," James laughs, leaning in to press his lips to Crow's cheek.

"You haven't even opened it yet!" Crow chuckles, and he leans up to kiss James' forehead.

"Don't matter," he beams, but pulls back anyways.

He motions Crow to follow him, and they sit together on the floor of the cargo bay. James pulls at the ribbon holding the parcel together, Crow watching nervously as he opens the box.

"Did you make cookies?" James asks excitedly upon seeing the contents of the box.

"I mean, yeah, I'm not very good at it, though…" he fidgets, and James smiles at him.

The Wolf leans over and kisses him softly and Crow momentarily forgets his worries. When he pulls away, James looks genuinely happy, and Crow remembers what Glint told him.

It's the thought that's important.

Crow believes him now. Back when he first met James, he shared a container of food with him, and Crow nearly cried. It was something so simple, and yet the gesture caused a surge of emotions in him. It didn't matter what it was, but it was the fact that somebody thought of him, cared about him enough to share that with him. He supposes this isn't that different.

"Here," James breaks one of the cookies in half, offering a half to Crow. Crow realises that he never actually tried them, a new wave of nerves coming over him.

He takes a bite, and freezes.

It's bad.

James doesn't say anything, but Crow can tell by the way he chews slowly, a look of contemplation on his face, that he too knows they're not good.

They're spongy, a little elastic and burnt on the bottom, and they've got an unpleasant bite to them that Crow recognizes as the ginger root. They taste nothing like the gingerbread he was trying to make.

"I am so sorry," Crow speaks first, embarrassed. James bites his lips like he's trying his hardest not to smile.

"Crow, did you… try to make gingerbread with actual ginger?" James looks at him, and he nods shamefully. "Oh, honey."

James chuckles, putting the box down and wrapping his arms around Crow. Crow whines apologetically, and James presses soft kisses along his jaw and neck. "I love it," he laughs, his voice muffled in Crow's hood.

"You do?" Crow puzzles.

"Yeah, that's so fuckin' cute."

Crow flushes, a smile pulling at his lips. It's the thought that matters, he thinks, a little shy.

The Wolf pulls him into his ship, and Crow realises he's never seen the interior. It looks like a collection of centuries of junk and knick knacks and boxes, seemingly random in their assortment. There's things from old Earth, patterned rugs and curtains and furniture that looks like it's been broken and repaired a dozen times.

James takes him into a kitchen that's certainly not standard for a ship like this, leading Crow to believe it was installed by the Wolf himself. It's as cluttered as the rest of the ship, with dozens of mismatched jars and containers of spices and grains and dried legumes.

James makes him dinner, letting Crow help with chopping tomatoes and onions and garlic. He tells him what spices he adds, and how to tell when things are cooked well enough, and Crow files the knowledge away eagerly. Crow asks about objects around his kitchen, and every item and decoration seems to have a story to it. It isn't until then that the reality of how old James is hits him.

The dish smells amazing when it's done. James calls it chana masala, a curry of chickpeas, tomatoes, and onions that's healthy and relatively simple to make. It's so good that Crow fears he might actually cry this time. He's overwhelmed by the idea that James is teaching him to cook, giving him the tools to fend for himself if he needs to.

Later, James shows him how to make gingerbread cookies over mugs of sweet mulled wine. Ain't no ginger, despite the name, he laughs.

Crow sits at the kitchen table, warm mug in his hands as he watches James stir the batter with a spatula. The room is filled with the warm smell of cloves, pepper, cinnamon, brown sugar, and roasted walnuts, and he has a moment where all he can do is stare at the man, stars in his eyes. James' sleeves are rolled up, showing lean, tattooed hands and forearms, and Crow smiles to himself, his heart fluttering.

James' brown eyes flick up to meet his own, and Crow swallows, breaking eye contact, suddenly shy, and downs the last contents of his mug.

The cookies turn out astronomically better than what he had made on his own. They're soft and fluffy and pleasantly spiced, with diced nuts sprinkled on top. But James taught him how to make them, instead of ridiculing or faulting him for failing the first time.

This time, Crow does cry. He's a little tipsy and the emotions are just too much, and tears fall down his cheeks as he eats the cookie.

James embraces him, shushing him softly. Crow feels safe with him, he thinks. He feels like he can have this vulnerable moment and not be judged, not be seen as lesser.

He stays with James that night. His bed is cramped, nothing more than a bunk behind the cockpit, but Crow's slept in far worse places. And besides– having James with him is enough to make any place seem like a palace.

He smiles as James presses against his back, arm around his waist, placing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Happy Dawning," he whispers.

#destiny 2 #guardian crow #crow x young wolf #dawning #uldren sov #yans writes #cooking has always been james' love language im ignoring canon #also crow is being nice in reality james' ship looks like a hoarder house #james singh

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readyplayerhobi · 5 years

Text

Flower | 01

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff, future angst, future smut

; Word Count: 2.8k

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh...incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: This is going to be a drabble series. It’s not planned out, it has no planning. It will be written as and when I get the inspiration for it. The Flower app is inspired by the Bumble app in which women make the first move on it. This is just purely something to try and get me back into enjoying writing again so...please show it and me some love because I already love this Hoseok? I haven’t proof read lol

Flower Masterpost

“Okay...okay. Let’s do this...you can do this. It’s easy. Just...download the app and go. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Well you could get murdered. That would suck. But it would resolve a lot of issues I guess. On the other hand...I could meet the love of my life. I mean...is that likely?” The soft sounds of your muttering are probably barely heard over the soft playing music through the speakers connected to your television, YouTube playing mindlessly to itself on the screen.

Your focus though, is solely on the phone in your hand. Soyeon, your best friend, had been bugging you to join some online dating sites for a while and it had only gotten worse when your other friend Chungha told her that she fully agreed with her. Part of you felt cornered by them both but another part of you understood them.

They were just looking out for you. You were naturally quiet and shy, introverted and preferring to remain inside or on the sides if you were dragged to a party. An inability to engage in small talk meant that that you struggled to make conversation with people as well. That all resulted in a small circle of friends who understood you well but that was it, everyone else was merely acquaintances who would hang out with you simply because they were friends with your friends.

As such, it meant that you struggled with dating. And by that, you mean that you hadn’t been in a relationship for a long time. Nor could you do flings like some of your friends did, the very thought filled you with anxiety.

This was why they had suggested trying online dating, because you’d lamented to them about how lonely you’d started to feel. You were still relatively young, and you knew that relationships weren’t the be all and end all. But when you haven’t dated since college, it starts to feel like no one is interested in you at all. And that was a hard feeling to take in.

You wanted to be like your friends. To have someone to talk to about things without feeling embarrassed, someone who would enjoy being in your company and actively seek you out, someone to be intimate with. Someone to fall in love with. It sounded cheesy and stupid but both Soyeon and Chungha had taken your concerns to heart.

They’d asked if you wanted to be set up on blind dates but the very idea of that made you lose your breath with anxiety, the fear of failure or judgement from someone who has never met you before overwhelming. So Soyeon had suggested online dating and now here you were, curled up on your couch on a Saturday night, a glass of water on the side because you don’t like alcohol and the app store open to dating apps.

“Tinder...isn’t that just for hookups?” You murmur, frowning as you look at some of the reviews. There were probably people who had managed to get lasting relationships on Tinder, but the idea of having random people actively deciding whether or not you were worth trying simply from a photo or something was horrible. Not that you had any idea how it actually worked, but still…

A few other apps look to be the more traditional online dating route and you consider whether to download one of them. But then you see an app that attracts your attention, a small soft pink and orange logo with the outline of a white flower in it. The title is simply ‘Flower’ and you take click on it to read the description.

‘Find the perfect partner and watch love or friendship bloom like a flower!

The Flower app asks you to set up a profile by asking you a series of questions to determine your interests and personality. We then set you up with a series of people we consider to be a good match and give you the opportunity to initiate a conversation!

Here at Flower, we want to make sure that dating is fun and most importantly, equal. As such, we allow women to be the one to initiate contact with their matches. This means that if you’re looking for a same sex relationship, then you can both reach out. The same goes if you don’t identify as female or male. If you’re looking for a heterosexual relationship, then you can reach out to your match and he can decide whether he wants to respond.

We don’t tolerate any form of hate speech or intolerance and will respond with quick action against this. At Flower, we promote inclusivity, diversity and tolerance. We want the world to grow and bloom with love, one relationship at a time!’

The reviews for the app seemed to back up their description and you felt curious. An impulse takes over and you download it, tongue sticking out as you wait before loading it up once it’s done. The interface is clean and take a moment to chew your lip before clicking the sign up button.

Everything seems to be rudimentary at first, asking for your age and location, name and occupation. But then it starts to ask some other questions. Your favourite film genres, a list of favourite films, your favourite books, where you’d like to go on vacation, favourite music and songs and so much more. Some of it felt bizarre, like would you rather eat chicken or beef? Would you rather drive an Audi or a Ford?

You presumed it all had a reason though, and after what felt like five minutes of answering questions, you finally had a profile. Flicking through the gallery on your phone, you found a picture that you felt was flattering while still showing your personality. It’s from a few months ago and was taken with a Polaroid camera, giving it that distinctive filter that always seemed to be flattering everyone.

You were giving a small smile, eyes looking to the left of the camera while your chin was in your hand. Nose wrinkled slightly, a soft and fluffy white cream sweater covers you while a cherry blossom scarf is wrapped elegantly round your neck. And on top of all that...a bright yellow Pikachu hat sits on top of your head.

It had been your birthday and the girls had managed to coax you out for dinner before presenting you with a bunch of presents. They’d been a random assortment, as usual, but you’d loved it all. A skin care gift set, the Pikachu hat and a Pusheen stationery set. Your colleagues at your admin assistant job had given you the side eye when you’d added yet more cute and strange things to your already colourful and cluttered desk but you’d ignore them.

This picture had been one of the best taken of you recently and you smiled gently as you made it your profile picture. You didn’t like being photographed, constantly convinced that you were unattractive but your friends were convinced otherwise.

Everything looked to be set up and you wondered what you meant to do now, when a sudden notification pops up on the screen with ‘20 Matches Found’. Sudden anxiety makes you feel sick, stomach rolling with nerves as your veins practically fizz as you click on the view more button. These were people who the app had compared your own answers to and considered to be the best matches.

There’s a tiny moment of waiting as a tiny flower in orange and pink blooms and you sigh when it finally clears. The profiles are shown in descending order with those most matched to least. A tiny refresh button in the corner let’s you see that you can refresh your matches if necessary.

Each profile shows their profile image, their name, age and location. Scrolling through them, you note idly that you seem to have got a wide range of people that you had matched with. A 24-year-old swimming instructor named Kim Chaeyoung, a 31-year-old high school English teacher named Seo Jinwoo, a 29-year-old mechanic called Park Jisoo and more.

It was interesting to see the wide range of people that had come back and you perused their profiles carefully, reading the little description they’d written for themselves along with a few answers to questions similar to what you’d had to answer. The app seemed to pull a range range of questions for you read, with each person’s being slightly different.

You supposed it meant that you would need to ask for that information and you found yourself curious about one or two people, pressing the little button that indicated it would bookmark their profile for later viewing. Apparently you had a week to make the first interaction before it would vanish.

Humming lightly, you wondered if anyone would be interested in talking to you?

Everyone looked so pretty on here and you wondered if you matched up to them. Would they consider you worth their time? Biting your lower lip, you shrug your shoulders and decided you had nothing to lose really. You didn’t know these people in real life and no one would laugh at you for simply reaching out and trying to make a connection.

You come across one profile that makes you pause though, your brow lifting in surprise as you wonder why on earth the app has matched you with this guy. The two of you don’t even look like you come from the same planet, nevermind have enough aligning interests to warrant being in your top 20 matches at the moment.

Clicking on his profile, you read through his basic info question while you purse your lips, making soft noises in your throat.

Jung Hoseok. 28 years old. IT Technician.

He sounded pretty normal and you wouldn’t even give it a second thought normally, but his appearance did not match the casual job description he had. Maybe you were just being stereotypical here, but most of the IT people in your workplace were of the nerdy looking variety. And you only say that because every one of them wore some form of Rick and Morty or other pop culture shirts.

Which you were fine with, because you enjoyed most of the same things too. But no one looked like this guy.

The reason you were so surprised was because of his profile picture, and despite your earlier thoughts about just sending messages to everyone for the sake of it, you felt a well of anxiety rising again as you looked at him. This guy is quite possibly the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, the kind of guy that people only think exists when they’re rich and famous.

But he’s also completely unlike you. He’s evidently at some sort of event as he has a bottle of beer in his hand while his other hand is making the metal horns shape. One eye is closed to camera, winking while his tongue is poking out of his mouth on one side, white teeth visible beneath pink lips amidst gold skin. A silver ring pierced his lower lip on the right while a small ball is visible in his tongue.

His hair is jet black, gleaming in the crappy lighting in a messy state that looks slightly wet while his exposed skin has a sheen of sweat on it. A red and black shirt unbuttoned on him, rolled up to his elbows to reveal toned forearms that are completely covered in vibrant and bright colour.

The tattoos make what you presume to be full sleeves on both arms, his left arm appearing to be a swirling galaxyscape with brilliant galaxies, planets, moons and more interwoven with, bizarrely, dragons that are almost transparent. They look beautiful though, and you get an image of space dragons made of fine dust flying through the vast expanse of space as you look at them.

His other arm looks to be a mesh of things together, flames and flowers and skulls and ships. None of it makes any sense to you, but you’re positive it probably means something to him. One of the sleeves expands onto his hand, the one showing the horns and you eye the clock tattoo that takes up the space.

His tattoos look to expand beyond his arms as the black top beneath his shirt gives tantalising glimpses of the black and colour tattoos that obviously sprawl across his chest. Strands creep upwards, almost to his neck and you get the impression of something fiery, the soft wisps of red and orange looking like burning embers on his skin.

This guy...looked like he belonged in a metal band or tattoo shop. And he was...beautiful, way out of your league.

Which was why you had to have experienced an out of body moment when your finger presses the message button, the screen popping up with an automatic message pre filled out for you.

“Hey, Flower shows that we’re good matches so I’m reaching out to you! If you would like to talk to me, please respond!”

