#and he can hold himself together long enough to get a flu shot bc he knows he can be dramatic about it to eddie later

[livwritesstuff]

couldn’t stop thinking about this, so here’s a followup :)

When Eddie does eventually get a tattoo for Steve, it’s on a whim.

Kind of on a whim.

He hadn’t forgotten about the idea by any means, but he had yet to come up with an idea that came even close to encapsulating the love Eddie had for Steve, so he waited.

Then, one day, around a year and a half after their initial conversation on the subject and when Steve and Eddie were enjoying a lazy morning arguing over the grocery list (Steve wants to try a new pasta salad recipe, the fancy bastard, and Eddie just wants him to make the same cheesy marinara pasta sauce he’s been fiending over for years), Steve gets called into the hospital.

His second-to-last clinical rotation for his psychology doctorate sent him to the psych floor of a nearby emergency room, which has meant, for the first time, Steve is on-call even when he’s not scheduled to be at the hospital.

Steve is miserable — the most miserable Eddie’s ever seen him when it comes to his psych program — and annoyed with the school for assigning it to him when there had apparently been others available that were closer to how he actually wants to use his doctorate when he finally earns it, but, like he tends to, he’s being a decent sport about it.

He’s on the phone with his C.I. affirming that he’ll be in as soon as he can when he picks up a pen, grabs Eddie’s wrist, and scribbles fresh mozzarella, penne, tomatoes, lemon juice on the underside of his forearm. Below that he writes love you, and below that he adds - S, followed by a heart, a sideways smiley face, and a star, like Eddie’s seen him do hundreds of times. It’s how he signs off every post-it note stuck to the fridge, every message swiped into the fogged-up bathroom mirror, every letter he folds up and mails to Robin or Nancy or both or some other member of the Party.

Eddie isn’t even totally sure Steve realizes he’s doing it, that maybe he just likes that first doodled heart so much he can’t help but keep going, but he loves it either way. It’s sweet and charming and cute and just so, so Steve that it almost hurts.

Steve presses a swift kiss onto Eddie’s lips before making a bee-line for the door, still on the phone with his C.I, and Eddie’s mind is moving so fast he can’t sit with it anymore, so he jumps to his feet, checks his wallet to see if he’s got cash (he does), and then he too is on his way out the door.

Thankfully, at eleven on a Tuesday morning, his tattoo artist is accepting walk-ins, and before his brain completely catches up to his beating heart, he’s got Steve’s words (minus the groceries, obviously) in his neat writing and his heart, smile, and star tattooed on his forearm and it’s fuckin’ perfect and Eddie couldn’t be happier.

Steve returns sooner than Eddie thought he would — before dinner, which is still late, but not as late as it usually is whenever he gets called into the hospital — and as he lets himself into their apartment, Eddie meets him at the door.

“Hey,” Steve says with a tired smile, “Hungry?”

“Look!” Eddie ignores him, holding out his arm so Steve can see the tattoo through the protecting plastic wrap.

Steve looks down blankly at it for a moment or two before the corner of his mouth upticks just slightly.

“You...you did this today? From the-the stupid thing I wrote?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grins, “Isn’t it great. i’m so fuckin’ thrilled with it, man. It’s just — it’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s-” Steve shakes his head like he always does when he’s being bashful, “If you say so.”

He pulls Eddie into a tight hug, which Eddie immediately reciprocates, pressing his lips to Steve’s neck.

“I really love you,” Steve says.

“Love you too,” he replies, “in case that wasn’t clear.”

And Steve is pulling away, so Eddie catches the way he smiles as he shakes his head again. Steve’s eyes travel to the kitchen and then snap back to his own.

“Wait, so did you get the groceries?”

“Ah - fuck.”

part 3

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #established relationship #psych student!steve #idk is this ooc? i can’t even tell anymore #eddie just loves steve so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself and i love that for both of them #does steve get a tattoo for eddie? #unsure. he doesn’t really strike me as a tattoo kind of guy #he strikes me as a terrified of needles after they were used to drug and torture him kind of guy #and he can hold himself together long enough to get a flu shot bc he knows he can be dramatic about it to eddie later #but a tattoo takes quite a bit longer #and steve has been in school long enough to know that exposure therapy isn’t all that effective #so who knows

