#I’m always a sucker for bright colours

[princessbrunette]

i am forever thinking about getting a pretty pink mani to match rafe’s tip 🥰🥰 rafe bringing his girl to get a fresh set and she’s humming and sucking on a lollipop while looking at all the different colours and rafe is just on his phone waiting for her to finally decide on something and he can practically see the lightbulb of an idea over her head when she whips out her phone and casually pulls up a folder of his dick pics like the fucking weather app looking for the prettiest one and he almost smacks her phone out of her hand head on a swivel checking if anyones around like “jesus kid can you at least turn your brightness down i dont need half the town knowing what i’m workin with”

nearly just busted everywhere wtf .

reader who just has no awareness 🙄 always talking about things she shouldn’t too loud and opening her phone on things she shouldn’t too publicly !!!!!! the nail salon lady just puts her head down n tries to mind her business when you turn to him trying to grab your phone back, whining out a “daddy s’for the colour!” barely taking the sucker out of your mouth so he pulls it out for you n tosses it in the little trash can, ducking his head a little n pointing a finger in ur face quietly telling you to behave yourself n watch ur volume in public :(((

“gonna make me regret letting you keep those on your phone baby i swear.” he settles back down in his chair n lets u carry on 🙄🙄🙄

[daily-teki]

Day 161: Finally announcing the winners of the DTIYS competition! Sorry it took so long to get around to lads TwT

I’m amazed at how many entries i got, and they were all wonderful! If you check out the #daily teki dtiys tag you can check em all out for yourself ^^!

It was really hard to pick between the top 5, (so much so that I changed having a top 3 for a top 5) so without further ado:

Coming in at 5th place, we’ve got @frenchgremlim1808 !!

I rlly love the bright colours and shading, plus your style is always absolutely iconic.

4th place goes to @nina-the-ninth !

The shading and more realistic style is spellbinding, and it’s composed rlly well- it was super tough choosing between 4th and 3rd place. This was 100% the reason I ended up deciding to do a top 5 rather than a top 3- I absolutely couldn’t leave it out

In 3rd place we have @bagofjax !!

The lighting and the textured hand drawn calligraphy contrasted to the bright pixel colours of the game sprites really got to me, and then seeing the strings of numbers making up the background absolutely pushed it over the line into the top 3 for me.

An incredibly close second place goes to @goldyluna !

I am such a sucker for the flow and styling of that hair- she looks like she could be right at home on a figurine shelf. I love the unique chains around her neck seeing as she doesn’t say a word ingame, and I love that you added more chains as well. I also love your font with the calligraphy, the spiky fringe, and even the spotted pattern in the background looking like someone’s watching. Overall I think it’s my favourite drawing of teki herself, and both second and first place are on a skill level I’d love to someday achieve.

And in 1st place is @averagecatdoodlesenjoyer !

The chromatic aberration adds extra depth, and I love the addition of the chains in the background. I flipped so many times between first and second place because they’ve both got so much going for them in so many different aspects. The lighting and composition is what ultimately won me over, and the slight change in pose really works too. It’s truly beautiful, it even looks like she’s under a stage light with the poses falling down like pieces of paper or giant confetti. And so it certainly gets the confetti from me.

I loved absolutely everyone’s entries for this, and a huge thank you to everyone who participated! I’ll have to think of something to give to all the winners seeing as just a thank you and a pat on the back seems a little cheap for everyone’s hard work on these.

[sighs-deeply-and-dreadfully]

Lol, I can’t help but imagine how Wally would react to a gothic, kind of grungy, reader. Just someone who wears black and white all the time, maybe with hits of darker blues or reds. I just find the idea amusing since the neighborhood and characters are all bright, fun colors while there’s just this one gothic person wearing spikes or something.

 

Also, something I can picture is Wally painting them because they’re so different from everything else and the uniqueness of their style and makeup is so fun to draw and paint, and the reader feels the same way. I can just picture the two of them drawing each other or something.

(romantic or mutual crushes, please ^^ I've always been a sucker for opposite aesthetic couples)

HAHA!!! I’m also a sucker for opposite aesthetic couples HEHEHE… I’ll strike you a deal; I’ll write both (mutual crushes and romantic)! HAHA

The Raven and The Kingfisher

Wally Darling x GN!Goth/Grunge!Reader

Headcanons Format, Mutual Crushes -> Romantic Relationship

When you first moved in, to say Wally was interested would be an understatement.

He adored your style, he found it very!! Refreshing? He loves all his neighbours and he loves their town, but sometimes something new can be appreciated!! And you were something new, alright!! /pos

After just a few days of talking, he ended up asking if he could paint you— and he loves to paint all his neighbours! But he certainly wanted to give a shot at conveying your style.

All those darker coloured paints (ones that maybe only been slightly used to create new tones) could finally be used >:]

If you were to say no, he’d accept ! That’s alright ! But he’d probably still likely doodle something of your style in private— although not necessarily of you.

If you say yes? He’s over the moon.

He takes great care to make his paintings as accurate as he can!! He’d likely be on yours for a while, just because you introduce a lot of new colours he hasn’t worked with before— the closest reference he has had is Frank and the other things he’s doodled— so it might take a while longer than usual!! But it’s so delightfully fun to experiment and learn.

But the outcome is lovely, and he proudly hands the painting off to you.

He doesn’t make that the last time he’s drawn you, though, goodness no. It almost becomes a habit, to doodle you.

Which his friends begin to notice, when the litte sketchbook he drags around is practically filled with scribbles of you.

At some point, he is with Julie! She ends up glancing over, and giggles at seeing him doodle you yet again, with a soft “Oh, Wally..”

The two had just been sitting around lightly chatting and doing their own things— and Wally was drawing.

Confusedly, Wally would lift his head— what was funny? Had he done something funny with meaning to—?

“You’re drawing the new neighbour!”

He tilts his head. Why yes, he was? How is that funny—? Julie picks up and continues, though.

“You’ve been drawing them sooo mucchhh.. Do you like them, or something? I think you might like them— we all kinda do!“

He tilts his head again. “Of course.. I like them, they’re my friend..?”

But that interaction gets his brain spinning, and eventually— during a hangout with Frank— he just kind of. Pauses.

He mutters under his breathe, and soon whisks himself away with a rushed farewell to Frank— who is just left staring in confusion.

Ah, so maybe like is a loose term. Haha ooooops..

When he steps into Home, who creaks him a hello, the amount he’s been doodling you somewhat- hits him like a truck?

You’re in his sketchbooks, mainly, which— all of his friends were! But his sketchbooks were almost like a direct thread to his “subconscious”. He just doodles whatever comes to mind, or whatever he feels (and his true feelings have a tendency to alter how it presents itself— though really only in ways he can understand). He uses it very much as an outlet.

And you were, basically, on every single damn page of the thing.

.. whoopsie.

With the newfound knowledge that he, haha, maybe has developed a “teensy weensy itsy bitsy” crush—

Heee is now terrified to be around you.

If it was so obvious to everyone else, was it obvious to you?