Scowling, you deleted the message, deciding it would be bad manners to just send the template message to someone that you were attracted to. That thought gives you pause, acknowledging that you are in fact attracted to him. He looked like the kind of guy who would take one look at your profile and laugh himself home at the prospect of doing anything with you.

The man clearly thrived on social situations, enough of his profile gave that away and again you wondered why the app matched you together. Maybe he had some secret love of Pokemon or something. Looks could be deceiving, obviously.

And even if you’d never listened to a metal song in your life...you were always open to trying new things. If you were going to open yourself up to the prospect of online dating, then you may as well go fully out of comfort zone.

Swallowing, you carefully type out a short message and spend the next five minutes reading it over as anxiety and fear swirl within you. Indecision causes you to wonder whether you should just delete it all and ignore his profile, going for the safe option of someone who looks like they’d be more accepting of you on your list.

But the allure of something so unlike you pulls you in and you press send, watching the message swoosh away and changing his profile to a soft pink to indicate that you’d initiated contact. Almost immediately you feel sick, body going cold as you pant ever so slightly.

Oh god, he’s going to read that message and take one look at your profile then delete the message. He probably had hookups all the time, the kind of guy you shouldn’t get involved with. You had no interest in being a one night stand and- you shake your head, clenching your teeth and taking a deep breath.

Stereotypes are damaging to yourself and others, you tell yourself quietly. There’s no reason to paint him with a negative brush already when he’s not even had a chance to do anything. And so what if he only wanted hookups? It was the 21st century, men and women could sleep with who they wanted, as often as they wanted and they shouldn’t face the prejudice you’re showing him already.

Before you can even think anything else though, your phone sends out a soft, melodic note and you look down with wide eyes. The message icon has an orange notification on it, signifying that you have a new message on there. Hesitating, you wonder if it’s just one of those generic ‘welcome’ messages that you sometimes get when you sign up for sites.

But the name of the sender tells you very much that it’s not a generic message, and the cold fear mixes with nervous excitement and trepidation as you see Jung Hoseok’s name. He must have already been on his phone to have responded so fast, and you wonder if he’s just sent a polite ‘thank you but no’ back.

It would be awfully nice of him if he did. Embarrassing, but polite.

Opening the message, your jaw drops and eyes widen as you read what he’s responded with.

You: Hi. I don’t know how to use this properly, so I’m sorry if I do it wrong. You showed as a match and...well I guess I say I’m interested? Not as a friend, unless you want that. I mean...the other way. Feel free to say no! Y/N

Reading it back over, you cringe at how...you it sounds. Hesitant and awkward and shy. Dammit, why couldn’t you just seize the moment and sound confident for once? Say something bold that would attract his attention.

And then you read his response.

Hoseok: Hey Y/N. Thanks for reaching out. How are you tonight?

2K notes · View notes

theluckyyyoneee · 4 years

Text

Guise

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (ft. Namjoon)

Genre: Angst / Fluff (in later chapters)

Word Count: 5.19+k

part 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 |

SoulmateAU! Where he hides his soulmate tattoo from everyone, especially you.

“Hmm?” You mumbled unintelligibly into the phone after being awoken by the hunk of metal ringing its default ringtone, which you almost mistook for an alarm but you remembered you hadn’t set one for today, plus it wasn’t even laundry or cleaning day. That was Sunday and today was a Thursday, or so you believed. And also the piercing sunlight that had you seeing a candy red beneath your eyelids, a grimace taking over your peaceful sleeping expression as you tiredly grasped and brought the phone to your ear.

The questioning and amused tone you recognized as the brat who simultaneously managed to annoy you and grab hold of your reluctant endearment for known as Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook was only a few months older than you, but you were definitely the more mature of the two, or so it seemed like most of the time. “Are you still asleep?”

“What-... time is it?” It took a few moments to get those words out of your mouth, sounding like a slurring croaking frog, which you would normally become embarrassed by, but at this time moment in time you were too drowsy to feel any kind of self consciousness.

His laugh created static on the other end of the receiver and your face scrunched up at the sound, and at the time Jungkook had informed you it currently was. Damn, it was late. Honestly, you were a bit surprised he could understand you, but after years of enduring these random and burdensome types of morning wake-up calls, you guessed he had adapted to comprehending your sleep induced mumblings.

“Well, I was going to invite you to go get some food with me, but I didn’t know you would still be asleep at two in the afternoon.”

You sneered at the laughter in his voice and exhaled a breath as you gathered the strength to sit up from your lying down position. “Shut up. It’s summer.” Was your clever response to which he childishly mocked. “I’d be down to do something tomorrow, though.”

“Oh yeah, cool, that sounds good...” he agreed at once and stalled a bit on the other line, to which you took a glance at your phone to see if he had hung up, but he hadn’t. You placed your phone back on your ear just in time to hear him question in a shy and timid tone you had rarely heard from him, taking on that soft and gentle timbre he only used when he wanted a favor, “do you think you could ask Namjoon, too? To see if he would want to come?”

“...what?”

“...he’s cute.”

“Oh my gosh, you didn’t call me to ask me to hang out, you just wanted me to set up a blind date meeting with Namjoon!” You were wide awake now, sitting on your bed still wrapped in your blanket with a wide grin on your face, if you were to glance at yourself in a mirror, you would have seen a crazy woman with extreme bed hair wearing a wrinkled bed shirt with morning breath, grimacing as you reached for your half empty water bottle near your bed.

“Nu-uh!” He practically screamed into the phone and you couldn’t help but laugh at his obvious affection and attraction for the older man, glad you had yet to take a sip of the stale water. “It’s just-... well-you guys are always studying and being boring, and hey, it’s summer now! Time for you two to do something other than bury yourselves in books.”

“Yeah, right. You loser, why don’t you just message him yourself?”

“Oh yeah? And say what? ‘Hey I think you’re cute and y/n has told me how nice of a guy you are, do you want to maybe go out sometime?’”

You had your phone resting by your knee on speakerphone, your arms stretched above your head as you partook in your morning stretches you tried to do after waking up to alleviate your sore muscles from sleeping for more than nine hours a night.

You laughed in reply to his obvious fib. “That sounds perfect, do it.”

“No,” he whined cutely. “I’m too shy.”

“I don’t believe that, remember that one time-”

“That was different.” He cut you off abruptly, knowing exactly what incident you were referring to.

“How?” You were really curious as to how this was different than that one time you and Jungkook had been out getting some food for takeout, which was basically all you two really did other than play games, when you had noticed this cute ass guy giving him the eyes. So confident Jungkook leaves you to seductively saunter over to him to get his number.

Jungkook, reliving the same encounter as you were, sighed on the other end. “Namjoon just sounds so nice, I mean... I know I haven’t even met him in person yet but he just makes me so nervous. Every time I see a picture of him,” he paused to utter yet another sigh, and you silently cooed at how lovesick he seemed. “He’s just so cute, and I don’t know, something inside of me just stirs... And-and what if I ask him out and he says no and then I make things awkward for you two?”

“Why would it be awkward? It’s none of my business if you guys start seeing each other or not.” By his silence, you could tell he was mulling over your words. Grinning a bit wider, you tried to encourage him a bit more, “Plus I doubt he’d say no, have you seen you? Never mind, of course you had, with your big head.”

An offended noise sounded and you cackled, happy you were in the safe confines of your enclosed room, and guessing by the time, you guessed your roommate was off at work.

“Plus, he’s not seeing anyone right now, he would’ve told me. And I personally believe that you two would make a really cute couple.”

“Whatever! I’m done talking about this! Just ask him and tell me so I know whether to dress up and fix up the apartment or if I can just bum it out like usual. Bye~”

Rolling your eyes, you finally climbed out of the bed and began fixing up some breakfast, or a late lunch considering it was nearing two-thirty, after using the restroom. You would take a shower later and freshen up, but you were so hungry, you didn’t think eating could wait.

Jungkook had a bit of a thing for Namjoon ever since you had posted a picture of the two of you at a cafe and not ten minutes you received a message asking: who is he?

You didn’t really take him all that serious, thinking that it was a momentary attraction and that he would forget all about him, but as you began to spend more time with Namjoon, he would continually ask and have questions about the older man, yet denying any offers to the cafes and casual meet-ups, though now you guessed he had finally mustered up enough courage to finally meet the man he has been thirsting over the course of a few months. He had been sure though, before he even thought of starting something with Namjoon that you didn’t have any feelings other than platonic friendship for the man, otherwise he would’ve backed off in an instant no matter how much he found himself drawn to him.

You could understand his captivation with the lovable giant you had the honor of being best friends with, and no doubt whoever he ended up with would be the luckiest person in the world. They would be able to wake up next to the most considerate and gentle, slightly dorky, sweetest man you have ever known, and not to mention that he was very easy on the eyes, which wasn’t everything, but sealed the deal for many.

If he wasn’t your best friend with that unbreakable bond and didn’t have that brother-sister relationship, you were one hundred percent sure you’d be completely head over heels for the man.

You frowned to yourself over your bagel as you were reminded of the dream Jungkook had woken you from. It came back in vivid and quickly vanishing fragments, your memory failing you, but you were sure it was of Yoongi.

“It looks fine, Kook,” you sighed for the nth time, reaching a hand out to stop his incessant pacing and minuscule rearranging of furniture. “What you should worry about is him finding your apartment since you said you needed me here, but you don’t know how clumsy and how he has no sense of direction whatsoever.” Your arms were crossed as you wore a smirk on your lips at the nervous but handsome man, occasionally shaking the auburn strands that slid into his eyesight. You checked your phone once in a while as the time for the meet-up gradually grew closer.

You hadn’t seen his apartment this clean since the surprise visit his parents dropped on him and he had called you in a frenzy to help clean up all the dinnerware and laundry he had accumulated over the first few months of living there. Out of the goodness of your heart, you had agreed and were met with a sight that haunted your worst nightmares ever since. How he made that much of a mess in that little time, you would never understand, just the thought of having to go through that once again made you shudder.

Snacks had been assorted in a neat way along the coffee table, it smelled of clean laundry detergent and it was at a comfortable temperature.

“Well, I was nervous...” he mumbled cutely into his chest, fixing the loose flannel button up shirt he wore over a plain black shirt, looking effortlessly alluring, but you knew just how much time and anxiety went into choosing it.

“Was?” You could help but tease with a knowing expression he was purposely avoiding noticing.

“Okay, okay, I’m still nervous.” He rolled his eyes at his confession and shook his head, finally taking a moment to just calm down. “I don’t know why though, I guess I just want to make a good first impression.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes as you waved his anxieties off. “You will, I basically talk about you all the time.”

“Oh yeah? What do you say about me?”

“Just that you’re a brat who spends all his time either at the gym, or at home playing video games.” You stuck your tongue out when his mouth dropped open at your words, both of you knowing full well you were just fibbing. Phone vibrating in your hand, you read a message from Namjoon that said he thought he found the right complex but wasn’t sure.

Smiling, you informed Jungkook you were going to bring Namjoon in, closing the door behind you and making your way carefully down a single flight of stairs and out the front door, you noted with a grimace at how humid and muggy it was outside compared to how cool it was inside the apartment, thankful Jungkook had well functioning air conditioner.

You were dressed very comfortably, this was not your first time meeting either men so you had no reason to be nervous like Jungkook, just in some light shorts and a t-shirt. You saw Namjoon leaning against the drivers seat of his car, looking a bit more stylish than how you were expecting him to come dressed, which threw you off a bit, you weren’t going to lie. You had told him when he agreed to come hang out that it would be very casual, and those form fitting faded blue jeans were the complete opposite of his favorite pair of sweatpants you had seen him wear on a regular basis.

Maybe he wanted to make a good impression on Jungkook as well? You smiled to yourself, thinking how cute they would be if they ever decided to form a relationship together that was more than just acquaintances or friends. They had both had girlfriends and boyfriends in the past, but you knew for sure that they were currently both single. Even though you teased Jungkook to the max, you would never push either man into pursuing a relationship like that on them, you’d let them figure it out on their own, because even though they were your closest friends, it wasn’t up to you to meddle in someone’s love life.

Lord knows yours was complicated and revelations you didn’t want to get into, you sure weren’t going to stress yourself out even further by butting in where you didn’t belong.

“Hey, you found it! I was scared that you’d get lost.” You greeted him jokingly as you jogged to where Namjoon stood, using his foot to push himself off his car to meet you halfway, a familiar wide smile that made his prominent dimples appear graced his features.

He chuckled in a rich timbre as you two exchanged an embrace, which you almost always greeted each other with whenever you met up, it had become almost second nature by now. It was a bit too warm outside for your comfort and sharing body heat like this was not really necessary, and you two released each other and smiled at each other.

“I know, I was scared I was going to end up at a dead end, I drove real slow to make sure I was following the gps correctly.”

Laughing and shaking your head at him, you told him as you pointed, “Jungkook’s apartment is right up there, come on. He’s really excited about finally meeting you.”

Keeping your gaze on him as you lead the way, you gauged his reaction to your words and wasn’t the least bit surprised at the smile that lit his face. “I’ve been wanting to meet him, too. Especially since you mention him all the time.”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you opened the front door to the complex and sighed in relief at the cool air hitting your warm skin. “But, um...” Namjoon suddenly added, sounding more nervous than before and you paused and looked at him quizzically. “I do have something I wanna talk to you about later on.” He had one hand behind his head, rubbing the back of his neck that you easily recognized as his nervous habit he picked up a little over a year ago. Your brows furrowed as you watched him shuffle on his feet as he awaited your answer, biting the flesh of his lower lip.

You wanted to push him on what it pertained to, but you receded, sensing that it was a bit more serious than just meeting a friend of a friend, but not urgent enough that it had to be attended to right away. “Sure.” You nodded and smiled warmly at him, reaching a hand up and patting him on the shoulder and noted with relief as he grinned warmly right back at you, becoming his confident self again. You urged him to take the lead, pointing to a door you could easily view from the stairs you two were climbing. “It’s number thirteen. The door should be unlocked, but you can just knock if you want.”

