#THE AQUARIUM SCENE OTL OTL

[merakiui]

this is going to be so ooc, but that one anime trope of a character whose fringe covers their eyes and when they push it back they're suddenly very attractive....... that but with loser virgin jade. <3 you think he's this weirdo in your class who is so quiet and shy, who gets this very creepy smile whenever anyone mentions mushrooms or the mountains. and then of course there's the trope of the nosebleed. you fall and land in a compromising position during pe and you can be sure there's a trail of blood running from his nostrils. or, even better, jade trips and lands right on top of you. T_T staining your pe clothes with his blood. waaaaa he's a loser!!!!! (obligatory beach episode where everyone's playing volleyball and he falls right into your chest......)

but then you happen to catch him in the woods one day and he's brushed his hair back and suddenly he's hot?????? has he always looked like this? his eyes are so striking. is this really the same guy?

(this is basically just idia, but sometimes you need the normally cool and collected jade to be the touch-starved virgin instead. <3)

[radiojamming]

How about lawyer John pre-cult going to his choice Atlanta nightclub minding his own until he notices some scumbag guy harassing a girl at the bar and decides to intervene and square up to him while tipsy because John throwing a few punches is steamy (which naturally leads to something more steamy) 😏

wooooof this got long, and hopefully the exposition doesn’t drown out the rest of it. OTL also, i made up the nightclub but the area is real! 

uh, warnings for drug mention, lotsa alcohol, and douchebags being douchebags. also some sliiiight NSFW. 

- - -

It’s the kind of night that John calls ‘rinse and repeat’; the same order of business that plays out every time the firm wins a suit or gets a payout. Half the firm goes out to some knockoff Applebee’s for Kahlua Mudslides or fruit cocktails, and the other goes to the Royale in Midtown. John is in the Royale group, for lack of better drinks anywhere else. There are only so many times he can handle someone shoving every picture of their kids in his face while a pair of ladies pretend to get drunk off sangria of all things. At least the Royale bartenders know him by face and by tab, and know better than to water his drinks down.

The Royale is the kind of nightclub Atlanta pretends to be proud of. It’s located on what was once the lobby floor of an upscale hotel that went under in the 1980s after some mismanagement and a declaration of bankruptcy. The Art Deco lounge was a siren song to a league of gentrification-happy property owners, and the Royale shimmered out of its tarnished state, LED converted chandeliers and obnoxious music at the ready. 

John doesn’t mind it so much, other than the clientele. He knows half of them by face, and the other half by name. Business cards are shuffled around at the same rate as personal phone numbers and come-hither glances. It’s the playhouse of all the city’s proverbial crème de la crème; high-end and high-risk lawyers like himself mingling with giggling socialites, powerhouse politicians who still look like they’re under 40, investors who reek of tax fraud, and every last person in Atlanta who can wield a Centurion Card without flinching. He’s been to parties with these people, slept with a few of them, and has seen them at their sparkling best and their sickening worst. The blackmail value of these people is so high that John could amass enough hush money to retire to a castle in Switzerland with money to burn.

He sits at the bar, eyes slowly going back and forth between the aquarium in the wall and the displays of his coworkers. Antony with his thinly-veiled cocaine addiction is sidling up beside one of the daughters of a Georgia state representative, loudly talking about a civil case that he apparently won single-handed. Caitlyn (still working on her divorce papers at lunch breaks) is hanging over the shoulder of a platinum blonde woman in a Marilyn Monroe dress, and cooing at the woman’s husband as well. Andy and David R. are nowhere to be seen (and no one is shocked). It’s a typical display of the rinse-and-repeat.

The music is already helping to drill the hole in John’s head that he’ll feel tomorrow morning, and John grits his teeth before downing the rest of his Sazerac, ignoring the fact that he can’t feel the burn of it anymore. He starts formulating his excuse to leave when he catches something on the other end of the bar.