[crqstalite]

drabble, mistrust. (malavai && tri’ama)

i played through quinn’s romance and while i understand the hate on him, i also absolutely adored the buildup to the quinncident as he romances her (or as tri romances him. oddly enough, romancing quinn sounds like you’re preying on him half the time.) and the conversation afterwards. however, i believed there had to be an interaction in between the conversation after the quinncident and the actual incident itself where the pc deals with not being able to trust the man she loves.

i’m so sorry this is p bad near the end bc i just needed to get this off my chest after playing as far as the incident. i haven’t even gotten onto corellia yet.

written : 7.15.19. published to tumblr : 7.15.19. word count : 3,002

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ character song: youngblood, 5sos (this song was made for a ls sw who had mercy on quinn)

character file: lord tri'ama amarlilis, emperor’s wrath

-

she has him at lightsaber point. the look in his eyes, god that pleading look in those usually cold blue eyes.

something in her snaps. she could kill him, she could choke him out and leave him here to die. she could leave him here without a second thought, take the others and murder this son of a bitch baras.

and he looks like he’d accept it. battered, bloody and bruised her quinn sits, one hand over his side where she’d almost stabbed him. she’d tried not to hurt him, she really had. but the shot in her shoulder was enough incentive to finally do something to get him to stop shooting at her. tri'ama has the glowing blade nearly against his neck, it wouldn’t be hard. a quick slash and it would be over.

he’s too understanding. too able to understand her jumbled emotions, not even a plea for his life. quinn understands she’s hurt. he would allow her to kill him, for what he’s done is unforgivable.

the hilt drops to ground, blade retracted as she tries her damn hardest not to cry. not to allow him to see her like this. giving him her uninjured hand to pull himself up on, she has to subtly help him stand. “my lord-”

“don’t.” she can’t bear to look him in the eye, but he understands, quieting immediatly. what was it all for, giving herself to someone who intended to betray her at the first sign of things not working out? she knew that romance didn’t ever end well in the empire, moreso in the sith order. but, stupidly, she’d believed quinn wasn’t like that. he was kinder than other imperials she’d met, cared for her injuries when they did happen, and let them move at a pace comfortable for both of them. “can you walk?”

tri'ama sounds choked up, she knows she does, but she turns around once she can see a visible nod from him. should she spare him? is it worth beating a man who’s already down? but it’s someone who betrayed her, someone who didn’t care that she loved him. all in the favor of his previous master.

she’s cold. absolutely freezing. she knows that her force abilities sometimes get out of hand to the point her emotions are so evident it changes the temperature around her. it could be as cold as hoth as she shivers, but her anger burning hot. betrayal hangs in the air as she continues walking back towards the airlock, hissing through her teeth as she moves her shoulder back and forth. it’s not broken, she doesn’t think, but…quinn was always the one to tell her when things seemed out of place. when things went wrong, he was there with a kolto pack or two.

her chest tightens at the thought. she trusted him, truly trusted him, not only with her life but also her vulnerability. she’d intended to keep this romance short, she’d had flings before the academy with other acolytes and any teenager unfortunate enough to flirt with her. she’d even had an unrequited crush on pierce for a bit, but she didn’t expect to be kissed, by quinn of all people. it lingers, as she pulls the memory from the depths of her mind.

it’s special because it’s from someone she…

someone she loves.

she’s never loved before. never truly given herself up to someone like she has for captain malavai quinn. how she offered him smiles and encouragement, and he often did the same, in that annoyingly quinn-way he had.

they eventually arrive to the airlock where the fury was docked. “quinn, go ahead. i will join you in but a moment.”

he hesitates. “my lord, do you…do you intend to tell the others what happened?”

her anger is beginning to disappate. at least at him, but she’s going to murder baras when she seems him again. but, forgiveness is not on her mind right now. a part of her says she’s lucky to let him live, to allow him to return to her crew even after what he’s done.

she raises her eyes to his. “no, i don’t intend to, quinn. it will remain…our secret.”