Wuh-oh.

He doesn’t let this anxiety stop him from talking to you, though. The thoughts of it made him sad— and the thought of him withdrawing making you sad made him ever sadder.

But from beyond this point, he’s a lot.. less collected.

When you two hang out, there’s a small shift in the air— that he is hyper-aware of, and you might be, too.

Wally always did stare— he liked eye contact, and he didn’t really care to learn where else he should be looking during conversations—

So him avoiding your gaze was almost off-putting due to how foreign it was.

He’d glance to his hands, or to his supplies, or To the sky.

Anywhere but you when you looked at him— he couldn’t!! Really bare your reaction!!

He knew it’d be the same way you look at him all of the time, but the thought it might be negative made him.. antsy.

Because, again, if his little crush was obvious to everyone else before it was even obvious to him— was it obvious to you, too?

This keeps up for a few days, and eventually— you just.. ask him what’s been up. You note his change in behaviour, and you express you’re confused— maybe even a bit concerned.

And the dam just comes flooding.

He gives some garbled twist of a confession, nervously wringing his fingers the entire time (something he almost never did).

He expresses it’s okay if it isn’t mutual, and that he just had to get it off his chest before he “exploded” (Barnaby used that word a lot in his jokes— so maybe it’d be funny if he used it, too?)

He’s overjoyed to hear you return the affections though, and immediately just sort of de-tenses and instead starts.. kicking his legs. Very quickly. Stimming. Hehe.

From there, you two fall into a relationship. You had already sort of been recognized as a “thing” by everyone else in the neighbourhood— as you were often seen together.

Now, you were practically always seen together— making the opposites in your aesthetic very noticeable. Two halves of a pair!

When you aren’t together, Wally has a tendency to.. maaaybe.. gush about you, a lil..

Specifically to Barnaby! He knows Barnaby doesn’t mind to listen (especially while consuming his.. “lovely” hot dogs (/sar)).

While the two stand around, Wally cupping his normal hotdog in two hands and Barnaby chewing on his abomination lovely creation, he’ll just go onnn and ooonn about you, or what the two of you have been up to, or what you plan to do later. His words are kinda hummed as he does, and he seems to idly be wiggling his head side to side.

Barnaby is happy to lend an ear! He’s got two very big ones, after all.

.. plus, it’s easier to lull Wally into kind of just.. handing his hotdog to him.. hehe..

Not that he wasn’t going to already give it! He just gets to receive it faster, and Wally pays no mind.

Overall, that little man is head over heels for you— absolutely smitten. He finds your aesthetic very, very pretty— and you in turn just as much.

Expect sappy love letters and even more paintings of you, dear. :]

I FORGOT TO DO AN AUTHOR’S NOTE AT THE END IM SORROY I GOT DISTRACTED HWAHWA

THis was super cute to write and I hope it was satisfactory!!! :D

Have a lovely day!!!!!

[frostironfudge]

You Bring Light Into My Life - Andy Barber

Summary: You’re feeling homesick during your favourite holiday from back home, Andy Barber steps in re-lighting the spark.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Desi!Fem!Reader

Warnings: none fluff all the way, andy being a cute lil baby, mutual pining, celebrating diwali, past in italics.

A.N: this is for @elle14-blog1 it’s her diwali gift, plus i’m a sucker for stories of people from different cultures falling in love and celebrating each other’s traditions and making their own, happy diwali to those celebrating!

Word Count: 1.2k

Main Masterlist || AO3

There was something about the festival of lights that enamoured you. The way the fireworks reflected off of the buildings colouring them for once beyond their muted beiges and greys. 

You look around the quite neighbourhood from your window, Boston didn’t glow as bright on Diwali as your home country. It was approaching dusk and most apartments had led lights but not just to celebrate the festival. 

You look down at the diyas then at the clock, almost time to light them up. You place the lit diyas along the window pane careful to have the flame not touch the walls or the glass.��

Gathering the flowers and the electric diyas on a tray you open your front door just as your neighbour opens his own. 

“Hey.” He greets, blue eyes moving over your traditional outfit to the tray. 

“Diwali correct?” Andy smiles when your eyes widen at him not butchering the pronunciation. 

“Yes,” you kneel to place the flowers and the diyas. 

“Happy Diwali.” He greets, you smile up at him. 

“Happy Diwali.” You greet back, Andy should go, he should because staring at your neighbour for this long seems wrong. 

You don’t mind it though, letting him watch you set up the diyas and press the button. The light sputters then goes out. You pout, picking it up has one flower roll away. 

Andy bends down his laptop bag casted to the side with his coat. He grabs the flower, then shifts closer to you placing it back to the original place. 

“Probably a battery issue?” He murmurs as you sigh frustrated. 

“I think the person sold me dummy pieces, these are new batteries.” You explain, setting the device back down. 

“Could I take a look?” He holds his hand out, he hasn’t gotten many chances to speak with you.

You both do have a weekly run in in the elevator when you’re just getting done with your twenty four hour shift and he’s returning from his firm and once or twice a month he’d borrow coffee from you for his machine. 

You’ve never requested anything from him apart from one time that your lock broke just as you both were making your way from the elevators discussing about the landlord having three dogs but allowing no one else to keep pets. 

Andy despite being tired ran to the store and brought back a new lock and a deadbolt. Saved the invoices typed up the application to the landlord to reimburse you and update all the locks in the building. 

He even offered to sleep on the couch incase you feel ill at ease. You always thought Andy is handsome but that small offer of caring and being protective it sent your crush into a full blown spiral. 

Andy blinks as he removes the battery, thinking over the several chances he has had to speak to you. Maybe even flirt a little, but he never made a move. He wants to so badly. 

“Ah okay, the wiring inside is unattached.” He declares seeing the wires half off of the circuitry. 

“Great.” You murmur, disappointment lacing your tone. 

“I’m sorry.” Andy still holds the diya, your expression tugging at his heart strings. 

“No, I, I’m just very homesick and I used to do this back home, decorate with flowers and diyas at the front door. Stupid thing won’t work and I can’t keep flames unattended.” Your eyes fall to his things, “I’m sorry I should let you go—,”

“No, you aren’t taking up my time, the meeting can wait. Is there something I can do to help?” His hand reaches for your forearm, fingers gently wrapping around, warmth seeping to your skin. 

Andy can’t see you upset, he knows longing intimately, he knows it’s a part of homesickness.  

You chuckle humourlessly, “Andy I’m pretty sure you can’t bring the non bursting fireworks here or have the streets decorated in lanterns and lights, or get this damn diya to work.” You let the diya be there unlit. 

He looks into your home at the diyas lighting your window. 

“You should get on with your evening, I’ve anyways got to video chat my parents, I’ll see you sometime yeah? Thank you so much for helping.” You quickly ramble, he stands with you. 

You reach up, kissing his cheek murmuring another rushed but sincere apology. Your door closes and Andy stands with the diya in his hand and a light bulb going off in his head. 

The Diya flickers on and he smiles at probably the good omen.

“Yeah it will work to make her smile.” He says to himself. 

