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writeblrfantasy · 3 years

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excerpt from a council of golden swords: tattooed cairic king

planned this scene weeks ago, forgot about it, enjoyed writing it immensely. poor kayani, they're so in love

anyway i hope you love this as much as i loved writing it, acogs has been kicking my ass this week and this was a nice battle won

Asma crosses her arms. “Take off your shirt.”

Kayani chokes on their own saliva. “What?”

“I’m going to paint you. Take off your shirt.”

Kayani stares at her, open mouthed, a thousand indignities resting on their lips. Asma taps her foot, paintbrush held between two fingers, frowning impatiently. No excuse, no argument, no plea will ever sway her. She is unmovable.

Kayani stares at the floor and loosens the laces of their shirt before whipping it off. They ball it up and stand there holding it until she snatches it from them and tosses it on the sofa. “Sit on the stool,” she says, “and for Cai’s sake, stop looking so stiff. Actually look like you want to be here. You don’t even have to smile. Just look a little less queasy.”

Queasy for a different reason, Kayani thinks, but obediently sits on the wooden stool in the center of the red, blue, and gold room. The yearly trip west, spent in close quarters with almost all of the Cairic army, has driven the modesty out of them, but everything is different with Asma.

She sits on the ottoman and drags her easel closer to her, a tray of paint pools sitting beside her on the sofa. The easel legs scraping against the floor makes Kayani startle. “Relax,” she orders in a tone that’s anything but relaxing.

Kayani folds their hands and tries not to slouch. The hairs that itch when they fall into their eyes will be the least of their worries over the next few hours. Why else would Asma paint them shirtless if not just to torment them?

Once Asma has everything apparently set up to her standard, she looks up and rakes her eyes over Kayani’s torso. Her breath hitches. “You have so many tattoos. I forgot you would.” Her voice disturbs the quiet of the room, breaking a sacred peace, or however peaceful the two of them alone can get.

“Isn’t that why you wanted to paint me shirtless?” Kayani asks. “Why else would you?”

She hides her face behind the canvas and doesn’t bother with an answer. Kayani prepares for a long set of hours filled with waiting, an aching back, and keeping their walls firmly up.

After ten minutes of silence, Asma working quietly, she asks, “What does that one on your chest mean?”

Kayani resists the urge to look down and earn themself their first don’t move, idiot. They could trace the lines of the * in the darkness, in their sleep. “The death of my mother.”

She gasps. “You got tattooed when you were just a child?”

They shrug. “I’ve known some babies who got tattooed after birth because of a difficult or scary pregnancy, complications that should’ve killed them. Parents, too. We use our tattoos to cope with many things, many emotions, but prominently grief. For many people, the experience itself of sitting there for ten hours while a needle pokes into your skin—it helps.”

“By enduring pain?” Asma asks.

Kayani shrugs. “Some people find solace in pain. It’s something real they can grip onto.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Asma says, peering out from over the canvas. “It isn’t.”

Kayani’s eyes drift to the tattoo on her forearm, she follows their gaze and pulls her sleeve down. Kayani remembers it all too painfully well—her poorly stifled tears and cries while getting it, their own desire to comfort her squashed by the hatred in her eyes. It’s their fault she has it.

“What about that one?” she asks, gesturing to the wings covering their shoulders.

“Are you asking because you’re genuinely curious,” Kayani asks, “or just trying to fill the air?” They want to poke further into her reasoning, but they don’t want her to change her mind and throw them out. Alone time with Asma is bliss as much as it’s torture, and they’ll take every last bit of it.

“I got the wings one year after becoming king,” Kayani says. “To celebrate not being assassinated.”

She snorts. “Get better guards.”

“I am my own best guard besides Ajar and Samad. I didn’t want to trust anyone else. The palace guards on rotation can only do so much against an assassin hired by someone who was angry I became king and not my sister.”

Asma rolls her eyes, the soft strokes of her brush soothing to listen to against the faint chatter of birds. “And the one on your back?”