“thank you, my lord.” he attempts to bow for her, and she just wants to cry more as he grits his teeth before disappearing into the airlock. then, she’s alone. there’s no one on this ship, no one operating it but droids.

quinn intended to murder her, intended to leave her for dead. she could’ve died if she didn’t move when the first blaster shot was fired, only just barely missing. stars, she figured he didn’t want to hurt her at all. they danced around each other, after she destroyed his war droids with practiced accuracy. but when her grey-blue eyes met his colbalt blue ones, something softened in his face, firing off shot after shot that missed time and time again or bounced off her armor. the only real hit he’d gotten in was her shoulder.

tri'ama had done a surprising amount of damage. she’d never struck him directly, but a few force throws would do that to a person.

undoing the helm from around her neck, she breathes in the cool air of the ship as she leans against the wall. she’s trying to calm herself, but she’s shattering inside. tears well up in her eyes and they fall as she screams and cries like a child. like a wounded animal rage builds up in her as scattered boxes go flying. hands buried in her short hair, tri'ama doesn’t try to reign in her emotions. raw, powerful. that’s all she was, but she didn’t feel powerful right then.

she felt small. she felt oh so scared, terrified. she’d trusted quinn, she had trusted her partner. and he turns on her because of one darth making a power grab. sliding down the wall so that she’s sitting against it, she crumples, head buried in her arms. it hurts, god it hurts so much. it hurts, she just wants this pain in her heart gone, as it tears her apart inside.

“it’s not you, or me. it’s baras.”

she could owe everything to baras, from her apprenticeship after being under tremel for a few weeks, to giving her the permission to murder as many as she liked. gave her the opportunity to find her first lightsaber. to become a lord of sith.

and now what?

as the emperor’s wrath, she did what he and his hand asked. she no longer answered to baras.

she should’ve known, quinn would stay loyal to the person that gave him a career in the imperial military. all the signs were there, that unavoidable tic whenever someone said something demeaning towards the darth, whenever she expressed her annoyances for the man. when the voss had even told her someone would betray her, when pierce even mentioned there was no requirement for a transponder to dock at corellia.

she should’ve known.

she doesn’t know how late it is when she picks herself up and passes through the airlock. the ship is still light, and she hears talking from the galley.

tri'ama doesn’t want to talk to anyone, or she’ll start bawling like a baby. she won’t tell anyone of what transpired aboard the transponder situation, but she can’t bear facing the reality that baras intended to make her crew work for him, or kill them if they denied. vette, pierce, jaesa…even broonmark.

to see their lights go out, as she watched in horror as she stepped aboard the airlock above voss. crumpled up after fighting her rival, drahg. she’d fought with the raw strength of a woman in mourning, to the point even quinn himself was terrified afterwards, commenting she became more bloodthirsty at some point between then and when they met on balmorra.

did he know what was coming?

holding her helm in her hands, she races for her quarters, tripping over her own two feet. something is trickling down from her nose, and she already knows it’s not her own salty tears. she swipes at her nose, blood soaking into the underarmor she wears.

-

vette is the first to come find her in the coming days. she knocks a few times, mentions meals.

jaesa comes next, questioning whether she was allowed off the ship to do as she pleased.

pierce comes last, mentioning the plans for the bastion finally being nearly finished.

tri'ama doesn’t know how long it’s been. days, weeks. it couldn’t have been more than a month. she stays in her quarters, and only eats once everyone else has gone to bed. she does little more than that, and other than the every other day training with a practice saber in her room, she doesn’t do much.

she’s left alone with her own grief. she forgave him, but her heart wasn’t in it. she cries more than she ever has, a dam broken behind her eyes and in her heart.

she prays no one hears her. the heart shattering wails she stifles is for no one’s ears other than her own. she put this upon herself, trusting someone other than herself. but, for some reason she still feels that phantom arm around her waist as their lips crash together in the darkness of the cockpit, things left unsaid.

stupid, stupid, stupid!

she’s better than this, she knows that. but it happened, and now she’s reeling from the aftereffects.

“what did you even do?” vette’s voice filters through the door as she steps to leave the room. “tri’s been in there since you guys came back from that stupid transponder station.”

“i didn’t do anything.” quinn’s voice is shaky as he responds, her heart clenching as she pauses to listen. “possibly, she’s caught a cold.”

“bah, i’ve seen lord amarillis murder more people while suffering from the stomach flu, captain. what really happened?” pierce asks gruffly. “i’ve surely never seen her like this, never even leaving her quarters for meals with us.”

“why ask me? why not ask her?” quinn is losing options. it would seem suspicious, coming back from the transponder situation and not even speaking to one of them on her own. “i’m sure she’d be happy to answer.”

“i don’t think we’re talking about the same woman, captain.” jaesa remarks, quieter so that tri'ama can’t make it out the first time she speaks. “you’ve been planetside with her more than we have, the pure bloodshed when she’s angry. doesn’t it terrify you?”