“Yeah, I’ll knock, it’s more polite, especially since I’m meeting him for the first time.” He replied easily, passing you, a blur of dark ink catching your eye as he strode past. His own soulmate tattoo, of course you had seen it numerous times, a unique design of letters overlapped, twisted around each other in an aesthetically pleasing way, located in the hidden region behind his ear, fitting in the tight space just before where his hair started.

Still following, now at a bit of a slower pace, the design burned brightly in your mind that was experiencing a strange feeling of deja vu. Now that you got a better look at it than you usually did, due to the close proximity you two maintained on the narrow staircase, it seemed so frustratingly familiar, and not just because you had seen it on him.

You had definitely seen it somewhere else.

Where else have you seen that design? Think, y/n, think.

Still preoccupied in your own musings, you arrived at Jungkook’s apartment door a few seconds after Namjoon had, waiting for him to open the door since he had already knocked quietly to state your arrival.

It was instantaneous as the door flung open, your heart suddenly spiking in your chest, as you watched with unwavering eyes the scene that was about to transpire. You took your eyes off once, but only to glance once again at the ink behind Namjoon’s ear to make sure what you thought was indeed true.

Your eyes met Jungkook’s eager ones, the same ones that gazed at you as he would ramble on and on about what he thought his soulmate would be like. Unlike you, Jungkook was pure and hopeful when it came to the concept of two souls being connected forever by the ink on your skin. You always listened with a small smile, his authenticity bringing a smile on your face as you just nodded along, not having the heart to alter and stain his thoughts with your negative ones, instead eyeing his tattoo with interest, wondering who indeed, could ever deserve him.

And of course, as you understood now, it was the exact design, it was in the exact same placement; behind the ear, fitting in the tight space just before where his hair started.

The realization that Jungkook and Namjoon were soulmates, and that they were about to see each other for the very first time.

You couldn’t help but think back to the first time you had met Yoongi. That first glance had left you suspended, motionless, and you had no control of that, the universe telling you to just enjoy the revelation. You remembered being completely enamored and captivated by the pale beauty, your heart thundering in your chest as it was now, but now it was from your epiphany, not fatal attraction.

Breath getting caught in your throat, you watched as they stood in front of each other, your ears catching the quiet inhales, the slight tensing of the body as they continued to stare at each other for a prolonged moment, their smiles ceasing to fade, seeming to forget your entire existence.

Feeling like you were intruding on an extremely private and intimate moment, you forced yourself to look away, taking a small step away and tried calming your thundering heart that seemed to want to escape the confines of your chest.

Hearing them dreamily and pleasantly exchange names, you felt a small smile tug the corners of your lips up, noting internally how love struck and awed they already sounded.

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw their arms reach out to each other, obviously going for a handshake, and you couldn’t help but watch out of the corner of your eye. Having experienced it first hand; the shock, the warm electricity that would inevitably wrap around them as the effect of the first physical contact made, you could only stand frozen there in anticipation as their hands neared closer and closer for an innocent handshake.

Palms connecting, held in each other’s warm grasp and another intake of breath sounded, this time it was more noticeable and the smile you wore grew even wider in response to seeing Jungkook’s smile grow in front of you. “Are... Are we...?” Of course, he had all the right to ask and assume, it was not everyday and everyone you met someone who your body and soul reacted so strongly and deeply towards.

Jungkook’s dark eyes fluttered around Namjoon’s frame before seeming to remember they shared the same placement. Jungkook released his hold on Namjoon’s hand to reach for his right ear, turning his head as he showed his tattoo, his bunny smile still very much present as he eagerly placed hands on Namjoon’s shoulders and leaned forward to see for himself for the matching ink.

The soulmate bond was something you could no longer deny or ignore. You knew first hand the pull you felt towards the other person, the strong emotions that swallowed you whole.

Relief and happiness filled you as you realized that Jungkook was going to end up with someone who deserved him, that was something that you had always worried about. But now, knowing that it was Namjoon, you felt you could rest easy. Namjoon wasn’t Yoongi, he wasn’t an asshole, he was an honest, kind, dependable man-

Namjoon staggered back a few unsteady feet and you responsively shot your hands out to secure his footing, the smiling previously adorning your face slowly slipping with each passing second at his reaction. He flinched back from your touch like you had scolded him with hot coal, only his labored breathing sounded as his wide brown eyes jumped from you to Jungkook before muttering a shaky, “I’m... I’m sorry.” before sprinting in the direction you just came from.

“Wait!” Jungkook called out from beside you, a gust of wind whirled around you at the sudden speed he ran behind him, the sound of footsteps hitting the pavement echoing loudly in your head. “Wait!”

You could only gape wordlessly from your spot as you heard rather than see him chasing Namjoon as he quickly made his escape, Jungkook’s piercing voice ringing through your head.

You spent the remainder of your night consoling a devastated Jungkook, your heart clenching painfully as he blamed himself over and over again, no matter how many times you interrupted that destructive train of thought.

Turns out, Namjoon was quite the hidden track star as he made it to his car and peeled from the parking lot even before Jungkook got completely down the flight of stairs.

“Why would he run away from me like that?” He hiccuped, his large frame clinging to yours as you ran a hand soothingly through his hair, coddling him like an infant.

You took a deep breath as you brought him closer, offering more of your warmth which he appreciated, snuggling in closer to you, feeling his tense form gradually go lax as his eyes drifted shut, slipping into what you could only guess would be a restless sleep.

You shifted out slowly from underneath him, placing one of the extra pillows under his head and going into the closet where he kept his extra blankets and draping it over him.

Watching his sleeping form fidget from his position on the couch, you felt yourself becoming worked up.

What was Namjoon’s deal?

Maybe him and Yoongi weren’t so different after all. Your heart hurting for Jungkook, you prayed and hoped Namjoon wouldn’t reject him and that he was going to talk to you, whether he wanted to or not.

Staring blankly in front of you, your arms crossed in a defensive manner, the sound of distant conversations and silverware clinking echoing in the semi-busy cafe you two often frequented together was all you heard, your usually order of vanilla iced mocha sitting in front of you untouched on the table in front of you, forming a puddle of water around the bottom of the cup on the wood as the ice slowly melted in your drink.

Your first choice was to meet in a private setting, but he had wisely chosen a public space, knowing you did not have the guts nor conscience to scream your lungs out at him as you so badly wanted to in front of throngs of innocent bystanders that had just wanted to have a nice lunch.

It had taken some threatening coaxing, about twenty missed calls from you, then you had pounded on his door and demanded you two talk, and you had never seen him so afraid than at that moment. You had never really gotten upset with him before, so this behavior was obviously a change for him, but what did he think after running out on one of your closest friends like that?

“So... I, uh, guess I have some explaining to do.” His own drink had about two sips left, due to his nervous gulping down of the cold beverage as he sat in front of you. He tried to smile but it came out more as a grimace as he tried to break the tension.

You raised an eyebrow as you offered no change in your expression, urging him to continue, or start, his explanation.

He blinked a few times as he took in a deep breath before straightening up in his chair, placing his elbows on the table as he leaned his upper body a bit more closely to you as to not have to talk so loud. “I’ve never really thought about my soulmate before, I always believed that it just a hoax.”

His earlier words came rushing to you as you remembered what he said when you had asked him about soulmates.

“I don’t really have an opinion on it. I’ll worry about it when it happens.”

“I get it now. I get it completely, experiencing it for myself instead of just reading it in textbooks or having people relay their own experiences to me made me realize just how wrong I was.”

He hung his head and your anger ebbed a bit at seeing how exhausted and guilty he seemed. You could understand what he was saying, you had thought the exact same thing, had your whole world shift upside down at meeting that one person.

“But I... I had feelings for someone else already.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn’t known that, your sympathy growing even more at his words. Surely he wanted to make his own story, just like you wanted.

“I liked them so much, they were all I thought about when I wasn’t busy cramming for tests and midterms. We were very compatible and it was really easy being by their side. I really thought that there could be nobody in the universe more suited for me than her. Or so I thought.”

You remained silent as he told you his monologue, talking to himself more right now than he was to you.

“But now, after meeting him, I realize how wrong I was once again. It’s like the romantic aspect I felt for them just went away. It’s really fucking weird. So when those feelings just went away... I was overwhelmed, I was confused, I was angry... and I know it wasn’t the right thing to do at all and it’s a terrible excuse but believe me, y/n, I feel horrible for running out like that.” He gazed at you with a tortured expression and you had to avert your stare, not being able to handle seeing the carefree Namjoon look so dejected and ashamed. “I can still hear him screaming after me, I couldn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Neither could Jungkook.” You spoke up, relaxing your arms from their crossed position on your chest to mimic his posture, hard expression softening up a bit as you admitted, “you know he cried himself to sleep last night, asking why you ran away and that something had to be wrong with him that you wouldn’t want him.”

He cringed at your words and mumbled, “All I want right now is to make things right with Jungkook, and to hold him and-” he broke off with a sudden clearing of his throat as an embarrassed expression broke out on his face. It was like had finally realized that you were here also.

“Well, you should. Make it right. I can’t stand seeing him hurting, he’s like family to me, like a brother.” You pouted, wondering at how it would go from here on out.

“I will. I’ll apologize and explain everything, and grovel for however long it takes for him to forgive me.”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head as a smile crept on your lips. “Knowing him and how crazy he is over you, he won’t even last five minutes with you there with him.”

His eyes grew wide and you laughed at his shocked face, a pleasant feeling growing in you as you noted the blush rising from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. “He’s crazy about me?”

Shrugging, you finally picked your watered down beverage and took a sip, the cool liquid soothing your throat.

Trying to calm himself down, he told you much more seriously, “You should try with him, too.”

“Who?”

“Yoongi.”

“Wha-” you rushed to ask and the coffee went down the wrong tube and you were suddenly coughing out a lung, the customers around you jumping up in their seats in alarm and watched as you struggled to breathe correctly, glaring at Namjoon who was trying his best to keep his composure. “How do you know about him?”

“We’re sort of friends, remember?” He sassily remarked and you shot him a death glare that had him straightening once again. “It just came up.” Was all he chose to say, leaving you unbelievably frustrated.

You had let Namjoon go after chatting a bit more, knowing that he was restless to make things up with Jungkook and he all but jumped in his car and will most likely get a few speeding tickets to his way to his apartment, and you didn’t say anything, letting them sort it out themselves.

You were roaming the streets, in a bit of a daze at Namjoon’s words.

“You should try with him, too.”

Your dreams were filled with the pale, dark haired beauty, wondering even if you did want to try with him, were you going to be able to let down your walls that you’ve spent years and years building up to let him in?

Would he even want to try with you?

Doubts and second thoughts filled your thoughts and made your mood even crappier than it already was this morning.

It was summer vacation, for goodness sake. At least during the school year, you could catch a quick and unfulfilling glance at him, where were you supposed to find him now?

You were waiting at a stoplight, waiting to cross the street, watching the cars zoom past and saw that it was starting to finally dwindle down. Getting ready to cross the street, you froze in your stance, not believing your eyes.

Maybe it really was fate, maybe you two were supposed to somehow work out.

Because right across the street, was Min Yoongi staring back at you with mirrored wide eyes and a look of surprise on his face.

The animated person lit up underneath the red hand that went black and you wasted no time, running with all your might and flung yourself into his arms.

He smelled of detergent and sunscreen, a scent that made you smile into the soft fabric of his loose t-shirt, his rigid frame relaxed and his arms wrapped protectively around your frame.

“I missed you.”

once again, sorry for the wait it’s been a bit hectic at work! but as always ty to everyone who reads this story and i welcome and love any and all feedback it really makes my day a 1000x better! if u would like to be added to the taglist, just request down below or shoot me a message! <33

tag list: @hoodiebangtan @xanny91 @babeejeon @chocolatemilk1221 @fuckthatfeeling @cremextart @secretlypg95 @proudslytherin39 @paracii @tragicrosemoons @sunshinein17 @xxluckydreamsxx @skzleaf @lidda @thesugatoyourtae @marycarabell @pawschimchim @namjoonsslutakakoreanmanswhore @crackhead1-800 @annoyingpessimist @moccahobi @sana-b

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thetriggeredhappy · 4 years

Note

scout likes sniper but can't help but blush and go awkward when he sees it

me, who saw a very pretty girl with bitchin’ tattoos and temporarily forgot how to speak english for about five minutes today: ha check out this fuckin loser having’ crushes and stuff..... ha what a fuckin goobus

(no warnings)

He really did legitimately hate the fact that he always made such an idiot out of himself in front of people he liked.

Like, he had literally no problem just hooking up with people. Absolutely no shame. See someone good-looking, walk up, ask them if they wanna bang, either get slapped or get in a car. He didn’t feel even a little bit bad about it, he was just being really honest about exactly what it was he wanted. And plenty of people respected that he wasn’t one to play stupid games.

The issue was that as soon as he got like, more than moderately invested before he could cut to the chase, he was absolutely fucked.

Miss Pauling was a great example. The situation surrounding him first meeting her was such a whirlwind and so weird that he didn’t really get a chance to ask her out, and so he’d just sorta been left to stew on it, and then he got cheesy. Started thinking about all kinds of romantic shit. And that was a complete fuckin’ mess for like, literally years until he found out she was seeing some girl and promptly stepped off because he was a hopeless romantic, not an animal.

And that had like, sucked, but at least he was functional. He only saw Miss P like, on the monthly maybe, and usually just over the phone or whatever and not in person. At least he could spend the vast majority of his time being exactly as much of a doofus as he usually was and not just a hoppy sappy mess.

But then. Oh, but fucking then.

He glanced in his periphery as subtly as he could, popping his gum to try and just for a second act natural, so frustrated with himself over how warm his face had gotten all of a sudden.

It was especially frustrating because like, it had kinda snuck up on him, all the gross heart-fluttery crap that always came along for the ride whenever he got a thing for someone. And he hadn’t really pieced it together for such a long time, but then one thing happened and everything cracked wide open all at once and now he couldn’t even just sit through the team meeting without—

Sniper moved to tug on his own hat idly, nudging his shades up his nose the millimeter or two they’d slid down since he last adjusted them maybe a minute and a half previously, and Scout had to force himself to stop looking at the guy for like ten seconds. And ten seconds was exactly how long he lasted before he was looking over again.