“You’re not painting that one. You can’t even see it right now.”

“Answer the question, dimwit.”

Kayani grins. As much as they love to nag Nikolai about being attracted to the ones who seemingly want nothing to do with you, they’re no less guilty. “I got the first part done after I survived the Trials.” After healing up upon their return, they went straight to the royal tattoo artist. They knew exactly what they wanted: Ajar and Samad standing side by side, blue eyes pointed to the moon.

The two of them are right outside—if Kayani’s quiet, they can hear them scratching at the door—but an ache for them runs through their chest regardless. Sometimes they’re convinced the three of them share a soul.

“I would’ve gotten the outlining done before I left for the Trials for good luck and gotten it filled in after I came back, but I didn’t want to deal with unnecessary pain. I got the second part added on after I came back from my first trip west with the army. That time, I did do it in two halves for good luck, like many of my soldiers.”

Going to get those outlines and later the full lines done with their soldiers had been one of the most rewarding experiences of their life. Sitting beside ten others in a salon, all laughing or grimacing or telling stories to work through the pain reminded them that they could still mix with normal people. Winning the Trials didn’t make them special in the soldiers’ eyes, and Kayani liked it that way.

Their second back tattoo consisted of a light brown stag leaping across the center of their back, over the dogs. “Each trip after was another add on.” They’ve since added a grassy field for the stag and the dogs to rest in, stars for the moon, flowers and sparkles in a mix of reds and browns.

“Your entire body will be covered by the time you die,” Asma says.

“That’s the goal.”

As the hours go by, Asma asks, and this? What about this? That one? What are the ones I can’t see? Kayani answers her every question, shares every story, every memory. They don’t tell her about the one on the back of their ankle, small enough to miss. A golden paintbrush.

Finally, when the sun is halfway to setting and Kayani’s lower half has gone numb, Asma announces she’s done. Kayani wobbles to their feet toward the canvas, but she picks it up before they can see it. They sigh quietly but don’t question it—until she turns around.

She’s painted them in a background more heavily red than the wallpaper behind them. It brings out the red in Kayani’s tattoos, which are obviously the star of her painting. The edges of Kayani’s muscles are blurred, but the lines of the tattoos are as clear and sharp as they are on their skin. Their eyes are halfway open, tired, and Asma captured their faint smile at something she said, maybe some memory that took them away.

The sun from the glass wall behind them drips golden light onto light brown skin, a glowing backdrop for the tattoos. Kayani sat with their left forearm up, right hand holding that wrist, but Asma painted the opposite to hide the tattoo there.

Kayani has never had the eye for beautiful artwork, nor the time to study why people devote their lives to it, but this makes them reconsider. Not because it’s them, of course, they’re not that vain. Because it’s Asma.

“I will call it ‘Tattooed Cairic King’,” Asma says. Kayani can’t take their eyes off her nonchalant expression, the casual way her fingers grip the canvas. She completed this in a day and she acts like she’s holding a piece of cheap furniture. Doesn’t she know all of her artwork will be studied meticulously after her death merely because she’s a queen?

Not just because she’s a queen, Kayani thinks. Because she’s an incredible artist. They wish they had the courage to say so, but knowing Asma, she’d make some crack about their narcissism.

“Where are you going to hang that one?” they ask. “Which guest room or dining hall or office will get the pleasure of seeing my tattoos?

She fixes them with a look. “My suite wall.”

The floor seems to swim under them.

“I thought you hated me,” they manage. “As you pointed out, last time we were together you told me to never come into your sight again.” They gesture to the canvas. “I think that violates your rule.”

For once, Asma’s silence seems to be because of her loss of words, not dramatic pause or the bother of answering a question. “It’s some of my finest work,” she settles on. “I’d like to admire it often. Let people admire it when I’m dead.” She closes her eyes and runs her finger along the top of the canvas. “Also, I’d like to do your back sometime."