“it does not.” he answers calmly. “if there is something wrong, i’m sure she will inform you when she needs to.”

there’s a thick silence before vette speaks up. “you did something, didn’t you?”

“what are you implying, vette?” quinn asks, coldly. he’d at one point gotten somewhat close to vette, at least to not to want to choke her out everytime he saw her, even to the point of conversing like normal people. but it didn’t sound anything like him, as if he were annoyed, or perhaps angry.

like how he’d sounded when he spoke to her.

half apologetic, but fully cold.

“you know exactly what i’m implying. you said something, o-or did something to tri! she really trusts you, and no shit why she’s hiding from us!”

tri'ama gave her credit, she was perceptive. too perceptive some days. “you would accuse me of such a thing?”

vette’s voice is quiet as she mutters something. “we’re not stupid, quinn. she really cares about you, even if she likes to play it off as otherwise. why else would she ignore all of us, if you didn’t have a hand in it?” tri'ama can imagine vette’s lanky form as she crosses her arms, gaze cold. “what really happened on that transponder station, captain?”

it’s quiet. you could cut the tension with a lightsaber, and tri'ama runs a hand through her short blonde hair. willing her hands to stop shaking, she opens the door to her quarters, as all eyes find hers. vette’s closer to quinn than she first assumed, standing directly in front of him in an accusing manner. pierce and jaesa sit on the couch, in various states of confusion and mild suspicion. broonmark is nowhere to be found, but tri'ama figures that’s a good thing. if the talz ever found out, she may send quinn home to dromound kaas in a body bag.

“tri!” vette exclaims. she’s trying to hide her obvious elation at seeing who she respects as an older sister and mentor, before giving a murderous glance to quinn. “you’re alright!”

“i was fine to begin with, vette.” she responds, cracking a small smile as her twi'lek friend visibly relaxes. “there is…nothing wrong.”

“you look like a woman in mourning.” vette responds, unconvinced as she crosses her arms. “did i wake you? i’m sorry.”

“do not be sorry, vette. i was awake already.” she says. tri'ama’s choosing her words carefully as she sweeps across the room, choosing a seat next to jaesa. she ignores eye contact with quinn, which while to the untrained eye he doesn’t seem bothered by, but to her, she can tell that her actions have ruffled him quite a bit, from the way he holds himself to the way his eyes flicker to her stiff form on the couch. “are you all okay?”

“ready for corellia whenever you are, m'lord.” pierce responds, standing from the couch. “vette was concerned something had happened on the transponder station a few weeks ago.”

“it’s good to see her concerns didn’t hold true.” jaesa says, giving her the wicked smile she’d always recognize her apprentice by. “if that is the case, vette, we have supplies to be restocking.”

vette pauses, opening her mouth to say something else before turning back to tri'ama. “tri, don’t hesitate to call me if he tries anything.” she makes a ‘i’m watching you’ movement towards quinn, who stiffens visibly before stalking after jaesa. pierce has already disappeared into the bowels of the ship, most likely to return to doing what he was prior or preparing for the attack on the bastion.

firmly keeping her eyes lowered, she twiddles her thumbs back and forth in her lap. vette’s right, she does look like a woman in mourning, wearing black greaves and a black tunic with her hair down. she’s not often dressed like this, often enjoying the color red against her pale skin, pale eyes and pale hair. a stark contrast to her natural look, black only makes her look more gaunt than she already is.

she hesitates before his name graces her lips. “quinn, may i speak to you?”

“of course, my lord.” his answer comes quicker than she first expected, a rushed response.

“in private, preferably.” he follows her into her quarters as she sits on her bed, made since earlier in the morning. she’s not sure where to begin once he steps inside, just moments ago wishing one of them would go away.

“my lord, i have my resignation prepared. i just need the word.”

her head snaps up to her captain. resignation? he was planning on resigning from his post here on the fury? “resignation? quinn-”

“if my presence offends you, my lord, i would not hesitate to leave. what i did was unforgivable, and you gave me mercy just allowing me to live.” she tensing again, the fabric of her tunic balled up in her fists. “i would not continue hurting the woman..the woman i love.”