It sucked. Like, he’d gone years and years just kinda letting Sniper do his thing—the guy clearly just wanted to be left alone, didn’t want to be bothered with their shenanigans, so he really didn’t ever see Sniper around much. Barely knew the guy beyond like, some very basic stuff. And he kinda got the impression at first that Sniper was actually just way too cool for him to talk to, a hired assassin from fuckin’ Australia of all places, beyond skilled and into intimidating in his particular practice, maybe a little scary in the few interactions Scout caught him in during battle.

And he was like, more an idea of a person than an actual person, for those reasons. Scout didn’t really think much about what he had to actually be like.

Then one night Scout woke up around 3 AM and couldn’t get back to sleep and he decided to just go grab a snack from the kitchen to try and maybe squeeze a nap in before he was meant to be awake at 6:30, and he’d walked in and seen Sniper standing there.

Sniper was pretty professional in all interactions Scout ever had with him. Only ever showed up in the base proper in full uniform, and while he wasn’t like, Medic or Spy levels of crisp clean-cut, he still always at least looked put-together. But now Scout was confronted with the concept of what Sniper wore for pajamas, something he’d only ever thought about once or twice before, and was now suddenly witnessing.

Sweatpants, apparently, and a sweater. Green and grey, knitted. Socks. No hat or sunglasses, which was weird enough that it actually kind of took Scout a second to understand who he was looking at.

Sniper looked up at him when he walked in, and Scout knew he probably looked like hell, but Sniper didn’t look all that much better. He seemed pretty tired, and Scout watched as he visibly tried to sort himself out, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders a little, leaning less heavily on the counter.

“Uh, sup,” Scout said, and walked over to the fridge, deciding to just kinda play it cool and like he was totally anticipating that someone might be in the kitchen at 3 AM, and also that it wasn’t weird that he was in the kitchen at 3 AM.

“...‘llo,” Sniper mumbled, and glanced back down at what he’d been doing before Scout showed up.

Eating cereal, apparently, the bland wheat garbage that about half the team usually put up with, he and Pyro being the ones who tended to go for the more sugary brands. Scout occupied himself with trying to sift through the over-stuffed fridge for something he could feasibly eat, deciding not to stare.

But the silence was pretty painful. He didn’t like silence, it always felt almost itchy to stand there and not say anything when there was someone like five feet away, so he broke it after a few seconds. “Doesn’t it get hot in that?” he asked, not looking over at Sniper.

A pause long enough that Scout was half convinced Sniper was just going to ignore him, but he did end up speaking. “Gets cold at night. ‘Specially out there, it’s... warmer in the base,” Sniper murmured. “Used to it being warm, besides.”

“Fair,” Scout shrugged, pulled out a container, glanced at it, put it back. “Probably hotter in—“

“Australia, yeah,” Sniper agreed, in a tone that implied he’d heard that a hundred times before.

“It’s summer there right now, right?” Scout asked, pulling out a different container and scowling when he saw Engie’s name on it, begrudgingly putting it back.

“...Yeah.”

Scout finally found a leftover Chinese takeout box that he was at least reasonably sure was his own, and moved over to the microwave, dropping the leftovers on a plate and putting in some random amount of time, aware he’d just be stopping the microwave when noises started happening anyways. He glanced back over at Sniper. Sniper wasn’t looking at him. “That’s a cool sweater, though,” Scout finally said.

“Thanks,” Sniper said into his bowl. “It’s, er...”

There was a very long silence as Scout waited for Sniper to finish his sentence and he didn’t. He popped the microwave open to check on his leftovers. Not warm enough. He closed it again, turned back around. Kept waiting.

Apparently Sniper did decide to finish his sentence eventually. “It’s wool. From... back home,” he said, voice still quiet.

“Huh?” Scout asked, a little confused.

Sniper finished his bowl, put it on the counter next to him. Scratched at the back of his neck. Without the hat it was much more obvious how Sniper’s hair just kinda flipped up in the back, and how unruly the rest of his hair was as well, even deliberately brushed back out of the way. “Family’s sheep farmers,” he finally said.

Scout’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah?”

Sniper nodded. “We don’t... spin the wool, some other bloke does that, but we get to sell the yarn at least. Usually m’parents keep at least a little bit. Mum knits. Gives... gloves and the like to any kids in town.”

“She made that too?” Scout asked, glancing the sweater up and down again. “Jesus, how long did that take?”

Sniper shrugged. “Week, maybe two.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Scout scratched at his arm as a memory occurred to him. “Only sweaters I ever had were hand-me-downs from my brothers, itchy as all fuck. They never wanted to pass down the softer ones.”

Sniper nodded at that. “Makes sense.”

There was a long silence then, in which Scout finally noticed his food was starting to make popping noises and he pulled it out. Mostly hot, some cold bits in the middle, but he grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer of assorted utensils and stirred it around so it was more even. It was just noodles, so it didn’t matter much.

“Late dinner,” Sniper said, almost managing to make it sound like a joke.

“Early breakfast,” Scout shot back, nodding at the cereal bowl and stirring his food around a bit more.

Sniper tilted his head in a vague sort of agreement, going quiet again. Scout started eating, and winced a little at how some noodles were weirdly dry and others were goopy, but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Silence again, but at least Scout could keep himself occupied with eating instead of thinking about it.

“You know how to use chopsticks?” Sniper finally asked, surprising Scout a little bit. He glanced up.

“Yeah, duh, who doesn’t?” Scout scoffed.

Silence for a second. “I don’t,” Sniper said.

Scout looked up again, befuddled. “Man, are you serious? I learned that when I was like, five,” he prodded.

Sniper shrugged, looking away again. “Just never learnt. Never really had to, didn’t come up.”

“Fuckin’, learn how to use chopsticks, man. What’re you waiting for, a written invitation?” Scout joked.

“Eh. I’ll get to it,” Sniper shrugged again, and rubbed at his eye, and suddenly it hit Scout how much of a human being Sniper was. Standing there in a sweater his mom knit for him, eating cereal at three in the morning, admitting that he just never learned how to use chopsticks.

What the fuck, Sniper was just a regular dude who happened to be in their line of work.

What the fuck.

(He did look pretty good out of uniform, huh—?)

And that was it for him, a series of back-to-back realizations compounding until he realized how good-looking Sniper was, even rumbled at three in the morning under the shitty fluorescents of the kitchen—especially like that. And he felt his face go burning hot, and he dug into his noodles to try and cover it, and he almost choked on his food.

Absolute fucking mess.

And like—now Scout was noticing all kinds of tiny little things. Sniper always crossed his legs at the ankle, left-over right, and his arms right-over-left. He had a bruise on his thumb from jamming it on his rifle, and his shades were crooked a little tiny bit to the left, and his hair was all flippy-uppy in the back but there was this one lock of hair that was especially flippy-uppy. He didn’t put anything in his coffee like an absolute monster but did put just a little bit of sugar on his cereal, apparently. He kept nodding off during meetings but nobody else seemed to notice since he had the shades on and you had to be looking pretty closely and from roughly Scout’s angle at the table to see his eyes were closed, and he didn’t have any other tells besides his jaw being a little tight.

Twice so far he’d been asked by Medic if he had a fever, he was blushing so hard. At once point Demo had dunked on him a little bit about “zoning out” and “thinkin’ about someone special, probably”, and he’d only barely escaped by rolling his eyes and rolling with the joke instead of getting defensive. He’d gotten mysteriously more clumsy in front of the team at large, fumbling and tripping over his words and even stammering sometimes. He was such a goddamn sappy mess.

God. He was so fucked.

#sniperscout #speeding bullet #tf2 #team fortress 2 #shut up me #everybody talks #my fanfiction #yes its 3am as i post this dont worry abt it

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anonil88 · 4 years

Text

“This isn't prison break.”parts 1 & 2

Rue runs away for a night from rehab with a bunch of people she doesn't know. They go to a club, do some stupid stuff and adopt a cat.

wrote this and put it on AO3- lnk here- but also updating on here:

PART 1

Rue laughs absently at the other group of "degenerates" as Ali would call them. They are walking along the side of the road towards wherever a kid named Malcolm was leading them. She technically was supposed to be in her small dorm bed asleep and awaiting 4 am check in. But instead here she was being a fellow degenerate who had technically escaped the rehab facility. They all intended on going back to the treatment facility eventually. She hopes Sol would even though it meant they probably would be separated. They all just needed a night of more because everyone was on edge and needed a break. Everyone was aware that the consequences would be getting kicked out or all restrictions taken away. But, fuck it.

Her group of acquaintances, because they were not her friends, was made up of a random assortment of folks. One of which was some guy named Graham who was apparently the older "brother" of Angel. Angel was the only one out of the group besides her roommate who actually knew more than whatever she half assed in group therapy. Which was very little but it was enough to keep them.... interested. Rue shoves her hands in the pockets of a pair of baggy shorts that Angel threw at her in a parking lot after everyone met back up. Their escape plan was a plan but they all booked it through a hole in the fence and through a patch of woods at first. Some person named Bones, who had to at least be a sophomore in college, picked them all up in a hatchback and the Graham who opened a backpack filled with vices.

Rue steered clear of the opiates and went straight for the bottle of Coconut Rum. Even though she could practically hear the pills singing her fucking name. Most of them actually opted to be clean of whatever landed them in rehab but not sober. Not everyone though because Angel was definitely rolling a tiny bit and so were two other people out of the 5 fence jumpers. Including her roommate Sol. Rue just figured the slap on the wrist once they got back would be less harsh without a positive test. The rum was more than enough to stay kind of alert amongst everyone here. All these faces that might leave her dying face down in a ditch if she OD’ed....again.

She wasn't even in here because of an overdose. Just a basic relapse that made her mom's mind up for her and now she was forced into a stupid facility with strangers. They forced her to talk, made sure she ate, but she honestly felt worse being inside than out. It was probably working the 12 steps and quiet therapy sessions but in places she didn't see yet. This right here though the warmth of the air touching her skin as the packed car they'd all tumbled into hurtled through empty streets. Leaning her head back she mumbles along the lyrics while Sol pulls at the worn shirt collar.

"Beep beep go swerving in my, Beep been you want me riding in your...."

Rue sighs feeling sticky lips press against her clavicle and up her neck.

"Beep beep ghost busting in my,

Beep beep you want me riding in your....driving super fast."

Sol was cool people but Rue knew it couldn't be anything more than fooling around. Kissing when no one was watching or either of them came back from a therapy session sobbing. Sometimes Sol sneaking into her bed at night so they could have quickie sex sessions. This wasn't how Rue expected to explore her sexuality that was pretty dormant but it was what she had. It also wasn't with who she had in mind either. Lingering feelings aside the two of them were stuck in a juvenile inpatient program. With the same beds as the ones in college pamphlets, a no shoelace rule, and fuzzy socks ( that Rue secretly loves). This girl was like 3 inches shorter than Rue, dark skinned, neck tattoos and a short cut. Sol had been through so much more shit than Rue and it made her feel ungrateful. Ungrateful because at least she had a hard working mom who still loved her and hadn't abandoned all hope. Other people in the program who took it seriously though told her not to because her life sucked too.

Feeling Sol's lips on hers she kissed her back. She didn't feel anything but it must have felt amazing to Sol who deepened the kiss. The car swerved past what in Rue's mind had to be a pothole. Sol falls away further into her body clutching the fabric of her shirt and accidentally her chest. Rue hears Sol sigh and snaps her eyes open while Sol still kisses her. Rue grabs hold of the handle above the door and sits back up mumbling, what was that. She watches Sol roll her eyes and sit back into the tan seats.

"Oh FUCK," Bones yelled slowing the car down and pulling over. Bones had their black hair slicked all the way back and a cigarette falling out of their mouth. They were odd enough sober and everyone's dd, just a ball of chaotic a.d.d they'd laughed at her earlier as they walked her from the gas station bathroom back to the car. It was a nice gesture because apparently she seemed "kind of uncomfortable," which was true. The urge to escape herself dulled the fear of her mother's true unbridled anger. Or Fez's.

He was really upset when he found out she got a new plug after actually being clean for so long. She turns to look out the back window and sees two green eyes attached to a small grey mound in the road.

"What the....omg a cat omg," Angel is practically bouncing out of the car after pulling out a half eaten filet o fish. Rue watches him in an outfit she felt fit him so much more than the basic t-shirt and sweatpants he wore everyday. His platform sneakers lit up across the black asphalt as he inches closer to the obviously terrified animal. A glitter covered arm wove in front of him with food and Rue leans into the window in anticipation. The only thing that could make Angel seem even more angelic was wings or a halo above his half platinum half silver hair. He honestly seemed like the type to fit right into Jules's friend group. But instead he was the kind creative rave kid who drew her pictures of kandy he'd give her one day.

"Hey um...you ," she feels her shoulder being tapped. "Put this in your lap."

PART 2

"Yes! I love this song," Bones yells back rolling down the windows. The cool autumn air filling the car and the smell of weed being blown out the window.

Her heel is bouncing with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. With one more she could become triple A instead of alcoholics anonymous. She can feel a comfortable softness against her sole. It's from a piece of fabric she keeps stuffed in her sock. Her knee keeps bouncing in place with the sleeping kitten being stroked by Sol in her lap. Her current reality is so much more serene than the one she relives in her head.

Arrival nurses took her hoodie at this new place only letting it stay with her the first night. She was so fucking high on check in that she screamed please don't take my dad please as they explained it to her mom. Her mom who she clung to like they were about to skin her alive. Chest rising and falling quick enough someone said something about a shot. Too high to be cold and distant but not enough for her heart to stop. Just enough to be a paranoid fuck up. Leslie tried to calm her down but it only worked after her mom bargained with them, one night.

One night and then her mom visited the next day to say goodbye. Slipping a gray square in her pocket. It was worn in from a t-shirt that her dad wore in her baby pictures. Leslie hugged her so tight before leaving whispering we love you so much. That was the last time she'd seen her mom and every time she called Leslie said oh rue like her heart was breaking again. So those phone calls were short because her mom crying always fucks her up mentally for a few days. The silent pauses remind her of the little sister who always has faith in her but is turning into someone who doesn't even look at her.