Its three to four hours later with your dinner in the microwave rotating even slower than usual that there is a knock on the door. 

You frown, going over and looking through the peephole. Andy stands there hands behind his back. Swiftly you open the door. 

“Hey.” He greets with a beaming smile that never fails to make you smile. 

“Hi Andy.” You chuckle then blink and look down,  every few feet are flame diyas till the elevators. 

“That is a fire hazard— Andy?” You look up at him and his grin just gets more wider with pink tinged. 

“You said you wanted diwali, now I couldn’t exactly bring in fireworks but I found the sparklers and,” he rummages in his pocket. 

He brings out the electric diya, all lit up and working properly. 

Your eyes begin to brim with tears, leaving the door you wrap your arms around him, “Oh Andy, I don't have the words, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Andy smiles, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. Before he can stop himself he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. 

Your arms tighten around his frame, his scent comforting you. The gesture making your heart flutter. 

“Wanna meet me downstairs to light the sparklers?” He questions, unwilling to let you go. 

“It’s a date.” You look up at him, Andy’s beaming smile lights up your heart as he cups your cheek.

--—-—-—--

two years later. 

“Princess?” Andy calls out from near the doorway of the kitchen. 

“Yes, baby?” You look up from the arrangement of the diyas you were making. 

“Does this look right?” He holds up the dough of the confectionery, it starts sliding to the edge of the bowl. 

“Um…” you purse your lips, he looked so hopeful, “its a little runny…” you chuckle when he pouts, standing up to meet him in the kitchen. 

“We’re out of flour to counter it…” He sighs but then laughs at your bewildered expression. 

“I don’t even want to know how you managed to do that Andrew.” You take the bowl from his hands, trying to inspect what went wrong. 

“We’ll just ask mum on the call.” You deem. 

“That is the best idea,” he glances outside a smile on his features. 

“Its time Princess.” He grabs your hand and leads you to the main door of the house you both now share. 

You grab the floral arrangement, from the tray. You admire his excitement, loving him even more for sharing and wanting to participate in your traditions. 

Both of you kneel, lighting the one real flame diya together with the electric lighter. Andy then pulls out the very same electric diya from two years ago, he holds it as you press the button the bulb flickers on strongly. 

“Happy Diwali, Princess.” He kisses your forehead, both of you placing the diya down. 

“Happy Diwali, baby.” You cup his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss. 

Completing your tradition with him. 

-x-

[orcaog]

Hello! Hope you're doing great there! I'm really curious about some headcanons of yours when it comes to my fav ghouls aka Rain and Phantom! ✨️✨️

Of course I’ll come up with some things for ya! 🫶

RAIN + PHANTOM ! HEADCANONS

⭑ Rain’s ghoul form is genuinely stunning; every mark on his skin glows a bioluminescent blue, shifting in brightness every now and then, some fading out and others lighting up, then vice versa. When his full body lights up, the bright blues stand out from the darkness of his grey-blue skin.

⭑ Adding on to ghoul form Rain, his fins match the glowing blues of his body. They start out the same as his skin, progressively fading into that bright blue, ending in a pretty violet.

⭑ Rain is one of the biggest cuddle bugs in the house. Though Ghouls are naturally quite close creatures, he finds it natural to be touching someone at all times. His finned tail often finds itself wrapped around other people’s limbs, and he doesn’t realise it’s happened until they go to move and find he’s got a hold on them. Whether it be around Phantom’s waist, holding onto Dew’s wrist or wrapped tightly around Swiss’ thigh when they go to practice, his tail is always holding something. If not another person, then around his own leg.

⭑ Rain finds himself attached to Dew during the winter, due to his body running cold whilst Dew runs hot. The same goes for Dew in the summer, as his frequent overheating is easily solved by a hug with Rain.

⭑ Phantom’s ghoul form is a bit of a nightmare, but a beautiful nightmare. His eyes glow purple, his body flushing the same colour. His skin is a deep purple (almost black), keeping him hidden in the darkness- though hiding doesn’t work when he glows purple. His fangs are sharp, and show through even in his partial form, leaving him with a little toothy smile when he’s happy.

⭑ Phantom took the longest to pick up life on Earth. He was labelled the accident prone ghoul of the house after he spent months accidentally breaking things due to a lack of spatial awareness, tripping over his own feet, and underestimating how something could hurt him. Mountain has barred him from his succulent/cactus garden due to him trying to poke the cactus to discover what it feels like.

⭑ Phantom owns a bat wing hoodie that he wears for days on end. He once came into Swiss’ room at 3 in the morning and stood there in it, the moon beams only projecting his shadow. Needless to say, it scared the shit out of Swiss.

⭑ Lastly; I’m a sucker for Phan-tism and it’s entirely because I too am autistic.

That’s all I’ve got <3 Tysm for the suggestion!

[buckys-little-belle]

Your socks are sooooo cutesy! ☺️ What is your favorite color of the ones you have? When you wear them do you match them to what you're wearing? Or by mood? Or do they have a rotation?

i think my favourite colour is the pink ones! i’m a sucker for anything pink!!! and anything green!! i have a bunch of fun socks with cool patterns and images and i always wear them based on vibes! i don’t match them to my outfit, today i was wearing a very bland coloured outfit but i wore bright green socks to have a little fun! it’s just fun having so many options!!!

[octoberobserver]

Chained by Darkness, Bound by Light - Good Omens Fix-It Fic

**spoilers for s2**

(Read on ao3 here)

“...Crowley?”

He watched as the tall, lithe, achingly-familiar figure froze mid-hover, his large, black wings fluttering slightly.

Aziraphale eagerly traced every inch of him he could see. The back of his head, his fiery wisps of hair, long neck, narrow but strong shoulders, his slender hips that always sashayed distractingly when—

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, dragging his gaze away from his friend. Former friend. Ex-friend? “W-What are you doing?” he asked, almost wincing at the tremor in his voice.

It had been over a year since they last set eyes on one another. A drop in the ocean to a celestial being, yet somehow, unlike absences from times before, it had felt like an eternity.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

His chest tightened at the coldness in Crowley’s tone. He hadn’t ever heard it directed at him. Not once in six thousand years.

Until now.

But he deserved it.

More now than ever before.

“What are you doing here?”

That coldness seeped like treacle from Crowley, his back still stubbornly turned, his wings arched and angry-looking as they cut through the air like blades.

Aziraphale wrung his hands, staring down at them for something else less tempting to look at. The ghost of Crowley’s lips still haunted his. His mouth again tingling just like it had the seconds after their kis—

“This is where we first met,” he interrupted his own thoughts, unable and unwilling to relive that same precious, agonizing, fragile moment where their lips joined. “I-I rather thought this was where we should…we should…”

“Watch it all end?”

Aziraphale’s stomach churned, nausea permeating within him.

It had all been for nought, you see. Everything he had thought he could accomplish in Heaven, he didn’t. Metatron had misled him. Deceived him. Used him. And the second coming had proven to be the second attempt at Armaggedon. Only this time, he didn’t have a clever young boy and a marvellous demon by his side to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, tears burning his eyes. “You were right. And I was—I was wrong.”