“quinn, you would hurt me more by leaving.” the words leave her lips before she can take them back, and he seems shocked for a moment. “i grant mercy to those i care about, and you happen to be one of them.” standing, its a long few feet before she can stare up at him, those colbalt blue eyes boring into her soul. her arms go around him quicker than she wanted, collapsing into him as her emotions take over, tears falling down her face as she buries her head into his chest. “please don’t leave me, quinn. i couldn’t bear it!”

things are unsaid, but he hugs her back just as tightly. “if you will have me for that much longer, i shall not, my lord.”

she’s so absolutely compromised, but right then she doesn’t care. or she does, but buries it through her tears. quinn holds her as long as she cries, and they don’t talk, eventually moving to her bed. for a fleeting moment, she’s afraid that if she let’s go of the back of his uniform, he’ll run. that it’ll finally be too much for him, too much to deal with her and her emotions.

“please, do not ever do such a thing again. i have never loved, and i have already almost lost you.” she responds, wiping away a tear as they continue falling. “quinn, i do not know what i would do without you.”

“then do not believe it. i apologize my lord, it never should’ve come down to my loyalty against yours and baras’” he responds, quieter and softer than he’s ever spoken to her. he brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, “i can assure you, this will never happen again. my life will be dedicated to you from here on forward.”

she raises her head to his, pausing only for a moment before crashing their lips together. it’s rough, as was their first kiss because tri'ama wasn’t expecting it, but the passion that they expel is almost overbearing. she’s still crying, but not out of betrayal anymore, but for the love she has for this man. for a moment, he hesitates, but allows her to do so, pressing back with the same amount of force, as she tangles her hands in his hair.

when they pull away, she’s breathing hard but still tangled in his embrace. “i deny your resignation request, malavai.”

he doesn’t look disappointed in the slightest, even giving her a soft smile that graces his usually hardened features. “i understand, tri'ama.” and she given yet another kiss that she can only describe as euphoric.

-

#swtor #swtor oc #oc #original character #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #fanfiction #star wars the old republic #tri'ama amarillis-quinn #emperor's wrath #female sith warrior #malavai quinn #quinncident #female sith warrior/malavai quinn

[whitesilverandmercury]

helloooo! c: i'm here with a fic prompt: otayuri, tattoo parlour AU where one of them (you can choose!) is getting a tattoo for the first time. you can do whatever you want with that. PS: DON'T CALL YOUR WRITING SHIT OK YOU ARE SO SO WONDERFUL AND I LOVE IT?? AND YOU?? so much. too much. you're rad, okay. take care of yourself and take your time. ♥♥♥ have a wonderful day!

fic prompts ☆ fuck me up here

disclaimers: don’towna/n: ahhh omgthis is such a cute idea and as soon as i read it i was like yessss ok let’s do this.also, you’re too sweet, and thank you for yelling at me bc sometimes it justneeds to happen, thank friend

59°N, 30° E.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“You changed your mind at the last minute. I thought you wanted a Rosa … uh.”

“Rosecrucian.”

“Rosecrucian sun and moon on the top of your foot.”

“Yes, and I’m getting that one next time.”

“Remember this is permanent — ”

“Beka,” Yurii snaps, and Otabek does not rear back but he pauses, cutting Yurii a glance without lifting his head as he finds his favorite grip on his tattoo gun.

He sits comfortably on his artist’s stool to the right of the leather-cushioned table,feet planted wide apart, holes in the knees of his jeans and holes in hisshirt, the openings of his sleeves slit down past his ribs. A few of his owntattoos peek through, dance across firm, flickering muscle and tan skin.Deadpan, almost sarcastically, he gives his station’s footswitch a little pressof the toe, the gun buzzes as if to reply, Yes?

“I know it’s permanent,” Yurii says, lying on his back withlegs drawn up and heels planted on the edge of the table. He wiggles hisfingers, right arm outstretched on the adjustable rest, cool air ticklish onthe spot where the stencil’s been peeled off — the inner forearm, just belowthe bend of his elbow, sweet soft skin, shaved and sterilized.  

Otabek frowns at the arrangement of inks on his tray. “Yourcousin is going to hate me for this.”

“He already hates you.”

Otabek’s eyes flicker up, dark and penetrative in a hoveringsort of way. “Ah, chto-chto?” hemumbles, brows dimpling gently as if he forces them not to knit together forappearances’ sake. “Nu, pochemu?” Comeagain? Why?