"You okay," Sol whispers and rue nods because when was she ever. Her arm that sol is resting on is cramping but she lets it, not much arm space in this back row anyway. She should have just chosen the trunk with some 16 year old named Zach.

"On the left yesss we made it and on time too," Graham jeers next to Sol.

Rue looks at the dash clock crinoline her brow. "How is almost 1 am on time," she whispers.

Sol chuckles, "It is a club not a house party you knew that right ?" Rue bites the inside of her lip and shakes her head no. Sol puckers a bottom lip and kisses her cheek. Great pity Rue thinks. Sol leans in to whisper to Rue, "Don't worry Graham knows the bouncer. No fakes required."

Rue opens back up the glass bottle in the seat net and lets the clear liquid burn her throat a bit. Out of her realm was an understatement, house parties were something she was used to but never clubs. She didn't even know what kind of club this was but judging from the giant rainbow flag out front, angry repressed frat bros wouldn't be an issue. Which helped the nerves in her stomach unwind. The fur ball on her lap made a noise and she rubbed it through the sweater it's been laid on. Sol said the kitten was probably dumped because there was a tag scar and the kitten was super clean. But was she risking it....no.

Sol takes the bottle from her hand and screws the cap back on. "You gonna dance with me tonight Benny." Sol says as she nudges her shoulder.

"Maybe," Rue shrugs.

" Okay well how about anyone else," Sol grins coyly.

Rue looks away from her and out the window. She's more interested in the brick building as they get closer than someone's hot sweaty body. There's a line to the door with several guards standing with gloved hands and flashlights. " Idk maybe," Rue looks back at Sol who is rolling her eyes.

" Yes she is," Angel yells from the passenger seat. He's checking his makeup in the mirror and winks at rue. Which makes her tuck her hair behind her ear and cough to cover the blush. Angel turns around happily and says, "meee.'

Leaning forward Sol pecks Angel and says, " Bennett your goal tonight is to have fun, dance with someone. He, she, they, who cares, maybe you'll get a lil prison pen pal."

Rue rolls her eyes, that probably wasn't happening but it was about trying new experiences. Treatment was also not prison; it just was not freedom either. Bones pulls past the entrance and swings into the parking lot. Graham is behind them pointing as they follow directions. He's even saying fun facts like this is Knott's which Angel keeps mimicking. Bones slowly moves the car until one guard leans his hand in the window. The guard daps Graham up and they laugh for a second. His name is apparently DJ and he's their in. The only rules are no weapons.

In the parking lot they all get put and Rue notices other cars with clusters of people around them. She shakes her lap free of cigarette ash and cat hair. The cat now named sparkle is being in the trunk with a makeshift bed, a small can of tuna Bones just had and an old bottle lid filled with water. Rue leans down and ties the mismatched dollar store laces on her chucks. They had hot dogs on them which was kind of cute. A tire squeals close by of a car obviously moving way too fast and drunk singing out a window speeds past them. Idiots. Everyone else was finishing a shared bottle or blunt. Leaning against the side of the trunk she feels Sol rest against her arm warming it up.

Rue can hear a steady thump and beat coming from the brick building. It makes her head move which means the music might not be her thing but it'll be tolerable. Graham even said there's another section with actual seats that has a more contained dance floor with pop and hip-hop. Just in case she got overwhelmed by the rave scene and the lights. She doubles over as she laughs at Angel's jokes.

Kid was fucking hilarious, she stands up wiping her eyes and freezes looking in front of her.

#rue bennett #rue euphoria #jules vaughn #jules euphoria #original character #euphoria hbo #euphoria #euphoria fanfiction #euphoria fanfic #my wriitng #fanfiction #club tw #rue #jules #rue x jules

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mnemememory · 5 years

Text

run away

It doesn’t take very long for the Nein to notice.

Yasha is quiet, but she isn’t subtle. There’s a weight to her footsteps that wasn’t there before, a hunch to her spine that suggests she’s trying to take up less space. Unless it’s to instigate an apology (another one), she doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

(or; yasha needs a hug)

It doesn’t take very long for the Nein to notice.

Caduceus figures it out first, because he is Caduceus, and also because he’s prone to walking around at night. The Xhorhouse creaks pleasantly in the night, groaning under the weight of a tree that was never supposed to exist. Caduceus likes to walk outside and stare at the starless sky, or sip tea in the branches and wait for a morning that will never come. It soothes the part of him that misses sunlight, sitting up in the tree in the dim glow of the fairy-lights.

The night is dark, and the air is thick with heat. Caduceus rolls out of bed and pads over to the door. He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to actually go to sleep. Too much has been happening over the past few weeks. As much as Caduceus would like to drift off, he finds his brain working at eleven different layers, waiting for the next blade to the back. While there are some pleasant side-effects to this hypervigilance – Caduceus has never been more appreciative of a good cup of tea while sitting with his back against a tree – there are some downsides. The insomnia annoys him.

Caduceus opens the door, and almost trips over Yasha.

“Oh,” he says, staring down at her. His brain is still a little muffled, so it takes a few seconds for the sight to register. “Good morning.”

Yasha glances up at him, naked terror bleeding across her face. She scrambles up against the opposite wall like he’s afraid he’s going to hurt her. Or she’s going to hurt him.

“Yes,” she says, when Caduceus continues to stare. “Good…good morning.”

Caduceus shakes his head. “Wait, isn’t it really late? What time is it, anyway?”

“I thought you knew,” Yasha says. “You’re the one who is awake.”

“Are you dreaming, then?” Caduceus says, tilting his head to one side in genuine contemplation.

“I don’t know,” Yasha says. Her smile is brittle. “Maybe I am.”

“Come and have some tea with me,” Caduceus says. He holds up his bag and waves it invitingly in her face. “Let’s make this a nice dream.”

Yasha gets up. Like this, with her head ducked and her shoulders pulled down, she barely reaches his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being there?”

“I would tell you if I had a problem with it,” Caduceus says. “Let me show you my favourite tree branch…”

…

Jester refuses to sleep in her room.

It’s a comfort kind of thing. She doesn’t know what to do with herself without having the warm glow of Caleb’s hut above her as she drifts off. Most of her time is spent alternating between hanging out in the common area and painting dicks on everyone’s doors. She awards herself points for every complaint she receives – double points for Fjord’s dead-inside expression every time he wants to go outside. Caleb is annoyingly unflappable, but Jester will figure him out. She’s good at getting people to their breaking point.

(In the most lovable way, of course).

There are only so many places she can hide drawings of dicks, though, before it starts to lose some of its sparkle. Jester has hidden so many lewd drawings in the house that no one even blinks.

“Some people just don’t appreciate art,” Jester tells Frumpkin. Frumpkin just blinks slowly up at her from where he’s sitting on the floor, and she is standing on a precarious stack of chairs to get to the ceiling. She licks the tip of her paintbrush and squints at her latest masterpiece. “I don’t think the nose is quite right –”

Frumpkin looks down at his paws and starts licking in-between his claws. Jester ignores his hurtful lack of interest.

She’s almost done. Her arms are starting to feel the strain, but she’s worked under much worse conditions. If only these damn chairs would stop moving –

Oh no.

Jester is too surprised to even let out a shout when her pile of furniture starts to wobble, and sway, and then fall. She braces herself for a landing that’s going to hurt, dammit, thank the Traveller she’s the cleric of the group so she doesn’t have to ask someone to heal her up, how embarrassing –

Jester doesn’t land.

Well, Jester does land, but she doesn’t land on the ground. Strong arms catch her, grabbing underneath her knees and her back in the perfect princess-carry. If it was Fjord, Jester would have swooned, just to see him blush.

It isn’t Fjord.

“Hi, Yasha,” Jester says, smiling at Yasha’s stoic face. “How long have you been watching me?”

Yasha wordlessly puts Jester back onto the ground. Her hands are gentle, the movements uncertain. As soon as Jester is upright, she shrinks back like she’s been burned.

“Thank you,” Jester adds.

Yasha nods. She glances back at the open door, and then up at the ceiling.

Jester takes the opportunity to preen. “Pretty good, right? I’m really excited for everyone to wake up tomorrow and see it.”

“It is very nice,” Yasha says.

“I still think I’ve got Caleb’s nose wrong,” Jester says. “But he’s just got such an annoying face, you know?”

Yasha seems to think about this. “He looks like Caleb to me.”

“What about the others?”

Yasha purses her lips, the tension in her shoulders easing as she fully concentrates on taking in Jester’s newest mural. It’s of all of them – Jester, and Yasha, and Fjord, and Beau, and Caleb, and Frumpkin, and Nott, and Caduceus, and Molly – all looking very scruffy, standing in a field of flowers.

“I had to check my notebook,” Jester says. “But this is what we looked like, when we first met each other.”

Yasha just stares up at the mural, expression complicated.

“We’ve all come so far,” Jester says. “I wanted to remind everyone.”

“I have come very far,” Yasha says. “And that is not a good thing.”

Jester turns to look at her, hands on her hips. “It is very late, and I am done arguing about this,” she says. “Lift me up so I can fix Caleb’s nose.”

Yasha bends down and offers Jester her hands. Jester steadies her hands on Yasha’s shoulders, and then she’s being lifted into the air. It takes a few seconds to wobble around and get a comfortable position, but once she’s there Yasha turns to stone underneath her.

“I think that everybody will love it,” Yasha says half-an-hour later, so quietly that Jester almost doesn’t hear her. Her arms aren’t even shaking.

Jester smiles to herself, and paints a dick on Fjord’s breastplate.

Nott is more direct.

“Hold this vial of acid,” she says, shoving said via of acid into Yasha’s hands before Yasha can actually protest.

Yasha stands there and stares down at the bubbling green liquid, hovering in an awkward in-between area of the hallway and Nott’s room/laboratory. There are beakers and bubbles and all sorts of weird jars filled with random assorted pieces of plant matter lining the walls and the tables and the floor.

“Where do you want this?” Yasha says. She doesn’t enter the room.

“Just stand there and hold it,” Nott says. “Make yourself useful.”

Yasha just nods and stands there and holds it.

Nott bustles around her room with various glass beakers in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. Liquid flows between pieces of piping, the colours bright and glittering in the firelight. All the windows are closed and curtained off, though even without that, the atmosphere would be dark.

“I’m trying to produce an acid stronger than what I already have,” Nott says. She seems to enjoy talking while she works. “It doesn’t work fast enough.”

“Okay,” Yasha says.

“I’d really like something that would work on magical objects,” Nott says. “But I think that would also require an enchantment, and we’re kind of broke at the moment.”

“We are always broke,” Yasha says.

“I always carry a lot of acid,” Nott says. “Everywhere on my person. In my bag. It hurts people a lot when I pour it on them.”

“I expect it does,” Yasha says evenly.

Nott turns to look at her, yellow eyes gleaming. Her face is shadowed, the glowing edges of her tattoo highlighting her cheekbones and deepening the darkness across her face. Her smile has a lot of teeth.

“I don’t trust you anymore,” Nott says. “I don’t think you did it on purpose, but I don’t trust you. If you do something like that again – if you hurt any of us again – I’ll pour this acid right down your throat and watch you melt from the inside out.”

Yasha blinks slowly. “Okay.”

Nott’s smile widens. She walks over and takes the vial from Yasha’s fingers.

“You’re useless,” Nott says. “Go and sit in the corner and don’t get in my way.”

Yasha smiles softly to herself and does as directed.

Caleb comes and drapes Frumpkin across Yasha’s shoulders.

“He’ll make you feel better,” he says.

(he does).

It takes Fjord a little while. He’s avoiding Yasha, after all.

The whole thing is entirely conscious, and he feels bad about it, but he also doesn’t want to be in the same room with her. Fjord has nightmares about Yasha’s blade coming down into Beau’s abdomen, about Molly and Lorenzo, about the Iron Shepherds and Jester’s gagged, tear-stained face. For every hurt they have been through, Yasha has been in another room, past another wall. Fjord feels bad, but not bad enough.

Yasha notices, because this is a small house, and she isn’t stupid. Fjord’s accent slides around her; he avoids certain areas of the house; he sticks closer to Jester and Beau than before. Caduceus is the official therapist of the Mighty Nein. Let him deal with Yasha while Fjord is still sorting out all of his problems.

Revelations like these seem to happen at night. “Night” being entirely subjective, of course – everyone goes off Caleb’s internal ticking clock, because otherwise they’d be hopelessly lost about when to sleep and when to rise. They retire around the same time every night. There’s this weird fear that the more they acclimatise to the fathomless darkness, the harder it will be to see the sun.

Fjord is thirsty, and it is relatively late, and no one should be awake. He walks out of his room and to the kitchen. The floorboards creak under his weight as he slides past the silent rooms and downstairs. He doesn’t bother turning on a light. He can see well enough, after all.

Yasha is pressed up into the corner of the kitchen, fingers clenched against the bare skin of her upper arms, Frumpkin wedged into the space between her chest and her knees. Her eyes seem to glow in the darkness, face pale and bloodless.

Fjord stops at the door and stares at her.

She doesn’t notice him. She isn’t looking at anything in particular, just the wall. Her expression is vague and unfocused. Fjord discretely begins to curl his fingers through the air, the phantom weight of his sword pulling tight along the skin of his palm.

Yasha’s eyes snap to him. She looks feral.

Then she buries her face into her knees and starts to shake.

“I can still hear him,” she says.

Fjord goes and gets some water. He sits down in front of her and doesn’t move.

“He keeps telling me to do things,” Yasha says, voice horse and strained. “He’s in my head, all the time. I thought – I thought that when –” she shakes her head and curls tighter around Frumpkin.

Fjord bites his top lip and considers her. Hesitantly, he reaches out to pat her arm. Yasha flinches away like she’s been burned, pressing tighter against the wall. Her breathing is heavy.

“You can’t do that,” she says. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I might hurt you. You can’t be near me.”

Fjord sighs through his nose and takes a swig of water. He doesn’t have the words for this. He considers, with no small amount of amusement, how that would surprise Beau.

So instead he just sits there with her and waits for the house to come alive once again.

Beau has been giving Yasha space.

Getting stabbed is rapidly becoming quite impersonal. Hell, she’s been shot by Nott before, what’s a blade to the chest? Everyone else seems kind of weird about it, but Beau is totally fine.