“What?” Kayani sputters.

“Oh, come on. If you can survive a needle pricking your skin for ten hours, you can survive sitting still for another six.”

That’s not the problem, Kayani thinks, but only nods. Cai have mercy.

kayani being shook by asma's ability to Art is me @ all the talented artists here yall rock

also if you noticed the tsoa inspiration for "and this?" then props to u

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog @chazzawrites @pen-of-roses

#writing #writeblr #excerpt from my wip #my wip #my writing #fantasy #fantasy writing #fantasy romance #lgbt romance writing #lgbt writing #lila's wips: acogs #bean's excerpts

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dragunjk · 5 years

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we're artists, baby | kth

→ synopsis ; taehyung was incredibly, unbelievably talented in any medium you could offer him. y/n ? she couldn't draw a stick figure if she tried.

→ word count ; 2011

→ genre ; fluff ?? angst if u squint ?? idk

→ pairing ; street artist!taehyung x art hoe!reader

→ a/n ; this is for my MF BOYFRIEND TAEHYUNG’S BIRTHDAY bc he's the love of my life my angel my world and he deserves nothing less than the mf best okay okay ik it's late don't BULLY me

There are worse things in the world, Y/n believes. Having your life turned into a Law and Order SVU would be worse, of course. Hoseok could be inviting her over to blindly set her up with another one of his endearing friends who she would much rather be good friends with.

That would definitely be worse.

Unfortunately, Y/n can't help but feel a bit self conscious. How couldn't she, when a masterpiece sat in front of her, nearly taunting her with talent she so greatly wanted to obtain yet couldn't even find in herself. She looked at the mural, an art piece by one anonymous ‘Vante’, the tagging artist that has been taking the internet by storm.

If you ask Y/n, she wasn't jealous. Not at all.

If you ask Namjoon, he could tell you about the nights where Y/n got a little bit too tipsy and poured her heart out about her insecurities and jealousy swimming for the artist she didn't know.

Y/n gazed at the piece again, wrapping her arms around herself due to the sudden chill. Cocking her head, she tried to put the piece together. Hues of yellows and golds sprouted from a detailed portrait of a young child, tall against the blacks and grays sprouting from two parent figures.

What did it mean-

“Y/n, come on we're gonna be late.” Hoseok hummed, shivering at the wind that was picking up. Nodding, Y/n comfortably grasped his hand, letting him maneuver through the large crowd around the new art piece. “You think this movie is gonna be good? People think it's gonna be shitty.” Hoseok turned towards Y/n, who seemed lost in her own thoughts.

“Earth to Y/n-”

Y/n flinched at his loud tone. “Huh- sorry.” She ducked her head sheepishly, and Hoseok hummed, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “It just- how does someone have that much talent? It isn't fair-”

“Stop- You have talent in other places. I’ve never heard someone with a voice like yours, now-” Hoseok tugged Y/n into the movie theater. “-we came here to have a good time.” Smiling brightly at Y/n, she couldn't help but mimic it, as he led her through the crowd. “I hope Aquaman is good, I just want to watch a good DC movie, you know?”

Y/n couldn't help but laugh at her friend’s distress, forgetting about her worries even if it was for a moment.

Yoongi was going to kill him.

Well, kill him, scold him, same thing. But Yoongi doesn't have much room to talk, so Taehyung sneaks out anyway, a backpack filled with spray paint and stencils in tow. Except this time, Jungkook was tagging along for the first time.

One day Taehyung will teach himself not to give into Jungkook’s big doe eyes, but tonight was not that night.

“Hyung- Hyung! Where are we going?” Jungkook whispered, sneaking behind Taehyung with a camera in his hands. Clicking record, the younger man pointed the camera at Taehyung, a little smile on his face as Taehyung shook his head in amusement.

“Kook-ah, I told you not to record this-”

“Hyung why do you hate me.”