That got Crowley to turn, if only slightly, the side of his face, where his tattoo still lay, now visible.

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I-I can do the dance if you like?”

Several beats of absolute silence that only Space allowed followed that, before finally…

“No point now.”

It was like a sucker punch to his soul. Blunt force trauma to his very being.

Heaving a deep breath and glancing at the lovely purple hue circling Crowley’s head like a halo, he summoned all of his courage to ask one last time…

“Why are you here, Crowley?”

He watched as his large black wing mimicked a half-hearted shrug.

“I turned the lights on. It only seemed fitting that I be the one to turn them off again.”

He gave a humourless chuckle.

“‘Let there be darkness.’”

Nothing happened. The universe, with all its vast colours and wonders kept on shining bright around them.

“Well,” he shrugged again. “I’m not gonna do it now, am I? Gotta wait and see how it all plays out.”

With clenched fists, Aziraphale gently flew closer so that he was side by side with his oldest friend in all existence.

Crowley, to his credit, barely acknowledged this move and didn’t budge an inch.

Silence stretched between them.

They watched as stars and protoplanets continued to bake, still in their infancy all these years later.

With a shaky breath, Aziraphale allowed himself to glance to his left as he said the three syllables he had agonised over for months now.

“...Raphael.”

In half a blink, Crowley swooped upon him, his face contorted in anger as their noses brushed, their lips so painfully close and yet not close enough.

“What did you just call me?”

He stared up into those large, beautiful, golden eyes he had gone without for far too long.

“I-It was your name,” he said as calmly as he could, despite his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. “Your original name. Before the fa—”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Crowley spat with more venom than Aziraphale had ever heard in all his six millennia. “Nobody gets to call me that. Ever again.”

Before he could say another (probably damning) word, Crowley surged downwards with furious vigour, hurtling for Earth.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale yelled, scrambling after him, flapping his wings rapidly. “I’m sorry! Please come back! Where are you going?!”

They crashed through the atmosphere like one comet chasing another, landing with thunderous twin bangs onto an unnaturally empty London street directly in front of A.Z. Fell & Co.

His heart leapt at the sight of his beloved bookshop before remembering his first and most important beloved, standing a few feet from him, glaring up at the murky, grey sky.

Seconds of total and utter silence that rivalled the vacuum of space ticked by. No hustle and bustle of city life or nightingales singing anywhere.

Aziraphale bit his lip but couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth if his life depended on it. And, judging by Crowley’s skyward glower, it just might.

“You were one of the first,” he rasped quietly. “A True Archangel. One of the most powerful beings in existence. And you–you…I saw the reports, Crowley. I-I know what they did to you. And why.”

Crowley scoffed, finally dragging his gaze from the skies but falling short of Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh? And that made you wake up, did it?”

“Among other things. Yes.”

A crinkle formed between Crowley’s eyebrows.

“Well…glad I could be your cautionary tale.”

Aziraphale swallowed down the sob that was clawing its way up his throat. He had always known that there was more to the story of Crowley’s Fall than he had let on and Aziraphale wasn’t brave enough to ask about. But reading those reports, the ones Muriel had alluded to, and seeing Metatron’s true colours, had been the final straw. The wake up call he needed to finally leave. To walk away from Heaven and Hell and all their dealings and seek out the one person, the only person that made him feel that everything would be better once he was near him.

And it was.

Even if Crowley loathed him now.

Even if he hated him.

“‘For God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to Hell, putting them in chains of darkness to be held for judgment,’” he quoted, sadness tinging his soul before chancing another glance at him. “And you were the first, weren’t you?”

Crowley gave a minute nod.

“Those chains weren’t metaphorical.”

A sharp stab of pain pierced Aziraphale’s entire body.

“I—I’m sorry, Crowley. Even though I’ve been presented with oodles of evidence over the years that disproved it…I still called you the bad guy. Maybe even tried to convince myself of it once or twice to fit what I’d been taught to believe. But I’ve known for a long time that you aren’t. You never were. But I was. I was truly awful to you, not befitting of an angel at all. And…I realise now that just as there are a lot of angels that aren’t fully good, there also must be demons that aren’t fully bad, either. But you especially. Your punishment did not fit your crime.”

Crowley took a breath.

“Careful, Aziraphale. Don’t want to risk being smitten.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

His golden eyes blinked rapidly, clearly stunned by the admission. Were it not for the circumstances, Aziraphale would have preened at the fact that after all these years, he still managed to surprise him.

“Angels, Demons, Heaven, Hell—I don’t want anything to do with any of it anymore,” he said firmly, though losing his nerve somewhat and breaking eye contact, staring over Crowley’s shoulder instead. “It didn’t take me very long to realise that…none of it mattered. I…couldn’t make a difference, even if Metatron’s offer had been legitimate. Which it wasn’t.”

Steeling himself, he took one last deep breath that he knew he didn’t need but felt like he did all the same.

“But mostly, none of it mattered because I didn’t have you by my side.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley stiffen, his entire body tense as a bowstring. Hating that he was the cause, yet again, he hurried to continue.

“I missed you, Crowley. So very much. Every second of every day. I tried to…to tell myself that it was for the best. That I was doing the right thing. That you’d come around and we’d be together again, but…you were the one that was right. I lied to myself about so many things. I was stupid. An idiot. I was…blinded by the light. Bound by its empty promises. But you saw Heaven for what it truly is so long ago. It’s the other side of Hell’s coin. Its mirror, twin. Different packaging but with the same goal. Only out for power and control, but dressing it up as ‘the greater good.’ I’m sorry it took me six thousand years to finally see that.”

When he risked a glance at his old so-much-more-than-just-friend, he looked…gobsmacked. His already large eyes practically bugging out of their sockets as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Finally, when Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore, Crowley spoke:

“...you missed me, Angel?”

His stomach flipped at the sound of the pet name he kept hearing over and over in the back of his mind on quiet days.

“That’s what you got from that?”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged, waving a hand. “I mean, I got the gist—Heaven, Hell, both bad in different and similar ways—yada, yada, yada.”

“‘Yada, yada, yada?” Aziraphale repeated, aiming for exasperated but sounding far too fond. “That’s what you got from my crisis of faith? My denouncing of everything I was taught to believe in and my likelihood of being promptly sent Down because of it?”

“Yep,” Crowley popped the ‘p’ loudly, before a small but definite smile started to spread across his face.

Warmth pooled in Aziraphale’s stomach at the sight, his gaze catching on those lips that he had definitely not spent the last thirteen months, two weeks, four days, 47 minutes and…15 seconds daydreaming about.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Eight—

“You kissed me.”

The smile vanished from Crowley’s face. A mask of cold indifference replaced it.

“I’m a demon. My lies aren’t just audible.”

Pain, unlike anything Aziraphale had ever felt, shot through him, startling him more than if he were to be discorporated all over again.

“I…” he gasped, struggling through it. “I don’t believe you.”