Yurii hides a tiny smile behind his free hand, where he runshis thumbnail along the ridge of his teeth anxiously. He loves it when Otabekslips into Russian, usually when surprised, when frustrated, when excited, whenhe is being particularly romantic. It’s kneejerk; he hasn’t been in the U.S. aslong as Yurii. It keeps Yurii on his toes, keeps him sharp. Makes him blush.Feels pleasantly sneaky, no one knows what they say and no one gets to know what they say — exceptprobably Georgi, one of the other artists in the shop — and of course Victor,at home, but he only sometimes forgets not to rattle off in Russian when his fiancéis around — or, well, if he’s scolding Yurii —

“Potomu chto,” Yuriimumbles against his knuckles. Because.Otabek snaps his tongue against the back of his teeth; he recognizes the impishglow on Yurii’s face.

“Because we’re involved?” he mutters below a sigh, dippingink and scooting closer with a rattle of the wheels on his rolling stool.

“‘Dating’ is a cuter word than ‘involved.’”

“Do I look like I enjoy cute words?” Otabek leans in, onehand stretched in a firm L to holdsoft skin flat and even as he takes the needle to stencil. Yurii chokes back agasp not from the pain — not really — but from surprise. He clenches his otherfist so as not to move suddenly, instinct begging he give Otabek a pointed look.

“No warning?” he grunts.

“Oye, I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine,” Yurii says through a tight sigh. He needs torelax; his arm is already tingling from holding it so stiff with anticipation.But it’s probably for the better, like getting a shot at the doctor’s. Nowarning, get it done with. And the skin is sensitive, defenseless unlike driver’stans or hard-working palms, feels like a million little flu shots stabbing overand over, and over again. Not too bad, but the needle’s got a definite nip —

“Breathe,” Otabek murmurs without even looking up, his headlow and that one dark tuft of hair falling almost across one brow. Broadshoulders hunched, mouth in the thin line of concentration. Breathe, he says, and Yurii blushesbecause this has happened before. Not the tattoo — no, it’s his first — butOtabek, hovering over him, beside him, whispering Breathe because he knows Yurii is denying a discomfort just un-mildenough to be distracting, a needle pulsing at his skin or the first time theyhad real sex —

Yurii clears his throat. “I’m okay,” he promises.  

There are a few minutes as silence as he lets himself getaccustomed to the feel. “Stop tapping your foot,” Otabek mumbles. Yurii stops. “Stopmaking a fist, relax your arm,” Otabek grunts next. Yurii obeys. He lets out aslow breath and goes back to the conversation from earlier that is not yetover:

“You look like the type of guy who pretends he doesn’t enjoycute words but secretly enjoys cute words.”

Otabek casts him a quick look of submission at odds with thefirm frown on his face. It is his version of pouting.

Yurii smiles a little, a gentle laugh with no sound. “I’mkidding,” he reassures. His fingers are starting to tingle, out there at theend of the armrest. “Victor doesn’t hate you. He just likes to play mama bearsometimes.”

Otabek issues a friendly little scoff as he dips his needlein black ink; the sound comes out something more like a dissatisfied grunt.

“Also,” Yurii says, “I hate being up late at night andoverhearing him and Yuuri have sex, so I think he owes me.”

“Oh my God … ” Otabek sighs again, exasperated, but theghost of a smile haunts his mouth.

The shop is noisy but not loud; up front, the door opens andcloses with a gentle ringing of chimes now and again. Laughter echoes from apartitioned work station off to the left. To the right, one of the artists — JJ— is on the phone with his girlfriend. Georgi preps for a girl in a yellowsundress getting something on her ankle. Under the cool, dim lights of theshop, the walls dance with in-house sketches and paintings, little posters forlocal new age stores, book exchanges, music venues. Weird wall hangings likecherubs or gargoyles that look like they belong more in a French boudoir or aVenetian palazzo sit right next to things like a vintage drive-in sci-fi movie.The cute little receptionist with the snaggle tooth and two-toned hair singsalong to the music —

“So you hear them doing it, hmm?”

Yurii’s arm is going numb for the pressure of Otabek’s handsand the restriction of blood flow, stretched out to the side as it is. Thepinpricks in his hand almost match the pinpricks of the tattoo itself. He sendsOtabek a little glance. It’s been a good twenty minutes or more, and back onthat topic? Otabek does not usually talk while he works. Yurii knows; he’s hungaround during enough of his shifts to know that. “Not all the time. Once ortwice.”

“So next time I come over, we should be very loud, then,huh?”