Of all the people he works with, the one he can’t stand worth a damn is a trust fund bottom-dweller named Brendan. He’s the pinnacle of the Ivy League mom-and-dad-bought-me-this-degree hierarchy, getting through school more on the virtue of his family bank account and charitable donations than by any work he actually did. He still has a keychain from his old fraternity hanging on his Aston-Martin keys, which he makes a show of flaunting in front of his newest victim. And John hates every inch of him, from his slicked-back son-of-a-Republican blonde hair to his Paul Parkman wingtips. Brendan’s obviously gotten a few drinks in him, and the poor girl he has cornered looks like she’d rather be on the other end of the country. She’s one of the few that John doesn’t recognize, wearing a black dress from Nordstrom Rack and a pair of plain black heels that are scuffed on the edges. Only her handbag is designer, and John has the feeling that it’s a secondhand kind of thing, or something she borrowed from a friend. She’s certainly pretty, but in a way that isn’t achieved by Botox or makeup applied with a butter knife. She’s paid attention to her appearance, no doubt, but there’s something organic and authentic to her, which means that she’s attracted the human tilapia known as Brendan like some kind of catnip.

John edges closer, sensing that this might be one of the few times he can put Brendan in his place without repercussions. No one can talk him down from warding a drunk guy off a girl who just wants to leave. It’s the perfect excuse.

“–back at my loft. It’s only a five minute walk from here,” Brendan says, grinning with his too-white smile. “It’s a Jackson Pollock original.”

The girl leans away from him, trapped between Brendan and a plush barstool. The only way out is to vault over it or knee him in the groin. John kind of hopes she goes for the latter.

“That’s cool,” she says, trying her best to be civil. “Listen, I, uh, really have to–”

Brendan’s completely deaf to her, because of course he is. “And there’s this really great sushi fusion place down the street,” he says, like this girl isn’t struggling to gymnastically bend her way out. Then, John sees Brendan’s hand go for her waist. “But we can always stop by the loft first. Check it out. You know.”

The girl’s eyes go wide, and she’s rendered totally speechless. When Brendan tugs on her like he’s going to swoop her away, John about sees red. All it takes is another eight seconds of conversation.

“I really don’t want–”

“Come on. Let’s go,” Brendan says, grinning like she’s agreed to marry him.

Before John can think, he’s got his hand on Brendan’s wrist, squeezing harder than polite company usually vouches for. 

Brendan stares at him like he’s never seen John before, like John’s a cobra already rearing up and preparing to bite him. John can feel him try to pull his wrist away, but John doesn’t give him an inch.

“Duncan,” Brendan says in surprise. “Uh, nice to see you. I was just on my way out.”

John doesn’t greet him, or do much other than try to snap his wrist with one hand. The most he gets is a flinch. “On you way out alone, I’m guessing,” John says, as conversationally and casual as he can. 

Brendan looks to the girl, who in turn looks like she’s watching a car accident in real time. “No,” he says, trying to keep his smile afloat. “We were about to head out. Me and, uh–”

The girl’s expression goes from shock to straight-up defiance, and John immediately decides he likes her more than anyone else in the club. “I didn’t tell you my name,” she says firmly. 

John grins despite himself. “But I bet you he told you his name fifty times, and the names of his parents.”

“And grandparents.”

Brendan’s face goes to indignant fury. “We were leaving, Duncan,” he says, his voice starting to curl with a snarl.

“Yes, we were.” John yanks hard on Brendan’s wrist, causing him to stumble away enough for the girl to squeeze past him. By now, they’re making a scene, and John’s fine with that.

Brendan almost pulls his arm out of his socket wrenching his wrist out of John’s grip, and his face is changing colors at a fascinating rate. “What the fuck is your problem?” His voice is already slurred by whatever lightweight cocktails he’s put away.

“Nothing,” John replies nonchalantly. “But you were causing a problem for her, so I decided to step in before you did something really stupid. Not like you don’t do enough of that on your own, but I thought I’d save her the trouble.”