Crowley tilted his head to the side.

“I don’t care if you believe me, Aziraphale. Not anymore.”

With that, he walked away, shattering Aziraphale’s heart for the second time.

“No, wait, Crowley, please! I can’t leave it like this. I’m sorry, I—”

“I forgive you.”

The words sounded hollow. Called over Crowley’s shoulder as he continued to storm down the road, past Give Me Coffee, Or Give Me Death and towards his ever-reliable Bentley.

Desperate and panicking, Aziraphale yelled after him:

“I’minlovewithyouIhavebeensincebeforeIcanrememberbutonlyrealisedwhatitmeantonceyou’dkissedmeandleft!”

It all rushed out of him in one big breath. The confession he had kept in for thirteen months, two weeks, four days, 48 minutes and 27 seconds.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Thir—

“Uh…” Crowley began, turning on his heel, his brow furrowed. “Want to try that again with more space between the words?”

Oh, bugger.

Taking the deepest, shakiest, most necessary breath of his long, long life, Aziraphale forced himself to meet those eyes he loved so very much and say what he suspected had been true for millennia now.

“I’m in love with you, Crowley,” he took one step towards him, two, three. “I have been since, well, forever, I’d wager. But I only truly realised what that meant when you kissed me. And we parted ways. And I had to live without you, knowing that you were upset with me and we might never have the chance to—”

“Stop.”

Fear sparked through his entire being as he halted, barely a foot from Crowley.

He felt something hit his cheek, but his tears had yet to fall.

No. It was beginning to rain.

He watched as Crowley searched his face, and his own face, which Aziraphale once found easier to read than any book in his shop, now indecipherable.

“I can’t…hmm…” a choked groan, a glance away. “Please, Angel, I can’t bear it. I can’t have you say…say…that…and not…not mean—”

“I mean it,” he interjected, his hands reaching up to clasp his face, their eyes locking at last. “I have never meant anything more in my entire life. No thought, prose, or prayer has ever come close to describing just how deeply, how vastly, I feel for you. It’s not enough. No poem or Jane Austen novel, or the Word of God Herself will ever be enough, but…I love you, Crowley. I’m in love with you. Everything else is all rather…ineffable, I’m afraid.”

He watched eagerly as Crowley took seven shallow breaths, before…

“That sounded pretty ‘effable’ to—”

Aziraphale leaned up and pressed their lips together, swallowing the end of his sentence. Crowley’s mouth was as warm as he remembered but worryingly just as tense. With a little groan of concern, Aziraphale swept his thumb across his cheek, relieved when he began to relax under his touch.

Slowly, gently, he coaxed his mouth open a little wider, summoning all his bravery to brush his tongue against his bottom lip, feather-light.

That seemed to awaken something in Crowley, who growled into his mouth, hands coming up to clutch tightly at his hips in a way that had Aziraphale’s stomach clenching as he pulled them even closer together—the culmination of six thousand years of yearning between them.

“I-I’m on our side,” he gasped into the sliver of space between their mouths when the kiss eventually broke. “A team. A group of two. An Us. Together. So neither of us has to be lonely any more. For—for however long we have left.”

Crowley gaped at him, his gorgeous eyes shining bright, just as the heavens opened and rain pelted down from the sky.

“Oh my God,” he chuckled as they were quickly soaked by a sudden, torrential downpour. “It’s actually raining, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, indeed,” Aziraphale grinned before dutifully dragging him under the awning of Nina’s coffee shop and looking deeply into his eyes, as per the script of these sorts of things.

Instinctively, their wings wrapped around one another, a black and white feathery shelter of their own.

“What was it you said, dear? ‘Vavoom?’”

Crowley rubbed very distracting circles into his lower back.

“Well, yeah. But there is also the matter of the One Fabulous Kiss.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, his thumb reaching up to brush the edge of his mouth.

“Hmm. But I thought we already did that. Is ‘one fabulous kiss’ the limit? Or is it two? Maybe thr—”

Crowley pulled him back in by his lapels, pressing their lips together far gentler than last time but just as passionately.

It felt heavenly. No…earthly. Real. More wondrous and divine than any miracle.

“Aww. An angel and demon in love.”

“How original.”

They broke apart with a startled jump, only to turn to Beelzebub and Gabriel, staring back at the two of them.

“We did it first,” Crowley argued, sounding winded. “Millennia before you two copycats, actually.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes as Gabriel glanced at Aziraphale, looking thoughtful.

“Huh. Guess loving a demon really isn’t a fallable offense then.”

Aziraphale flushed, feeling Crowley’s heavy gaze on the side of his face.

“I guess not,” he replied. “What are you two doing here?”

“Oh!”

Crowley squeezed his shoulder, turning him towards him.

“In all the excitement,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “I forgot to tell you. I have a plan to save the world.”

God, how he loved Anthony J. Crowley.

Warmth pooled in Aziraphale’s stomach as he reached out and linked their hands together.

“I trust you, dear. Lead the way.”

And so off they went to save humanity for the second time.

No longer chained by darkness nor bound by light, but something else entirely. Just…them. Free. An Us. As complex and colourful as any nebula and more extraordinary and powerful than any miracle ever performed.

Maybe even by God Herself.

[hibiscuslynx]

Heeeeeeelllllllloooooooo, it’s 2 in the fucking morning, and you know what that means.

Arizona definitely has a deep-cutting scar from the Grand Canyon running down his leg and calf.

California has splotches of red hyperpigmentation on his body, alongside scars from earthquake ridges. Also, dry and flaky skin. No amount of moisturizer could save him, he’s permanently ashy. ( get it? I’m fucking hilarious. )

Texas might have extremely oily skin, hair and tears from the oil boom. ( whenever he cries, it looks like he’s wearing shitty mascara because of it. The solution? Don’t cry, simple. He also gets scared that he may or may not assasinate California via gasoline fire if he touches him. )

Utah has vitiligo, though it’s only really noticeable in the summer due to tanning, and him naturally being pale. He sometimes lets his kids draw the outlines of them bright colours.

Florida is naturally wet. No, not like that, moreover in the sense that he’s just constantly slimy and coated with some form of moisture. Louisiana is the same way. If they sit down on a couch, as soon as they get up there will be a damp spot where they were sitting.

this makes the first florida man in socal ep a little funnier in hindsight; florida still bringing a humidifier, despite always being moisturized, just to fuck w california

grand canyon scar ❤️❤️ im such a sucker for scars due to the natural lay of the land. if i ever draw arizona i'll draw that

[sunkingwrites]

POMPOM FLOWER :0

the funny thing is, whenever I see that flower I think of you! it’s one of my favooooriteeee flowersss, and they usually present joy and optimistic relationshipssssss (and youuu have brought sooo much joy! <3)

ahem ahem I probably shouldn’t be um being a dumbass using my phone in the bathtub after a mini photoshoot (IT WAS SO COOL) but i sWEAR i’m holding outside of the bath over the floor this time— anyways, whAT I WAS GOING TO SAYYYY- MndkajJjas I wanna paint my nails with you after I’m done taking a selfcare bathhh ;v;

I don’t even know why I’m talking about my bath- it’s comfortable… and I have no shame with my selfcare days ohmygod.. I need to learn how to stop 😭

KQJDIDI ANYWAYS BACK TO YOU, YOU DROP-DEAD-GORGEOUS HUMAN— I’m coooking laterrrr and I was wondering about food preferences (because I personally will eat anything edible as long as it doesn’t have b e a n s; I am a sucker for new things!)

sooooo what kinda food do you likeeee?? oooo and and back to the flowers- what flowers do you like as well? I swear I’m not planning anything *cough* I don’t know what you mean *cough*

POMPOM FLOWER!! FUCK YEAH FUCK YEAHHH!!