Yasha is very much not fine.

Every time Beau tries to get her one-on-one, just to – like, talk about it, she manages to squirm out of the conversation with as much grace as an owlbear in a shop full of explosive and possibly dangerous magical items. Which is to say – surprisingly well, considering her size and lack of social awareness. Running in the opposite direction usually does the trick.

After the first few times, Beau gets the hint. Of course, there are the apologies – an endless list of apologies, small and large and heartbreakingly sincere. Yasha apologises for breathing on a regular basis. Beau can’t do much about it, considering Yasha also apologises for standing in Beau’s general space, so she ropes Jester for that little side project. She’s first-mate of this motley crew of misfits, after all, and Yasha is one of hers – whether she likes it or not.

So Beau goes to the common areas and makes her presence loud and bright. She makes sure there are always people around her, because Yasha won’t approach unless there’s someone else as a buffer. It’s very much like reeling in a stray cat. Not that Beau has much experience with cats. Or animals in general. There had been other initiates at the Cobalt Soul that had been fans of luring unsuspecting alley cats into their dorm rooms and then getting them fat off pilfered food. It had been an entertaining way to level up their skills against nosy dorm inspections – at one point, there had been a game of “catch the cat before Archivist Zeenoth finds it and kills it and then kills us”. Nothing built comradery like a common enemy.

Beau had mostly stayed away from that kind of thing, but she knows enough about scared animals – and scared people, for that matter – to know that approaching Yasha at the moment would be a bad idea. She’s skittish, prone to flinching, and refuses to have her sword on her while in the house. That had been an uncomfortable argument to have. Beau had let Caleb take the reigns on that one. They had managed to convince her to wear armour while doing errands, at least.

Slowly adjust. That’s what Beau is getting Yasha to do.

There’s a knock on her door.

Beau glances up from where she’s doing her stretches, shoving her staff off to the side and getting to her feet.

“Come in,” she says. She hadn’t thought anyone else was at the house – Jester had wanted to go shopping, and had roped basically everyone else to go with her. Beau had declined, citing a need to work on her flexibility. She’s been getting horribly out of shape without any kind of consistent workout routine.

Yasha opens the door.

Beau blinks at her blankly for a few seconds, and then grabs her shirt and shoves it over her head. Some things just aren’t appropriate to do half-naked.

“Hello,” Yasha says. She stays in the hallway, shoulders hard and tense.

“Hey,” Beau says, leaning up against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. Gentle. Be gentle.

Yasha swallows hard. “I don’t,” she says, and then cuts off with a sharp shake of her head. “I am having – a lot of trouble being – being alone at the moment. My head is not a very nice place to be.”

Beau arches her eyebrow at her.

“Can,” Yasha says, and then visible steels herself. “Can I stay in here with you? I don’t want to be alone.”

Beau can’t stop a smile from breaking out across her face. “Of course,” she says, gesturing Yasha into her room with a jerk of her head. “All you had to do was ask, idiot.”

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #yasha #mighty nein #cr spoilers #cr fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #yasha needs a hug #ASHLEY IS BACK YOU GUYS #yasha i missed you #here's a hug (or nein) from me to you <3 #unedited because i'm so sick

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percywinchester27 · 5 years

Text

About a boy (Part-2)

Word count: 2.8K

Warning: Suspense, feels, physical abuse, bullying

Characters: Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Benny, Michael, OCs and… Sam?

Summary: Dean Winchester has a secret. A secret that could really land him in trouble. He never expected to connect with anyone when he walked into the ‘Blue Stone Orphanage for Boys,’ but even then, the walls he has put up are slowly coming down. Now, a series of strange events are threatening to expose him. When everything starts falling apart around him, will he still be able to save the one person that matters the most?

A/N: Many thanks to @thing-you-do-with-that-thing and @deanssweetheart23 for beta reading this story. I love you guys <3

Part 1

The orphanage wasn't quite as gloomy in the daylight, Dean concluded, but still gloomy enough. Cas showed him around the place in the morning. The shower rooms, the mess, the grounds. Everyone looked at him as they passed. The new kid. As if he hadn't had that before.

The building was I- shaped, and a good chunk of the T-shape was occupied. No one really knew what happened in the left-wing. It was boarded and the only way to go there was from the ground and up the other staircase. The ground floor had the office, the library, store room, record room, the kitchen and the mess hall, which overlooked the huge, unkempt backyard.

The first floor was mostly storages and a creepy meeting room for when interested couples visited the orphanage to look at a kid up for adoption. Looked like a jail cell to Dean. The second floor had a Rec room with one old TV set. A couple of computers that looked like they were about to give up any second now. A table tennis board and a few other random board games. It was longish room, like several walls had been knocked down to make space for it, with an assortment of mismatching sofas. The place was about as lively as an almost abandoned old age home. The second floor housed kids from 3 to 6, third floor from 7 to 10, then the floor above had 11 to 14 and the fifth floor, the one where Dean was to live was 15 to 17.

He kept his head down all through breakfast, carefully watching kids file in and file out. There must have been at least 600 to 700 of them in the whole building. It was a big facility and that just made it all the more difficult for him. Afterwards, he stood by the widow, seeing all the little kids scramble on to one bus after another and head to school. Dean started the day after, so today was all he would get.

Cas clapped him on his back on his way out. "Stay quiet, alright?" his blue eyes twinkled.

"Okay."

As soon as all of them were in the bus, Dean slipped out of the mess quietly. His cleaning duties weren't going to be assigned till later today which is why he had to make the most of his time. He passed Andy in the hall, who was headed towards his office.

Dean nodded to him, all the while cursing under his breath. The record room was just down the corridor from Andy's office. How was he going to break into it with Andy just around the corner? He had to try though.

He looked around once Andy had passed, then doubled back to the record room. It was locked.

Great!

He pulled out the lock pick he kept with him from his pocket and picked it open, cursing once more because this would leave evidence, and he was, at no cost, supposed to draw attention. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and turned to face the room. His breath caught. The room was full of racks stacked with files. There must have been thousands and thousands of those. Till there was only enough room to walk around.

"Shit!"

There was no way he was going to find one single record in this sea of files. He went along the first row anyway, maybe they were categorized alphabetically, though being organized seemed highly out of character for the whole place.

Still, Dean went around, looking for 'W.' That wasn't the most common letter for surnames, now was it?

All of a sudden the door barged open.

"Who's there?" A voice called. Dean jumped, startled. "It's me…" he said, as meekly as he could manage. I'm new here… I got lost."

"Come out, now."

Dean walked back carefully till he was at the start of the rack. A lanky boy of about 19 was standing at the door. He wore a janitor's uniform, and looked slightly punch drunk.

"You shouldn't be here, kid!"

"I-I got lost…" he stammered.

The janitor dude, walked closer,eyeing Dean. The nameplate on his chest read "Garth F."

"Alright, but don't have Andy catch you snooping around next time," Garth scolded good-naturedly. "Now off you go."

Dean didn't need to be told twice. He made a beeline straight for the 5th floor. Not stopping till he was on his bed, heart pounding out of his chest.

What had he been thinking? Getting caught on the first damn day?

He could barely swallow the lunch and then hit the sack at 5, before Cas could get back from school. Dean was starting to like him, and at this point he couldn't really afford to do that. The sleepless night and an afternoon of over thinking, at least, aided in passing out cold.

Dean was awoken by a rag thrown over his face, suffocating him. He tried to flail, to yell but rough hands grabbed his legs, his arms, pinning him to the mattress.

"Don't make a sound, or you'll pay for it," someone hissed in his ear.

So, this was the initiation. Deliberately, Dean stopped moving. If he didn't know who he was watching his back from, none of this would ever work.

He was roughly shoved into a huge gurney bag and then dragged across the hall. Fortunately, not down the stairs. He guessed that whoever the captors were, at least they were scared of making too much noise, so he wasn't obviously staying on the same floor. 24 steps down, flat stretch then a pause then a left turn, another 24 steps. Dean tried to memorize every step, but what with all the juggling around, it was hard to make sense of the direction.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the gurney carrying him was thrown on the ground. The fall hit his head hard. Then it began, the ceaseless thrashing. Hands and feet, mostly feet found each part of his body, hands, head, leg, just everything. He curled up into a ball, head in hands to avoid getting hit in the eye or getting his nose broken. That thing was permanent and he didn't want to live his life with a crooked nose.

At long last he was dumped on to the ground unceremoniously. At first, he didn't remove his hands from over his face, but when nothing happened immediately, he blinked into the darkness, barely seeing anything.

"What's your name, kid?" A harsh voice asked.

"You want it tattooed on your chest?" Dean asked. It earned him a swift kick to the gut.

"Smartass."

The comment was a throwaway, but Dean could hear a hint of grudging admiration.

"Your name?" Another voice asked, this one was harsher, and also older.

Dean wanted to throw another comment, but he figured he needed to get up first to have at least some advantage. If answering was going to buy him time, might as well.

"Winchester."

"Think I've heard that name somewhere," the first voice muttered. Dean inhaled sharply.

"Winchester what?" Second voice.

"Dean Winchester," he replied, hoping that the first voice had something more to add to. Sneakily, he got on his knees, his body killing him as he ambled.

"We have an initiation system here, Winchester," a third voice added.

How many were there? In the bare light coming from the far away lamp near the side building, Dean could make out at least 5 silhouettes. There could be a couple more.

There was no way he could fight his way through all of those.

"Strip!" The harsh voice said.

"What's the fun in that?" Dean said, careful, calculative. If he had the disadvantage of the darkness, so did they. Maybe, just maybe he could run away.

Another shove. Dean almost fell back this time. When the second shove came, he was ready to block it and throw it back. His one hand collided with the assailants and the other landed on his back, pushing him down. There was a muted yell and whoever the boy was, took another one down with it.

"Think you're smart, huh?" The harsh voice asked, and three figures crowded in.

"Wait!"

The huffing thin frame of Castiel threw himself before Dean. "Let him go, Michael."

So that was the bully's name.

"Castiel?" Michael backtracked. "What're you doing here?"

"Dean's my friend. I can't let you guys do that to him."

Michael seemed to regard Cas. "This happens to every kid."

There were jeers in the background.

"Yeah but he's not a kid anymore" Cas said, hurriedly. "C'mon, man! Let it go."

Even in the darkness, Dean could see Michael's shoulders go taut. "Why are you trying to save the newbie's ass, Castiel? What's in it for you?"

Cas said nothing, and Dean wondered the same. What did he get out of saving Dean?

"I've had enough of this soap opera," Michael said impatiently. "Gary, pull Castiel away. Let's get this show on the road."

There was a sudden whelp, and then Cas grunted, as if he had been hurt.

"No," Dean shouted, losing his calm now. Whatever Cas' deal was, he had still tried to help Dean. He didn't deserve to get punched for it. "Let him go. If you got guts, come at me, asshat."

No one answered. There was just a flurry of movement and Dean was down on the ground once more, the dust making him cough. They could thrash him for all they wanted. He knew they would succeed because they had the advantage of numbers, and they knew the place well while he was plunged in this darkness. But, like hell he was giving up without putting up a fight. His only concern was Cas. He had to be okay.

"Gentlemen!" A silky voice suddenly interrupted. The thrashing stopped.

"I see you're showering our lovely new inmate with all the love."

"Gabriel?" Michael asked, perplexed.

"Yo, Mikey!! You back to abusing little kids in the alley?"

"What?" Michael's tone quickly changed from surprise to anger. Dean noticed that this Gabriel was making no effort to keep his voice down like the others.

"Too dark here, don't you think?" Gabriel wondered out loud. Then, there was the distinct sound of a matchstick being struck and the view was flooded with light.

Holding the match was a boy of about Dean's age, or maybe a little older. It was hard to tell. He was blonde with light eyes. Maybe brown, maybe hazel, it was hard to tell. The most distinct thing in his eyes wasn't the reflection of the dancing flames. It was the dancing mischief.

"You'll wake everyone up, you idiot," a boy said, he looked scared. From the voice, Dean pegged him as Gary.

"Oh, you're worried about this little thing?" Gabriel smiled, looking at the matchstick that was on the verge of extinguishing. "I wonder what you'll make of the lights that are about to flood the hallways because I left one such matchstick burning in your room. Give it… uhhh ten more minutes before the smoke sets up the fire alarm and then boom! Red lights everywhere."

"Fuck!" Another boy cursed.

In the fading light, Dean had seen it all. The cold, calculating look in Dark haired Michael's eyes, his three goons lurking in the background. One more was holding Cas, then there was Gary who looked ready to piss his pants.

"This isn't over, Winchester!" Michael growled, then took off running towards the building, his goons all following him. The guy holding Cas, abandoned him, pushing him into the dirt, too.

"Are you okay?" Dean said, pulling him to his feet. "Why-"

"Well, surely he isn't!" Gabriel said speaking over Dean, leaving all his oily pretense behind. He was irritated. "Cassy, are you out of your mind? Why did you do that?"

Cas just dusted the grime of his shirt.

"Dean was in trouble."

"Yeah, he's new!" Gabriel shrugged. "Why did you put your ass on the line for him?"

"Why did you put your ass in line for me?" Cas asked. "Look, Gabe, let it go."

"It's your head," Gabriel said. "Just don't lose it over some newbie idiot."

The sound of footsteps walking away was much too loud now.

"C'mon, we need to get moving," Cas said. They hadn't really hurt him, but he was still roughed up. Despite that, his voice was pleasant and kind.

"Thanks, man," Dean said, looking down as they quickly walked up the path. "You didn't have to do that. They could have hurt you."

"Nah, they wouldn't," Cas brushed it off. There was a confidence there, and Dean wondered what the story was.

They walked in silence for a while, before Cas mumbled.

"Don't mind Gabe. He isn't all that cocky. He means well."

Dean got cocky alright. What he didn't get was how Gabriel could pull a stunt like that without getting in trouble. Michael's gang would totally get him now, but he didn't seem bothered at all.

When Dean wondered out loud, Cas laughed. "Don't worry about Gabe. He's a sneaky piece of work. He has something over each one of them. Even Michael. I don't know what, but everyone just generally stays away from Gabe, ya know."