A sigh escaped Taehyung’s lips, as they both boarded the last bus at twelve am, the glare of the lights messing with the camera in Jungkook’s hands. “Exclusive interview with the world’s most famous tagging artist, Vante-” Jungkook purposely shoved the camera in Taehyung’s face, causing the elder to laugh and swat him away.

“We're here-” Taehyung hummed, getting off the bus with Jungkook following closely. Approaching Los Angeles’ City Hall, Jungkook gasped.

“You can't paint here, you’ll go to jail-”

Taehyung laughed, pulling out his stencils and placing them properly just before the steps of the building, quirking his eyebrow playfully at Jungkook’s concern. “I’m not afraid of jail.” He stated simply, and Taehyung guesses that was enough for Jungkook, as the younger male found comfort in just recording his work.

It wasn't long before Taehyung was almost done, and Jungkook was actually impressed at how fast his friend could get a piece done. “Wow, hyung-”

Taehyung simply smirked, spraying ‘VANTE’ in sharp, jagged letters.

“Vante?”

Both Jungkook and Taehyung froze, heads rising to meet a pair of eyes that stared back at them. It was a woman, maybe around Taehyung’s age, staring with a mix of awe and surprise. “Oh my god, it's you- Your work is so good! I can't believe-”

Taehyung was quick to stand up, grasping her wrists in his hands to stop her from taking a picture. “Hi, yeah-” Jungkook quickly shut off his camera, gawking at the pair. “-I'm gonna need you to keep this a secret, okay- what do you want, money?” She scoffed, pulling her hands away.

“You don't need to bribe me, I won't tell.” Her eyes shone beneath the dim streetlights. “I would, however, like to be friends with you. I want to know why-” She gestured to the piece before her.

Taehyung hummed. “I can do that.”

She smiled. “I’m Y/n.”

“Taehyung.”

“This is hard-”

A groan escaped Y/n’s lips as she let her head hang, canvas blank as she refused to taint it with her horrid skills. A chuckle escaped Taehyung’s lips as he stood behind her, hands setting on her shoulders as his thumbs rubbed soothing patterns into them. “Just come up with an idea, and bring it to life.” Taehyung hummed.

Y/n scoffed. “Oh, easy for you to say. You're like, the world’s most famous street artist. I can't even draw a straight line.” She groaned, putting the palate aside and setting the brush down. “It doesn't matter how hard you try to teach me. This is the third week, Tae. I’m not going to be good at art.” Y/n mumbled sadly, getting up and throwing herself on Taehyung’s bed.

“You're so dramatic.” He hummed fondly, taking her spot at the easel. Y/n whined in response, shielding her eyes with her arm as she gazed at Taehyung paint. “Maybe art isn't your thing then. But you could be talented in so many other mediums. It just, doesn't have to be something you can see.” Taehyung spoke, strokes of pink coating the canvas with ease. “Like music. Music is an art.” Taehyung finished, and Y/n sat up.

“Yoongi-hyung makes music. He's more of a producer than anything else, but he could rap really well and even carry a little tune. He's filled with musicality. He's still an artist. Or cinematography. Jungkook likes filming and editing things so that the end product is almost like a movie, or a music video. He's an artist too.” Taehyung rambled, eyes never leaving the canvas.

“You don't have to be good at the basic art itself to be an artist.”

Y/n laid in silence, pursing her lips at his words.

“Do you really think so?” Y/n asked after a moment.

Taehyung nodded, and Y/n sighed contently, shifting in his bed to face him. He smiled, that was a much better angle to paint her in.

He looked at the canvas again.

It wasn't too long until Y/n invited Taehyung late over the studio one night, eyes bright with promise. “Okay so, it's really rough but you said art isn't really just paint, and since I’ve seen so much of yours, I want to show you mine.” Y/n hummed, clicking a few buttons before pressing play.

“It's like, kinda a Christmas song because I wrote it recently but-”

A music box seemed to play, and Taehyung quickly closed his eyes, as he often did when Yoongi asked him his opinion on music.