Bruuhhh it's suuuchh a pretty flower thoo aaahhhhhh

And-- PHOTOSHOOT, DID I HEAR PHOTOSHOOT??? Dude lemme get in there, imma get a bunch of closeups woo wooo, I fucking LOve photoshoots!!!! :DD

Ollie omg nooo, keep going on about your self care baatthh, VIBE AWAYYY VIBBEE AWAAAYYY!!

Ooh okay okay so what colour are we thinking for nail polish though? I'm getting you to decide because I think I have more colours so it'll be more likely to have what you choose,, and you can choose multiple colours of course of course BECAUSE THERE ARE MULTIPLE FINGERNAILS!!

uGH, yeah,, I am preettyyy gorgeeouus huh? ☆☆☆ :D

Okay uhhh food,, well since you're talking actually food and not candy-- because sour candy is where it's at-- mmmm I really like spicy food, and combining like.. every flavour that I like into one thing... because I'm verryy indulgent and I feel like that shows in the way I make things- today I had some butter turkey and rice with added hot sauce and green onions, because my mum made a turkey a bit ago and had a buNCh left over- but I should specify that I dIDNT actually make the food,, it was made for me and I just added a bunch of different shit to it like I always do--

something that I really like making is instant noodles,, then draining them and adding some margarine (cuz this boy shouldn't have butter), mayo, soya sauce, hot sauces, and a bunch of other stuff- it is again,, VERy indulgent.. but I really like it! And make sure you add a veggie aspect too cuz that'd important- but also slather those veggies in sauuceee becauseee yuummmyummyyy- oh goddss I'm getting hungry just thinking about this stufffff :')

Okay okay, so I'm gunna talk about flowers instead then-

Dude I literally don't know shit about flowers. xD I know tulips cuz they bloom around my birthday time (springg booyyy),, but I know the characteristics I like in flowers-- so I hope that's good enough

I like when flowers have a nice stem that you can hold it by, so it's easy to smell it, and easy to offer it to someone, so they can hold it and don't have to worry about dropping it

I like when flowers are bright, like they grab your attention, I like the warm colours of them- when it feels like they're reaching out to you and inviting you to smell them or take a closer look

I like when flowers have little patterns to their petals, yeah the teardrop shaped petals are fine- but I want some ruffles, some ridges and irregular curves- I need that flower to exist in its own space, existing as a separate creation in a field of monotony.

soooo yeah! I hope that's good <3

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies!!? (Steckler, 1964)

Probably the most remarkable thing about this movie is that it was shot by Joseph V. Mascelli, Laszlo Kovacs and Vilmos Zsigmond. Now, I suspect this won’t rank near the top of the filmographies of the latter two gents, who are considered some of the greatest cinematographers ever, but I do think the movie is pretty nicely shot. When I was binging Ray Dennis Steckler’s work last year, I ended up holding off on this one as I couldn’t find a good looking copy. Now, I just had my Severin Steckler box set come in the mail, with the magnets, the stickers (why does Severin keep sending me stickers? not complaining, just asking), the one-sheet signed by Carolyn Brandt, but not the Steckler mask (I was very tempted, but couldn’t find a good justification for getting the mask, especially as that set was significantly more expensive; yes, I decided to be financially responsible just this once), and I decided to pop this in. I’m glad I waited. The transfer looks beautiful, and the darker colours have an inky richness to them, and the brighter ones really pop. But in this nicer copy, it’s probably easier to appreciate some of the compositions here, like the framing of the actors’ silhouettes on the beach, and the shadows during the horror scenes, and the dazzling musical numbers.

This is a horror movie directed by Ray Dennis Steckler, meaning that it’s not too heavy on the horror. What we get here instead is lots and lots of carnival footage in lieu of the thrills and chills one might expect in a horror movie. But unlike his later slashers where the relentless padding reeks of a certain desperation to get his movie up to feature length, the footage here has a certain joy of discovery and an appealing time capsule quality. (I know I just complained about carnival footage padding in The Funhouse, but maybe I’m warming up to that one too. Anyway, consistency is for suckers.) We don’t just see characters walking by the roller coaster, we actually get on it ourselves. There are also a ton of song and dance numbers, which feel like Steckler doing MGM on a budget. Probably not the best musical numbers you’ve ever seen, but they’re executed with a surprising level of commitment, and are distinct and fun enough that I had a good time. The most fun one is “A-Shook Out of Shape”, a jaunty rock’n’roll song about...let’s see, being beaten by your mother for staying out late. And there’s a number with a gladiator costume where the dancers get attacked by the mixed-up zombies of the film’s title, and it takes the audience a second to realize that it ain’t part of the act.

Steckler himself plays a character who can be described as “willfully unemployed”. Actually, that’s probably inaccurate, as unemployment numbers only include those who consider themselves part of the labour force and Steckler here very much does not. (Glad I could finally use that bit of knowledge for something. Who says higher education doesn’t have its merits?) Steckler goes with his buddy and girlfriend (who clearly use different hair products than he does, consider his hair has no volume and theirs seem to stand up several stories high) to the carnival, gets hypnotized and starts killing people whenever he sees a spiral (one of his victims foolishly twirls an umbrella before her demise). These murder scenes are executed with lots of handheld camerawork and draped in shadows, which was likely to suggest more explicit violence than could be shown, but helps give them a certain charge, as they break from the bright candy-coated aesthetic of the surrounding film. Of course, one of his victims is an alcoholic dancer played by his wife at the time Carolyn Brandt, who is always a delight to hang out with. I understand Steckler was an admirer of Jean-Luc Godard, and I wonder if he ever compared his movies with Brandt to Godard’s with Anna Karina. Would this be his A Woman is a Woman? Is Blood Shack his Pierrot Le Fou? Is The Hollywood Strangler Meets the Skid Row Slasher his Made in USA? Or maybe it’s Body Fever and you shuffle the timeline around? Steckler and Brandt continued working together after their divorce, which you gotta respect.

So no, this isn’t a great horror movie, but it’s always (okay, not always, have you seen his pornos? yeesh) fun to spend time with Uncle Ray and friends.

[sparrowsortadrawzzz]

Okay sparrow I just had a thought and you’re the closest accessible American. Do you guys not have pantomimes?

for those who don’t know: Plays hosted around Christmas time aimed at young children and also me because I’m nothing if not a sucker for bright colours and overly dramatic stories with audience interaction.