Survival of the fittest. Gabe sure knew how to be the dominant species.

"He seems to care about you."

Cas' eyes glinted in the darkness. "We've been together for a long time, now, sharing the same room. Well, he's your roommate, too, now."

They had reached the back porch now. "We can't go in from the left wing. Those idiots probably locked that back up."

"What do we do then?" The question was more panicky than Dean wanted it to be. The place was affecting him more than it should.

"Don't worry," Cas reassured him. "We can stake out in the store room till the morning and then slip out when they unlock the floors."

The plan worked without a glitch, and soon they found themselves bunking against the musty furniture at the very end. Cas stretched out on the floor and Dean took up the side against the wall. This way, they couldn't see each other, but from the sound of his breathing, Dean knew Cas was still up.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean finally said.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you bust me out?"

Cas was quiet for a while. "I think you're different, Dean. There's something up with you. I've been in an orphanage all my life, I've seen countless kids come and go. They all look scared, look lonely. You- You on the other hand look like you've been sent into an enemy territory, you aren't judging this place, you're scoping it. Like you're up to something. Now, I also know you're not bad, because I saw you help out the kids out front today with the lawn when you didn't have to. So, I keep thinking to myself why you're here."

Holy shit! Cas was smart.

Dean knew if he lied now, he'd suck at it, but also he'd royally insult both the favor and the trust that Cas had put on him.

"I- " he started, feeling dangerously nervous. "I came here with a purpose."

Cas seemed to hear with baited breath.

"You see, my parents both died in a house fire." Dean waited for it, because now was where the "I'm sorry" came in. Cas didn't offer one. Probably because he had heard way too many sob stories by this point, or maybe because he knew all too well that those same 'I'm sorrys' didn't mean a damn thing."

"Well, I wasn't their only kid. I had a little brother- Sam. They… they took him away and put him in some orphanage. It has been 11 years since I last saw him. Turns out the some orphanage is this orphanage."

"Holy heavens!" Cas sat up straight, tumbling a bucket behind him. The clang of the metal it banged against, echoed through the whole room and maybe outside.

The two of them went deathly still.

There were footsteps outside, and both Dean and Cas, slipped further inside. He under the stashed away bed, and Cas under an abandoned table.

Dean pursed his lips, not daring to breathe too loudly even after the footsteps had receded. He stayed silent, watching the minutes go by. Just when he was sure that Cas had probably fallen asleep, the quietest whispers sounded in the dark.

"We're going to find your brother, Dean. We're going to turn this place upside down and find your brother."

Dean did not reply. His throat was too thick.

Now that he had let his guard down, the fear, anxiety and worse, the hope came flooding into his heart, making him defenseless. He stayed up long after Cas' hushed snores washed over him, feeling the gratefulness and camaraderie he hadn't expected at all.

******************************

A/N 2: I really really hope y’all like this story!! Please let me know what you think… the feedback is what keeps me going :)

If you wanna be tagged, please send me an ask

About a Boy taglist:

@sdavid09 @deanssweetheart23 @blacktithe7 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @cosicas-cuquis @chalicia @anathewierdo @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectteamfreewill @firefly124-writing @spnbaby-67 @hoboal87 @rizlow1 @donnaintx @starmission @gh0stgurl @tftumblin @emily-a-c11 @ericaprice2008 @jotink78 @charliebradbury1104 @ohgodwhybloggg @i-dont-get-cold

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester imagine #anawrites #ana writes Dean #ana writes aab #aab 2 #aab part 2 #q

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assless-chapstick · 5 years

Note

Howdy feller, I just got a new tattoo and it's got me thinking if anyone in the couch au has tattoos? If so, which is their favorite? Lemme know cause I love them inked bois

Feller, I love this question SOFUCKING MUCH. I worked so fuckin hard on it, I even MADE ILLUSTRATIONS. IWORKED. SO HARD. This is one of my favourite questions of all time and I hopeyou like my answers!! Anyway…

Charles doesn’t have any tattoos,and with his dark complexion it might be difficult – the ink of tattoos sitsunder the melanin layer of the epidermis, I’m told, so even white ink doesn’t showup particularly well on very dark black and brown folks. I don’t think he’d bemuch interested in them, either, cuz he wants to be a lawyer, right? So heneeds to maintain some professionalism. He already gets dragged for his hair (whichis some institutionalized racism that he refuse to bow to, in court he wears itin a bun), so he doesn’t really want to stand out any more than he already doesin his profession.

Arthur is a professionalautomechanic and freelance contractor/electrician/plumber, so for him itdoesn’t matter as much. He’s got both ears pierced (3 in his right, 2 in hisleft) and after too surgery he got his right nipple pierced – he only has onenipple, cuz the left didn’t survive topsurgery, so it’s tattooed on instead. But that’s not his first or only tattoo!

Back when he thought he was justa Butch Lesbian, he got that like, interlocked Female symbols thing tattooed onhis shoulder, which, once he realized he was trans was a HUGE yike for him… hehad a moment where he was like “aw shit” and started cry-laughing about he uglyirony of it. He’s since had that covered up with a rose and horseshoe designand a nice banner that says like, “Keep on Pushin’” or something

Hes also got a Colt Single ActionArmy Peacemaker revolver on his left shoulder blade, mostly cuz he thinks gunsare cool… But also because Peacemaker, and the beatitude goes “Blessed are thePeacemakers, for they will be called Sons of God.” I think he’s not religious, buthe has a lot of Feelings about religion, and that line always stuck with him –to be a son, rather than a daughter, and to be loved by a god he was told hatedhim.

On the back of his calf, he’s gotthe silhouettes of three galloping horses – one for Dutch, one for Hosea, andone for John. Arthur loves horses almost as much as he loves dogs.

When Charles and Arthur get married,they exchange rings, but because of his lifting and working with his hands, hedoesn’t wear it most days; it hangs on a chain around his neck, or lives on thebedside table. He mostly only wears it on his finger on like, SpecialOccasions. To make up for that, cuz he’s so fuckin dumb proud of his beautifulhandsome husband, he of course gets a band tattooed on his ring finger. When hesees it, Charles rolls his eyes and is like “You didn’t have to do that, you’renot gonna forget we’re married,” and Arthur is all “yeah, but I don’t wantANYONE to forget we’re married.”

Javier has one only tattoo, anoutline of the border of Mexico on his chest above his heart. He was born there,and even though they left when he was in his early teens, he had a lot of goodmemories there and it’s his home and he loves it.

When his mama saw it, she cried –she’s religious, your body is a temple, you damaged the body I gave you, etcetc. She never really lets it go but they get over it and she still loves him.

I save John for last cuz Johnis…. A mess.

I think John got his first stickn poke when he was like, 14, and has made a lot of Bad Choices since then… He’sgot a lot of random shit he thought was cool or edgy at the time and low-keyregrets now.

Notably, he’s got a little bow,like the bow on a pair of panties, on his lower tummy, right in the public area;his happy trail grows over it if he doesn’t shave it, but he does…He’s also gota cherry on his hip, and the word “fag” on his upper thigh (when Javier askedhim about that one, he kinda clammed up, didn’t wanna talk about it… he’sembarrassed of that one, knows it wasn’t a healthy way to cope with hisfeelings but it’s there and a part of him and he refuses to regret it).

He’s got a tramp-stamp, becauseof course he does, though I’m not sure what of… I think maybe like, crossed revolvers,some barbed wire, something like that.

And then just like, a randomassortment of things; a dead opposum on his calf, a skull on his shoulder, ahanging tree on his bicep, a set of fangs… I think he’s got a wolf somewhere, too.The Wolf is important, cuz he’s been afraid of dogs since he was a kid, sincehe got attacked, and getting that one was like, part of him claiming his past andhis trauma and conquering it.

He also definitely, definitelyhas knuckle tatts that say like, WOLF KING. And I think, underneath it all,being so tatted is a defense mechanism for him, like, if he’s tatted andpierced, people will be looking at that, instead of his scars or the small,scared kid that he still has inside him…. Idk

Cuz yeah, he’s also pierced. He’sgot his bellybutton and tongue done for thotty reasons, and then probably alabret, a nostril ring, and then a helix or something. He’s also got plugs,though they’re not super huge; at max he’s maybe a 0? I think he’s kind ofafraid they’ll catch on something as he runs…

He’s also super horny for like,genital piercings. He jerks off thinking about getting railed by a big hardcock with a ladder of barbells through the shaft, a dick so full of metal itstretches him in weird ways and chips his teeth when they fuck his face –that’s one of those times where, as he’s wiping his hand on the bedspread, he’sstaring up at the ceiling like “why am I like this why am I like this why am Ilike this”

Doesn’t have a dick piercing ofhis own, though!! He’s just a little too chicken, and he’s pretty sure Arthurwould never forgive him … though the prospect of having a ring he could clip aleash to, get pulled around by, that has him thinking about it real hard…

I think that’s all there is,feller!! Here are some pics for reference!! Keep in mind John probably has ajillion more shitty stick n pokes not pictured cuz im lazy and not verycreative lol here is a link to a better post of the pictures!

#the couch au #spent so long... so long on this...#trapgrandpa

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go-foxes · 5 years

Photo

01/BASICS

Full Name: Colin Nicholas Jessup Nickname: None Birthday: July 27th Gender: Cis Male Sexual Orientation: Gay Astrological Sign: Leo (Leo I, The Week of Authority). Libra Moon. Spoken Languages: English Birthplace: Las Vegas, Nevada Relationship Status: Single

TRIGGER WARNINGS: references to drug abuse, abuse, and prostitution/sexual abuse

02/PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Brown, usually “artfully tousled” (meaning he spends a lot of time on it but he doesn’t want you to know, but you can totally tell—no one’s hair defies gravity like that all on its own) Eye Color: Blue Face Claim: Maxence Danet-Fauvel Height: 6′0″ Tattoos: None (but considering something trashy, Exy-related, or both) Piercings: None Unique Attributes: Small scar through his left eyebrow, the result of a mugging during his senior year of high school

03/PERSONALITY TRAITS/TYPES

Positive Traits: Charismatic, fun, loyal, adaptable, quick-witted Negative Traits: Manipulative, selfish, jealous, dishonest, impulsive Hobbies/Interests: Exy is the cornerstone that he’s built his life around, the one thing he tried to keep constant in all the years he spent moving around as a child. It wasn’t always possible: some of his schools didn’t have teams, or weren’t willing to let a new kid onto them in the middle of the season, but he was always determined to play. He’s always been an extrovert: that same feeling of always running out of time made it important for him to make an entrance, make a good first impression, and make friends quickly. When it was just him and his mom, and everything that came with that, things like being on an Exy team and being popular in school made him feel normal—something he desperately wanted to be. He loves gossip of all kinds, whether it’s prying into his teammates’ personal lives or collecting random knowledge about celebrities he’ll never meet, he loves being the person who knows things. And though the road was something he both loved and hated—often at the same time—in all the years he spent with his mother, he still has an affinity for exploring new places, bad roadside attractions, and tacky souvenirs. He sleeps better on the team bus than he does in his own bed—after an hour or so of the familiar feeling of wheels underneath him, he’s out. Major/Minor: Sports Communication Insecurities: Colin has a near-compulsive need to be the center of attention, and to be liked. He tries hard to read people and situations and molds himself to fit them, but then he worries that people only like him because he’s somehow tricked them into it. He tends to feel threatened by other people’s relationships and friendships, and to have an all-or-nothing approach to relationships: if someone doesn’t like him best, then it’s almost like it doesn’t count and they don’t like him at all. He’s intense about people: he wants to find the cracks in their defenses, worm his way underneath, find out what makes them tick. It’s interest, but a selfish kind: he likes feeling like he has power over people, likes being able to predict their reactions. He knows that he’s manipulative, and worries that, deep down, he isn’t a good person, and that if people really know him they won’t like or love him. More than anything, Colin has the urge to make something of himself, to be remembered. Nothing scares him more than the idea that, if he were to disappear tomorrow—as he disappeared from so many schools and so many cities growing up—people would forget about him, that it’d be like he was never there, or like he never existed at all. Quirks/Eccentricities: He likes to fit himself into small spaces despite his not-so-small size (especially cuddling, he’s the german shepherd who thinks he’s a lapdog), and is extremely touchy-feely with anyone who will put up with it. He has a tendency to take innocuous items from his teammates’ dorm rooms (batteries out of a tv remote, a spoon from the kitchen) just to see if they’ll notice. He really loves knickknacks and assorted kitsch and will make sure to get something from every city they travel to for games, even if it’s just an airport keychain or a mini plastic snowglobe. MBTI Type: ESFP-T, “The Entertainer” (More so than things though, Entertainers love to pay attention to people. They are talkative, witty, and almost never run out of things to discuss. For people with this personality type, happiness and satisfaction stem from the time they spend with the people they enjoy being with.) Enneagram Type: Type Seven, “The Enthusiast” (Sevens are extroverted, optimistic, versatile, and spontaneous. Playful, high-spirited, and practical, they can also misapply their many talents, becoming over-extended, scattered, and undisciplined. They constantly seek new and exciting experiences, but can become distracted and exhausted by staying on the go. They typically have problems with impatience and impulsiveness.) Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Temperament: Sanguine