A beat picked up, blending nearly perfectly with the light instrumental of the bells and music box, then a voice flowed in, soulful and sweet. Y/n gazed over at Taehyung as the song played, and she smiled fondly at his state. Eyes closed, head tilted back, a little smile on his face as his fingers danced along to the music.

“Your voice is beautiful-” Y/n ducked her head, and Taehyung smiled, wrapping her up in a hug. “-see? I told you everyone has their little talent. Why worry about something you struggle with when you have such a beautiful talent right here?” Taehyung rested his chin on Y/n’s head, ignoring her protests of ‘stop you sap’ and ‘shut up’.

“Thank you.” Y/n hummed after a few moments of silence, and they pulled away. “Don't you have a mural to put up, Tae? Don't keep your fans waiting.” Y/n hummed, smoothing his jacket over his chest.

“They can wait, I’m here with you.” Y/n flushed at Taehyung’s words, shoving him away slightly.

“Then I’ll come with you, I don't want to waste your time-”

“Ah- you can't come with me. It's supposed to be a surprise to everyone.” Taehyung hummed, smiling slightly. “Even you, Kitten.” He spoke, and Y/n sputtered at the pet name, face heating up quickly. “I knew you’d like it. Now, I’ll go. Don't follow me, I want it to be a surprise.” Taehyung smirked slightly. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, leaving Y/n in silence.

Taehyung left, and Y/n let a sigh escape her lips.

She fell. Fell hard, and Y/n doesn't think she could get out of it.

“Y/n, you have to get up right now-”

Y/n groaned, focus hazy as she pressed the phone to her ear. Waking up to Hoseok screaming in her ear wasn't ideal, but it wasn't like she wasn't used to it. “Hoseok? It's early-”

“Y/n get your cute ass up right now- Vante put up a new piece-”

“Okay I can wait until everyone is gone-”

“Y/n it has you in it.”

If Y/n wasn't awake, she was now. She sat up, eyes widening as she threw her blankets off and slipped on her pink Champion slides. Throwing on her white coat, she brushed her teeth and left, pulling her hoodie over her mess of hair.

“Hobi where is it?” Y/n stepped outside, ignoring the chill on her legs.

“Near the new art museum.”

Y/n hung up quickly, breaking out into a run towards the museum that wasn't too far from her house. It wasn't too long before Y/n was before the museum, out of breath, looking at the piece.

It was her, a replica of when she laid distressed on Taehyung’s bed, lips pursed and eyelashes long. Hues of tans and pinks wove to make her up, the word ‘Kitten’ written in small cursive at the corner of the piece, right beside his usual violent ‘Vante’. A choked laugh escaped her lips as Hoseok approached her, cursing as he tugged off his jacket to wrap it around her bare legs. “Hobi that's me-” Y/n whispered, as Hoseok stood up.

“Yeah, it is. You know Vante, don't you.” Hoseok hummed, and Y/n nodded. Before she could apologize for keeping him in the dark, her phone rang. ‘tae ♥︎’ her phone read, and Y/n sighed, eyes watering.

“Hello?” She answered.

“Do you like it?”

A choked sob escaped her lips, and Hoseok was quick to wrap her in his arms, ignoring the chill on his skin.

“Taehyung, why did you- It's so beautiful I don't deserve it-”

“If you didn't deserve it I wouldn't have made it.” Taehyung hummed, voice rough with lack of sleep. “I wanted to make something for my favorite girl. I figured it's a more creative way to ask you out other than just taking you out to dinner.” He muttered.

Y/n gasped. “Like, be your girlfriend ask me out?” Taehyung laughed softly.

“Like be my girlfriend ask you out, Kitten.”

Y/n sniffled, wiping her eyes. She gazed up at the piece again, and smiled widely, nearly splitting her face. She looked up at Hoseok, who smiled down at her knowingly.

“Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”

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