Fortunately, Brendan is drunk enough that he ends the situation himself, deciding that apparently the smartest thing he can do is take a swing at John. All John has to do is side-step and hold his foot out at the right angle for gravity to do the rest. Brendan hits the floor without having the forethought to put his hands out to break his fall, and John swears he hears something crunch. He smiles as Brendan tries to roll onto his back, blood already trickling from his nose. John decides he’s going to savor that particular image for awhile.

A bouncer is already on his way over, wrenching Brendan up by his shoulders like he’s a toddler mid-tantrum. Brendan might be swearing, but it’s hard to tell between the drunken slurring and the sound of him trying to talk through a broken nose. Either way, John just keeps smiling and smiling as the bouncer drags him out, and smiles as the club tries to pull itself back together.

He shouldn’t enjoy watching people bleed that much.

And then the girl walks up to him, no worse for the wear except the slightly harried look on her face. She smiles at him, shy and almost apologetic. “Thanks,” she says quietly. She reaches up and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. “I, um, really thought I had that under control, but obviously I didn’t. So, thank you.”

The slight adrenaline rush is still running laps through John’s head, and he laughs and shrugs. “No problem. I’ve always wanted to do something like that to him. It was bound to be sooner or later.”

She laughs as well, and it’s not forced or faked. She sounds authentically relieved, and John think the little thrill that goes through him might be the last vestiges of his good morality congratulating him on doing a Boy Scout-level deed. Then, her expression becomes a cross between relieved and sheepish. “Hey, it’s cool if you don’t want to but, um… Is there– Is there any chance you might be able to walk me out to my car? It’s just in the lot across the street, but I think I’m still a little jumpy. I think I’d feel better if someone was out there with me.” She pauses then, eyes going wide. “Oh! I mean, unless you were planning on staying here. I don’t mean to yank you away or anything. That was stupid of me.”

The grin on John’s face is starting to hurt, and he can’t remember the last time he felt this happy. Not even a victory in court can compare.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Lead the way.”

- - -

Her hands have already completely ruined his hair, and John couldn’t care less. His hands are on the underside of her thighs, holding her up against her cheap dark green Honda. She moans against his mouth, sighing dreamily when he bites her bottom lip. He leans in close, smelling the orange blossom scent of her Lancôme perfume (from Macy’s, he’s guessing), before he kisses over her jugular, imagining he can feel the rush of her blood under layers of skin and muscle. 

He hasn’t wanted someone so badly in ages. She kisses him like she’s desperate, like she’s still working off the nerves from earlier. And she kisses him like she means it, not like she’s trying to find something or someone to put between her legs for the night. If she is, she’s damn good at hiding it. Her breasts push up against his chest, her heart fluttering against him, and he’s entirely prepared to just do the job right there in the parking lot, for all of Midtown Atlanta to gawk at.

Only some tattered remainders of propriety stop him from doing that, even though he’s already between her legs. He pulls away just enough to talk, although their noses are brushing against each other and he can feel her breath on his cheek. His eyes flicker up to hers, and he tries to absorb the color into his brain as much as he can, to remember and use later when it’s just him and his hand.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and laughs as soon as she does. “Sorry, I thought I’d do one better than Brendan.”

She leans in and kisses him again, but it’s the slow, lingering kind. It’s almost like a thank you condensed into a kiss. Then, she laughs again. “Just call me Rook,” she says softly. “It’s what’s on my business card.”

“Just Rook?”

“For now.” Her hands comb through his hair, undoing it even more. When she kisses his cheek, he’s one hundred percent sure that she could do whatever she wants to him and he’d thank her for it. She leans in close, mouth against his left ear, and kisses just underneath before saying, “You stick around until tomorrow morning and you’ll get my first name with it.”

“That better be a promise.”

“It is, John Duncan,” she says against his jaw, and he can feel her smile against his skin.