Yurii chokes on a breath that was meant to be a laugh or ascoff or something in between. Below his free arm, thrown across his forehead,he shoots Otabek a look; Otabek peers back at him from his seat to the left ofthe table, unbothered. He’s not even playing off Yurii’s mischievous side. Heis absolutely serious.

With a stutter of the heart that Yurii knows means he’sgoing to be blushing in a breath or two, he gives a roll of the eyes andgrumbles, “They couldn’t handle it.”

“Says the tiger who becomes a mewling kitten when he hitsthe sheets.”  

“Holy shi — Beka, tikho,oh my God — ”

Otabek chuckles, leaning back with a creak of his rollingchair. Gently, he swipes away the last bit of blood and ink. “Done,” hedeclares. “I’m going to put a clear wrap on it, and in a few hours … ”

“I know, Otabek. I’ve seen you do it a million times. I stillhave your Bacitracin in the bathroom.”  

Squeak of clear bandaging, rip of tape. Yurii sits up on oneelbow to look, nervous but excited, and so very ready to move his arm and getblood flowing again.

Simple and clean at the top of his inner forearm, neat, unassumingand crisp: 59° 57’ N, 30°18’ E.

“Not so bad?” Otabek asks, meaning the pain. “Eh, it’s asmall one. Just black lines, really.” He pauses, frowning at the fresh tattoo.Fine, minimalistic line of numbers. 59°57’ N, 30° 18’ E. He raises his browsslowly. “Chto znachat nomery?”

What do the numbers mean?

“Gde my poznakomilic’s drug drugom.”

It’s where we first met each other.

Otabek gives him a funny look, scrunch of the nose andflicker of dark eyes. “Ne ponimayu,”he grunts. Don’t understand.

Yurii frowns, face heating faintly. Maybe he said it wrong.“V Peterburge,” he says, and now hereally does blush as Otabek takes him by the wrist to turn his arm gently toand fro, examining the numbers. “They’re coordinates. Longitude and latitudefor St. Petersburg. Where we met.”

Otabek’s dark eyes swerve up to find his again, wide andintent, and somehow slightly vulnerable as if he does not know what to think orsay.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters, low, below his breath. He isbristled, his blue latex gloves still on, fingertips dusted in black like thecrumpled up paper towel on his tray. He just sits there, slouched forward onhis leather-seated stool, elbows on his knees — is he blushing, too? Yurii can’ttell. It’s always so hard to tell. He thinks he can figure it out, though, whenOtabek gets flustered enough to get that sweet, lovely pinch to his face, thatdefenseless light in his eyes. Finally, he clears his throat, leans backand begins peeling off his gloves. “I cannot believe you just suckered me intodoing a sappy tattoo like that.”

Yurii lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.He swings up and around to sit, carefully, letting his sore arm rest along onethigh. The place where the needle had been burns in a weird, buzzing way, ghostof the sensation and tender skin. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry I ruined your edgystyle with something so cheesy — ”  

Otabek reaches out and grabs the edge of the tattoo table,dragging himself forward on the rolling stool until he is between Yurii’s knees,looking up at him from below.

“I didn’t say cheesy,” he husks, and God, Yurii is so weakfor that look he’s giving him — the look that as rule of thumb always precedes … well, at the least a good make-out. He blushes, furiously, and struggles tohide it, but the meaning cuts deeper into him, burrows its way into his heartfor good. There is already something to Otabek giving him his first tattoo —maybe not kosher by artist superstitions, but —

Otabek cranes up for a kiss; Yurii is startled back intofocus but hurries to meet him halfway, bounce of the ponytail at the top of hislittle blond halfback, creak of the rolling stool as Otabek leans in. Quick,harmless, brush of tongue, subtle graze of teeth. Yup. Rule of thumb.

“You like it?” Otabek whispers in Russian, once his mouth isno longer busy, though he still leans forth against the table, head cocked backto look up at Yurii as Yurii leans down to bump his forehead with his nose likea lazy cat looking for attention.

“Da,” Yuriiwhispers back, “I really love it.”

Otabek smiles, because he is the type of guy who pretends hedoesn’t like cute things when in reality he loves cute things. And it’s not just the tattoo he means, it’s a jobwell done with the ink and it’s the meaning of the numbers and it’s the wayYurii does that little grin with his tongue between his teeth, running hisfingers through Otabek’s hair — it’s all of that, he means all of that as hesays, “Good. I like it, too.”

end.

#yoi fic #otayuri #fic prompts #ily friend #au prompt