Usually a retelling of a fairy tale but changed in some ways probably to avoid the wrath of the house of mouse, with a lot of audience interaction [the most famous being ‘it’s behind you!’ When a character is looking for another character or thing and being stupid…like Dora the explorer, or ‘oh no it/she/he isn’t!’ And ‘oh yes it/she/he is!’ Where characters argue with the audience over something…usually also about if something is behind them. Also booing whenever the villain comes on stage that’s a big one]

And for some reason always a chubby man in drag commonly called something along the lines of the dame or the maid or the duchess that serves as a narrator/comic relief/plot enforcer that has a bunch of extremely cool dresses and wigs that are themed. I personally like to headcanon the dame is just one extremely stressed woman with an excellent wardrobe running around fantasy land trying to stop all the characters from messing up and dying because this is a kids show damn it we can’t let them find out villains win sometimes yet.

oh my goodness I've never heard of this before but I LOVE THAT SO MUCH- that sounds like such a fun and lovely memory/tradition, and I 1000% agree that the dame is just a superhero! thank you for sharing this with me actually, that's very beautiful 😭💜

[canyoncurl]

Me again!! :D

Further to our last chat-yes I use Spotify and here're my tops of 2022🫶:

Top artist: harry of course styles

Top song: as it was

Although aiw is the most streamed song, mfasr turns out to be my favorite track🥺. The rhythm of it is perfect, very bright and joyful, despite the music video which is a little creepy?? (but totally ok to me and I have to say I quite love the squid thing🤣

I wonder have u ever been to a harry's show as myself haven't got the chance due to many reasons.🥲 I just graduated from college this year and now I'm striving to save money for it.

One of my friends suggested me to put some flowers in my room so I bought some chamomile💛 today. I first put the vase on my desk then moved it to the window. Hopefully these cute chamomile will bloom a little longer. (I do want to share the photo of my chamomile with u but idk how to insert photo in anonymous mode💔

Have a wonderful day!

M

m the marvellous, hello again! 👋🫶✨

it appears it’s my turn to be (un)fashionably late dgdgdg. 🥲 the last few days have been a little or a lottle hectic for me, so iiiii completely failed to open my ask box! i’m super sorry to have made you wait, but so very excited to see your message waiting for me. 🤍

well, snap! you have incredible taste! who’d have thought i’d meet a fellow harrie in a holiday pal event run by one!? fhfhfg. 😌 i totally agree that the rhythm is perfect and so very joyful. the chorus always makes me want to dance & i’m most often listening to the album on the bus, so poor poor strangers are forced to watch me bob like a fish out of water. 🐟🎶 the mv definitely has a dark feel to it in places with the colour palette and the brutal ending! it almost reminds me of the grimm’s fairy tales, whimsically weird and wonderful. i am a sucker for anything silly, so i spent the release day smiling ridiculously at all the reaction threads on twitter. 🦑❤️‍🩹 is harry’s house your favourite of harry’s albums or do you prefer another? mine is fine line, but it’s a very close call! 🏠🐇

i actually saw harry live for the first (and eighth 🥲) time earlier this year! it was a huge milestone for me, so i had a silly spending spree this summer and went on a solo exhibition across the uk, paris & amsterdam to see him & meet some of my closest friends. i stayed in a hostel, hitchhiked with strangers and had the time of my life! it was, without a doubt, the most fun and free i have ever felt. he’s really very special. it’s SO exciting that you’re now able to save to see him, i’m keeping my fingers crossed for you from now until then & forever more, too. 🐇🪩💌

the chamomile sounds so lovely… and so calming! is chamomile your favourite flower? 🌼 i, too, have no idea how to anonymously send photos so i will simply imagine them for us both! 😌 i currently have a vase of roses on my table, but gypsophila and lavender are my favourite flowers of all. 🤍

what’re your plans for the week? do you have anything exciting coming up? have you found any time for yourself and your hobbies?

all the questions and then some,

bug. 🐛⭐️

[talesofstyles]

Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain. 

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder. 

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment. 

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car. 

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.” 

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later. 

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald. 

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.” 

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later. 

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks. 

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off. 

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.” 

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors. 

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve. 

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING. 

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head. 

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her. 

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals. 

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom. 

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife. 

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process. 

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop. 

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache. 

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink. 

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers. 

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest. 

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room. 

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward. 

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket. 

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages. 

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side. 

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door. 

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.” 

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going. 

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. 

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear. 

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat. 

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes. 

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt. 

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige. 

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down. 

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.” 

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching. 

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

[yeojaa]

( 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​

[halfpint55]

Feels Like We Only Go Backwards - Chapter 16:

by @oldpotatoe on AO3

"Hina claps with awe at the eruption of flames from Zuko’ skin. It is yellow, yes, orange too, but there is purple in the fire, and green, and red, blue, white, pink and more, all dazzling and brilliant as they burst from Zuko’s palms.

“Cool!” she yells, but Sokka hears her as if from a distance, finds his heart catching somewhere between his throat and mouth at the sight of Zuko’s shy smile, the rainbow reflected in his eyes. The light flickers over both their faces, vibrant and ethereal.

...

Sokka turns on his heels slowly, awestruck at the colourful warmth surrounding them. Zuko’s taken care to keep the flames a safe distance away, but Sokka can still feel the gentle heat of the fire flowing around him. It sinks into his skin, pushes all the way through to some unknown, untouched part of him that resides deep within his chest, making it unfurl until its blossoms peek out like the first buds of spring. And when he comes to a stop right back where he started—staring at Zuko’s cupped hands, his upturned mouth, his hair shimmering a thousand different shades, the way he looks up at Sokka just then with his unscarred eye squinting at its corner, bright and effusive and striking— the blossoms spread wide in his chest, trailing up and down and throughout him, catching at his seams. Coming alive.

And he thinks, oh.

And he thinks, oh shit."

Note: This art has a very specific song to go with it!

“We’re not equal parts / light and dark / we can be brilliant”

I literally had this song on repeat most of the time that I was drawing this and this particular lyric just hoofs u in the chest as you look at Zuko SOFT AS ANYTHING bending dragon fire so pls, feel free to play it while you peruse the art.

There’s been a lot of really amazing but oh my GOD PAINFUL art from the flwogb fandom recently so in these trying times may I offer this happier piece to remind you of the magic moment Sokka fell for Zuko for the second time in 5 years. I title it “Oh Shit”. 

I'm such a sucker for a character realising they're in love with the italicised "oh shit" I go FERAL for that every single time and ms oldpotatoe fucking DELIVERED on that (even though she delivered an emotional sucker punch almost immediately after thank u ma’am). This moment just made my breath hitch as I read it and I was thinking “of course, of course they just make their way back to each other. of course they do”. It was such a gorgeous moment I had to put my phone down for a moment and BREATHE.

something that really inspires me to create from Ruby’s fic is the perfect clarity of the writing - I can SEE these gorgeous moments she writes as already made paintings in my head and I gotta DRAW. This one was clear as day, so I’ve spent so long trying to achieve what I saw in my head and I think I’ve come pretty close.