04/FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Dawn Jessup (Mother), Scott McClain (Father) How do they feel about their family?: Colin didn’t meet his father until he was around ten years old, and hasn’t seen him since he was eleven. His feelings towards his father are uncomplicated contempt: his father was verbally and physically abusive toward Colin’s mother, and occasionally Colin himself, and used Colin as a pawn to attempt to control his mother. His feelings towards his mother are much more complicated. For most of his life, she instilled a belief in him that it was them against the world, and their transitory life prevented him from forming other strong relationships, meaning that Colin felt like she was the only person who really knew, understood, and loved him, a sentiment that she encouraged. His dissatisfaction with their lifestyle, and his anger with her, grew throughout his teen years, and reached a breaking point when she pushed him into prostitution to pay their debts—she argued that it was nothing that she hadn’t done for him in the past, and he tried to believe her and not feel angry and betrayed. His own anger often made him feel selfish: she often told him how much she had suffered for him, struggled for him, that he was older now and it was his turn. He left his mother at eighteen, partially in an effort to leave before all the love he’d felt towards her turned to hatred and keep what good memories he had of her intact. He hasn’t spoken with her since, as they have no means of communication. Though sometimes he considers trying to find her, it’s not an impulse he’s followed through on, and he generally considers those desires a sign of weakness. He feels like, if he does, then it’d be admitting that she was right. That it wasn’t that bad. How does their family feel about them?: His father likely hasn’t thought of Colin in many years—when he couldn’t find Colin’s mother and Colin, it was only a matter of time before he found someone else as vulnerable as Colin’s mother, and perhaps easier to control. Even when Colin went back to his hometown, they didn’t cross paths. He’d stopped looking for Colin; and going back to Vegas wasn’t about his father at all, for Colin. Colin’s mother harbors a lot of guilt: she’s always wanted her son to have a better life than she could give him, and most of the arguments that she and Colin got into were her trying to rationalize her own behavior—to herself more than to him. Colin doesn’t hold much hope of ever seeing her again: he believes that, since he was the one to leave, she’ll respect his decision and not track him down. That is, of course, if the life she lived—the one that he used to live with her, the one that was always on the edge—hasn’t killed her. He tries not to think about it, but the possibility always lingers in the back of his mind. Pets: None. Sometimes they crashed in places with dogs, or his mom dated someone with dogs, but they were never really his. They always felt like what he wanted though, what he thought he might get when they first moved in with Colin’s father: the stable life, the solid family, the dog. He still thinks about it, mostly on his summer road trips, or when he needs to get out of Palmetto for the weekend and just drive, what it’d be like to have a dog in the seat next to him, hanging its head out the window. Where do they live?: Colin’s suite in Fox Tower is the only semi-permanent residence he has. After one summer spent in Palmetto, Colin prefers to spend his summers on the road: crashing on teammates’ couches or sleeping in his car, pretending that he has somewhere to go. He usually ends up back in Vegas, where he still has some friends from his high school team. He doesn’t have a home there, but it’s as close as he comes to the feeling of home, of belonging somewhere. Description of their home: See above Description of their bedroom: Used to living out a backpack and not having many possessions, he’s collected a bunch of odds and ends since coming to Palmetto, some of it functional and some of it not. He’ll take the odds and ends that graduating Foxes have left behind, or other Palmetto students have left outside of their dorms at the end of the year. Loves the free section of Craigslist. Everything he’s accumulated has a tendency to spread itself out throughout the suite’s bedroom and into the living areas. His clothes are never in their hamper, whether they’re dirty or clean, and the rest of his belongings seem to spread themselves out like they have a life of their own. If you ask him about it, he says that he likes having his stuff where he can see it. Or that he likes marking his territory.

05/THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert? Extrovert Optimist or Pessimist? An optimism at heart, even though he tries not to be. Leader or Follower? Leader Confident or Self-Conscious? Externally confident, Internally more self-conscious than he lets on Cautious or Careless? Careless with his actions, Cautious with his expectations Passionate or Apathetic? Passionate Book Smarts or Street Smarts? Street Smarts Compliments or Insults? Compliments

06/FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Green Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: His style is actually pretty basic. Outside of practices, he wears a lot of Palmetto gear, sweatpants and obnoxiously orange sweatshirts. His going out clothes tend to be a uniform of jeans and plain v-necks, tight but otherwise nondescript, so it’s less notable that he doesn’t have a ton of clothes outside of the Palmetto swag he’s accumulated as a Fox. When it gets cold in Palmetto, he’s the douchebag that will resist wearing a coat for as long as humanly possible. Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Will listen to just about everything, but has a special affinity for classic rock/Americana that makes him think of his mother, and likes pop/EDM to work out to and listen to psych himself up for games. Will sing terribly without any shame, and always fights to be the one controlling the music during gym hours or bus rides. Favorite Movies: Most of the time, if it isn’t funny or full of explosions, he’s not sitting through it. Secretly loves romcoms, though he’ll pretend it’s just to heckle them. Favorite Books: Colin has a very short attention span, and doesn’t really read for fun. If asked, he’d probably say Harry Potter, but that’s mostly because he’s actually read it and he knows everyone else has too Favorite Foods/Drinks: He’s a growing boy: bring on the french fries, pizza, and ice cream. No one ever made his vegetables and he’s still a somewhat picky eater. Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: Exy—that’s about it. He’s loyal to the Foxes, of course, and the U.S. Court. Favorite Time of Day: He’s absolutely a night owl, and has his alarm in the mornings timed perfectly so that he gets as much sleep as possible before rolling out of bed and making it to practice on time. Favorite Weather/Season: Summer, but he lets everyone know that he’s from a desert, and doesn’t fuck with humidity. Favorite Animal: He loves any and all dogs.

#COLIN.#COLIN: INSP

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kiangreyback · 5 years

Text

❝ He tore the beauty from his face, and called it terror. ❞

AVAN JOGIA? No, that’s actually KIAN GREYBACK. A SEVENTH YEAR student, this RAVENCLAW student is sided with THE DEATH EATERS. HE identifies as CISMAN and is a UNKNOWN ( WEREWOLF ) who is known to be CUNNING, TEMPERAMENTAL, and BRUTAL but also RELIABLE, ADROIT, and ADAPTABLE.

links: pinterest

triggers: child abuse, child abandonment, kidnapping, drugs, alcohol

CHILDHOOD.

!! CHILD ABUSE TW, CHILD ABANDONMENT, KIDNAPPING TW !! The most that Kian can remember about his childhood is abandonment. Perhaps the cruelest thing to him was his parents deciding to carry him for nine months, bring him into this world and leave him for it to devour. –And devour it did. The story is that his parents just didn’t care– they had lives and he wasn’t a part of them. The most they’d done for him is stuff his pockets with a couple galleons and leave him behind in Knockturn Alley ( because who would go around asking ‘who’s kid is this’ there. )

However, he didn’t have to suffer abandonment for very long. Fenrir Greyback had an eye for those who ‘needed’ a pack and knelt down with a hand offered. It came with a price but what wouldn’t Kian give for a home– a family. Perhaps if he could go back he would have refused that offer…only perhaps.

Fenrir was a cruel man..and that was putting it mildly– but Kian wonders if he’d take his own parents over a monster of a man because at least he’d given him a home. ( Not that home meant comfort but it did, eventually, mean FAMILY. )

His ‘father’ was hard on him. He was pushed to his breaking point again and again. He was taught how to endure cruelty, how to get his vengeance, to bleed but not be weakened by it. The lessons were vicious – but in Kian’s eyes necessary. He adapted well, fought until he couldn’t catch his breath and held up his siblings when it was their turn. Even though he was scared, Kian would approach everything in control– because that’s what he was taught. His ability to look Fenrir in the eyes and say NO earned him the most hated and most favoured spot in ragtag group of his siblings. ( standing up to his father only had a punishment at the end– though it seemed as if Kian had made his own mark with his stubbornness. ) Get knocked down, you get back up and you swing. !! End TW !!

SCHOOL DAYS.

Kian was sorted into Ravenclaw. A strange house for someone who’d seem more fit for Gryffindor or Slytherin. But it came down to his cleverness and craftmanship that stuck him in with the eagles. He was smart– or rather a smartass – found unconventional solutions to problems and had a cunning way of adapting to even the worst of conditions.

He isn’t very popular with the others in his house or year– a little bit of an outcast because who doesn’t know that GREYBACK is synonym for WEREWOLF. HE tended to be a target for the upperclass peers to dig into when they were feeling bored. Though it ended with someone hexed or cursed or sporting a split lip or broken nose. But such was his life and he wasn’t too bothered by it. –As he grew older and stronger and word got back to those scaredy-cat pureblood parents that it was a Greyback throwing said spell/fist– things quickly quietened down for fear of retaliation from Fenrir. ( Not that the bastard actually cared but it’s the… thought that counts.)

HE doesn’t really spend time in clubs or extracurricular as he feels it’s a waste of time. Besides he has one band of dumbasses he doesn’t need to join any others. However, he did pick up quidditch from an early age and was quite a talented flier. His postion is naturally a beater– though he’s not fond of being led by a weasley.

His grades are above average and had once been considered for the position of prefect because of them but ultimately wasn’t offered it because of the fights he’d been involved with. smart but not friendly nor helpful enough.

OTHER STUFF.

Uhm, he doesn’t believe in all this ‘purebloods are superior’ shit. He’s just mostly here for the fight– at least that’s what he believes his ‘father’ is in it for because Merlin knows they aren’t fucking purebloods no matter how you spin it. There’s no money. No real parents. No hoity-toity clothes. No nose so far up his own ass. – IN fact i think he believes the Purebloods are a disgrace and can’t hold their own and that’s why people like him have to fight their battles. ( He doesn’t really voice this but he definitely thinks it even if it isn’t particularly true— just he’s real dumb? arrogant? idk? about this mess of a war )

He’s actually quite calm??? ( I KNOW?? WHAT?? ) He doesn’t mess with others unless he’s messed with and he tends to keep to himself. Kian isn’t out there being a social butterfly because he really doesn’t fucking care what you do or say or whatever. Life is dumb as hell, in his opinion, and he thinks dealing with his own is enough without someone elses involved. HOWEVER, if he is messed with this boy is gonna throw down. LIke he’s gonna go for the throat because that’s how he was raised. It’s either you or them there is no BOTH.

with that ^ said— he does have friends ( hallo plots ). he can be quite charming if he puts in the effort and perhaps his ‘life sucks, do what u want’ attitude tends to draw in people who may need stress relief from the war or you know normal things like last nights essay.

!! DRUGS TW, ALCOHOL TW !! Kian does smoke. Cigarettes and pot– never been one for anything harder than that. If he really wants to let go he’s out here for a couple rounds of firewhiskey. This is probably to the best way to see his true personality. !! END TW !!

Loyalty is important to him ( though he isn’t past using it as a toss-around word for the DEs because he just really doesnt give a single fuck about them ). His lays with his siblings– though not biological he is very protective of his sisters but not enough to stand in the way of danger for them ( unless lethal. he will definitely step in ) After all they should know how to survive by now ANYWAYS. ( okay he does step in more often than that ;) a pack is a pack. )

There is some light at the end of the tunnel with him. He is quite funny when he wants to be– he can have a laugh and smile ( no, i mean an actual smile ) but it seems to be reserved for those he can trust and let down that massive guard he has up.

MORE RANDOM THINGS.

Probably would love baseball in the muggle world.

The name Kian was given to him due to that being the first word he spoke to Greyback. ( OR at least that’s what Fenrir believes he said ). Kian would be the name his father had and somehow it had stuck in his mind. ‘Why are you out here all alone?’ ‘Kian.’ SOOOOOOO he has no idea that’s his real father’s name….but yeno I guess you do get some things from your parents ha.

He doesn’t really remember anything about his birth parents. He only remembers Greyback. Greyback is gross and likes to hold things over your head so -- his parents leaving him is something that is usually brought up in order to take kian down a notch-- though it doesnt work how Greyback anticipates.

Doesn’t really have an opinion on being a werewolf other than it’s time consuming and therefor irritating to deal with. Pain is pain. Its an inconvience he wishes he could cure but not one that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to cure it, if u get me.

His favorite food is probably something dumb like mashed potatoes with gravy or roasted chicken with cous cous. – Favorite drink would be something equally simple like apple juice. Basically the palate of a two year old. Meaning he’s also here for things like lollies and popcicles, general summer time sweet treats. Not much for hot drinks like coffee or tea tho..go figure.

He has SEVERAL tattoos…..and none of them really mean anything? They are mostly just a series of lines/designs/patterns that he doodles on his parchments and, you know, since Papa Greyback don’t care about anything except himself this boy’s been getting them since summer before sixth year.

Tends to favour clothes that are flowy or breezy. Oranges and reds…blacks and whites mostly when outside of uniform. Doesn’t mind tighter jeans but the shirts gotta be flowy.

He cuts his hair every so often. Like real short then lets it grow out…currently like mid-length and usually pulled up out of his face either in a pony or half-up-half-down.

PRetty damn good at wizard’s chess ( eat your heart out ron weasley! ) and most anything that requires quick-strategy. He’s pretty good at figuring out the other’s intention which leads to a win.

He does draw– not anything too complicated but enough to know he has a mediocre talent in it? ( ie. his tattoos/doodles. )

His favorite classes are probably transfig, charms and probably astronomy. Most hated is herbology, comc, divinations and History or studies of anything.

UMM VERY UNSURE of what he’s gonna do when he graduates?? He doesn’t really have a certain goal for right now but….hopefully he can figure it out before the end of the semester tbh.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

Best Friends. I SAID IT!!! i know i mentioned lone wolf but listen-- he needs a bestie or two to fuck things up with or at least someone to treat him like he isn’t just, yeno, a wolf.

‘Bullies’. This tech could be any blood status but i think, particularly, purebloods would be fun for this. basically when they were younger they picked at him for assorted reasons and eventually told to leave him alone by his parents because of Fenrir Greyback. Probably holds resentment to him because of that. also probably still takes abs at him. --kian being on the edge of chilling and ready to throw a curse at you, some could be fun enemies and/or frenemies at this point.

Hookups. basically fun hookups, angsty hookups, any genders. there isn’t a particular reason just that he likes to hookup -- this is probably something that is just physical. he’s not emotionally available and most likely doesn’t know how to be.

That ONE Person. you know that quote? ‘When is a monster not a monster? oh when you love it.’ I think it’d be nice to have someone that treats him softly-- on equal grounds. Like not scared of him or not here to make fun of him but to be gentle towards him. LIKE YOU KNOW the ones taht are saying ‘well your feelings are important. you are important. you aren’t trash’ ( even tho he is trash sometimes lmao )

Qudditch Buddies. Kian is usually abrassive but when it comes to this sport he is probably the only one in the school with good sportsmanship. he doesn’t care if they win or lose ( he still plays well though he’s not lazyyyy ) he’s just there to have a good time!! I think that’d make him quite likable on the pitch-- probably, as funny as this sounds, a breath of fresh air.

#iidyintro #( about.)#child abuse tw #kidnapping tw #i think those are the only ones heavily mentioned #just skip the first section!!!#<3

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