Not gonna lie I drew his expression and immediately got emotional about my OWN GODDAMN ART, (but I have been assured that this is completely normal).

Now I can’t post this without talking about the goddamn hair. I wrestled with his hair on this for MONTHS - I always thought that I'd struggle with hands, or even anatomy and proportions but NO. Hair seems to be my drawing nemesis and makes me wanna snap my tablet in half but nonetheless i have persevered (but for the love of all that is holy please zoom in I beg u I spent too long on the little details).

In terms of the shading and colour, the hair is very much An Experiment and I haven’t played with hair and light much before, but i was so intent on capturing the colours of the fire reflected in Zuko’s hair, i wanted it to be so ethereal. ethereal enough to just make Sokka fall headfirst down the stairs, two at a time, in love. So I gave it a go. It’s possibly too shiny and not quite how real hair would behave, and i’m probably gonna go away after posting and keep fiddling with it, but you know what I think it’s pretty, and im gonna challenge my perfectionist self to just... leave it be. 

Ruby, I love u and I offer u this humble art as a small bribe to treat my boys well in the coming chapters (please, we don’t always have to go backwards do we?). <3 <3

[peppersonironi]

Sambucky Fic Recs #2

Part One |

Today's Theme: Soulmate Au's

Welcome to this today's theme! I happen to really enjoy these types of fics and thankfully there's a decent selection in the sambucky tag! Here are Ten fics for your enjoyment! (more under the cut)

1. A Touch of Pain by TowardTheStars

Sam had just turned seven when his world first exploded into pain.

Or, Sam feels his soulmate's pain and wishes to save them from their torment.

Quick warning before we get into things: This is currently a WIP. But I'm finding it great so far! This fic is more Sam-focused with great angst. Also some past Sam/Riley, which I'm always a sucker for!

2. Bright Colors Of Love by Yoursaltness_and_TheMemeQueen

The first time soulmates had skin to skin touch you’d be able to see the colors, that whenever you touched you’d be able to see the world in color, and that the first kiss made colors permanent.

When Sam Wilson is 20 he meets Riley, he falls in love. He takes a risk and holds his hand, the world stays black and white, and he thinks he understands why his aunt says that you don’t need a soulmate to be happy. When Riley dies, there is a bitter part of him that thanks the universe for not making them soulmates. - The first time James “Bucky” Barnes heard about soulmates was through the TV.

He reaches out to hold Steves hand and wonders if the universe can make mistakes.

He decides at about 17 that maybe soulmates are overrated, that the universe is too mysterious to trust. As he’s falling and hears Steve’s cry, he decided the universe is a bitch that knows too much and probably hates his guts. - Flash forward, Bucky knows they're soulmates, Sam doesn't.

Secret Santa Gift for Max!!

This has just the right amount of angst, and I was amazed by how well written it was! I love this fic so much!

3. Reach Out and Hold the Sun by Aluxra

When you touch your soulmate skin to skin, you leave a colour unique to you on them. 106 years and Bucky never received a mark.

Until Now.

Oh my gosh the mutual pining! The uncertainty! The fear of rejection! The utter relief and love that comes at the end! I was grinning ear to ear the whole time reading this!

4. redefining in every way what love is by lovelypenguins1717

On the non-dominant wrist of every person lays a soulmark. A unique mark that appears whenever their soulmate is born. It is the true north to their other half.

Bucky never had a mark and now he’ll never know.

Sam had found his, but the soulmark is meaningless now that Riley’s dead.

But sometimes soulmates are chosen.

*COMPLETE*

Now this is an interesting twist on soulmate aus! I usually love the ones where the people are destined for each other, but I have to admit that I really enjoyed the idea of choosing each other. It was so sweet!

5. Exactly What You're Looking For by @snarky-drabbles

When you lose something, it might appear beside your soulmate in the morning.

Sam never found anything from his soulmate until after Bucky Barnes dragged Steve from the Potomac.

Bucky grew up never finding a thing either, but after he finally gets free from Hydra, he starts finding things beside him the morning.

This is the story of them coming together.

now with a chapter of outtakes and alternate ending

I'll be honest, this fic is hilarious!! The romance aspect and yearning is great, but that ending is just on another level!

More Fics Under the Cut

6. I keep closing my eyes (but I can't blink you out) by @lesbianhozier

Bucky avoids eye contact as much as possible. He can hold a conversation without so much as looking at your face, the only exception to this being Steve. Sam definitely knows why and has seen it a few times before; soulmates. A brief moment of eye contact can change your entire life if it’s with the right person; your soulmate.

canon divergence in Civil War fic. I'll be honest this isn't necessarily my favorite, and it feels a touch weird near the end, but I still enjoyed it! The premise was fascinating and the writing was pretty good.

7. adored by @capnwinghead

The marks were legend - your soulmate's name on one wrist and your enemy's on the other. Most people spent their lives trying to decipher them. Bucky Barnes spent most of his life avoiding them.

Oh the angst in this one!!! So good!!

8. gunmetal grey by Someone_aka_Me

Soulmates wear the same mask, and only your soulmate can remove it.

Sam isn't expecting to find his mask in a history book, worn by a man who's been dead for decades.

I literally cannot sing the praises of this fic enough!!! Holy crap it's so good!!!! It takes place in ca:tws and continues afterwards, but it ignores AoU/ca:cw. I don't read to many fics from this era (working on more of them, though! I got a request for some fic recs, and my research is so much fun!), but I'm honestly adoring this so much. And the writing is so good too! And the whole premise of soulmate masks was fascinating to me! I've never read a fic like this before. BUT I LOVED IT SO MUCH!!!!

9. there is a sweetness in you by Someone_aka_Me

AU: Your soulmate is the only person who cannot hurt you.

Sam gets kicked off a helicarrier — yet he can't help but notice the boot to the chest doesn't hurt like it should.

Yeah, yet another of this kind of au. They seem to be semi-popular for sambucky (Kinda? there aren't too many soulmate au fics though). But I'm a sucker for them, alright? And this one is so cute too! :-D

10. Fortune Tellers And Falling & Fortune Tellers And Falling: Part 2 by @jeffersonshattricks

Prompt: During a “game” Sam is told that is soulmate will be the next person to do “X” to him and it happens to be Bucky. Sam is in denial but destiny cannot be stopped.

&

The is Bucky's POV for the first part of this. It explains how he knew they were soul mates, and shows a bit of what he went through while waiting for Sam to catch up.

A Two-Parter right here, guys! So fun! I love fics that show both POV's, they just add a new dimension, alright? Also, the pining and uncertainty in these are super good!

And that's it for today folks! I really hope you enjoy these! Once again, feel free to hop into my asks and request any trope or theme you'd like! I already got one that I'm currently working on, so that'll be fun! I also have a coupole other themes that I'm working on right now too, and I'm really excited about them!

Also, let me know if you want to be tagged for these!