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chena-h · 2 years

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It’s more than a feeling. It’s you.

Genre: Fiction, Slice of life, Short story

Word Count: 2.4K+ words

Synopsis: Vernon rushes through school and work to plan a surprise for her dearest friend, Phoebe.

Vernon fixed her eyes on the clock, wishing she could command the flow of time with her stare. The bell rang shortly thereafter. She quickly got on her feet, moving much like a man on a mission. She zipped out of her class, yanked her bike from the lot, and sped to her job with an enthusiasm she didn’t believe she could possess. The shift proved uneventful, as it always did. She hardly bothered looking her manager in the eye as she collected her pay. The old fart peered over his newspaper as Vernon crossed the parking lot, checking over her shoulder before entering and promptly exiting a discount store. The girl shoved the spoils of her trip well into her backpack and went off, vanishing over the horizon.

Old, dusty work boots clomped down the street as she ran out of the garage to the front of the townhouse. Vernon stopped along the steps, leaning against the handrail to catch her breath. Despite herself, she reached for her phone rather than her keys. Her forehead wrinkled upon seeing no response to her text. With a shrug of her shoulders she set her worries aside, grasped her keys and ventured into her apartment. She tried to soothe her nerves by insisting to herself that it wasn’t a big deal; she’d pulled some strings, bought herself some time. With any luck, she’d hear back well before either of her fathers could drag her into one of their horrible, nauseatingly tedious borefests.

After dropping her boots into the basket, Vernon paused. Her nose crinkled at the overwhelming stench of artificial lavender. Her dark, jaded eyes combed over the scene. The floor looked positively immaculate; the furniture in their living room was well beyond pristine. The kitchen appeared as though it had been prepared for a home owner’s digest. Vernon grimaced at the dining table, unnerved by the clarity of her reflection. Everything about the state of the apartment served to morph her hope into a desperate faith. Her plan needed to work. It just had to.

Vernon left her bag on one of the kitchen chairs. She strolled over to the hallway closet, carefully prying the sparkling doors open (really pulled out all the stops, didn’t they she thought). Vernon sat on her haunches, looming over a sea of cardboard boxes. She tipped the lids, eyeing each of their contents keenly until she found what she’d been looking for. With expert caution, she withdrew a long, narrow wooden box and gently placed it on the kitchen table. Vernon then continued to walk around the rooms, gathering supplies - her crafting mat, a few brushes, her watercolors, glitter, a set of thank you cards from her father’s office (not like these would ever see the light of day she assured herself), and the bottle of rose gold metallic ink she’d bought the weekend before.

With her tools spread out across the table, Vernon began to practice her strokes. She hesitated at first. It had been years since she’d written with a brush. Much to her relief, it didn’t take long for her muscle memory to return. Vernon studied her sample cards with a meticulous eye. She held each one up to the light, evaluating the sheen of the ink. Having made her decision, she pulled out her final card from her bag. Using her free hand, Vernon splayed the card flat against the table. After a few deep breaths, she dipped her brush into the inkwell, cleaned off the excess, and wrote with a deft hand.

The muffled sounds of a rowdy yet happy-go-lucky ringtone began to blare from her backpack. Vernon leaned over, flipping her phone open to read the message.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ K cool see u there ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

The ends of her lips curled upwards. It was just as she’d hoped. Vernon punched in a number. With roguish glee, she raised the phone to her ear, eager to grace her fathers with the bad news about their dinner plans.

***

The late afternoon sun began its descent, casting the plaza in a warm glow. The shadows of the palm trees stretched far across the mall’s parking lot. Vernon sat with her back to the fountain. She rocked on her heels for a bit, elbows resting on her knees. Her hands trembled as she clutched the phone in her hands. She’d traded her signature outfit for something a little more de rigueur as her fathers would have said (at least, relatively speaking). She’d even gone to the trouble of attempting to reign her cluster of cowlicks and split ends into something approaching a presentable hairstyle. Sallow cheeks tinged a faint pink as she shook her head in disbelief. The lengths she’d taken for the occasion were a bit outside her realm of comfort, but, for her, it was all but necessary. While she waited, Vernon entertained herself with thoughts of how the rest of the day could go. Before she could finish carving out a scenario in her head, a loud and cheerful voice bellowed her lovingly crude nickname from afar.

“VERMIN~!”

The churlish butch looked up. Phoebe - or Ferbie, as she insisted on being called when they first met - her spry, effervescent partner-in-crime waved her arm in a joyous frenzy. Rich, brown ribbons of hair bounced around her face as she sprinted towards Vernon. Phoebe came dressed in her favorite outfit: her pair of dirty white sneakers, a set of baggy, sunbleached overalls worn over a pink ringer bearing the print of a smiling grapefruit with sunglasses riding a rainbow wave. Phoebe slid beside Vernon, draping herself over the girl's shoulders. “Gotcha!” she bragged, accentuating her embrace with a tight squeeze.The two swayed back and forth.

“You sure did,” Vernon said, turning away to cover her bashful grin. She rubbed her wrist, her fingers pulling at the bracelets Phoebe made for her several summers ago. Turning back to face her, Vernon tipped her head back. “You ready, partner?”

“Uh, yeah! Always,” Phoebe replied gleefully. She pulled back slightly, lips puckered as she made a face. One Vernon knew all too well. She waited as Phoebe’s bright, sparkling eyes examined her from top to bottom. “Hmm,” she hummed, “What’s with all the, uh…,” Phoebe paused, waving her hand in Vernon’s general direction, “What’s with all this?”

Vernon waggled her eyebrows, awarding her friend’s curiosity with a cryptic smile. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she answered wryly.

“Hmm–” Phoebe repeated. She leaned forward, bringing her face closer until they were mere inches apart. Her eyes narrowed as her stare intensified, cheeks puffed out in a facetious pout. After a few seconds, Phoebe nodded conclusively. “You look good. I’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will. Now, let’s go.” Vernon smacked her knee, rising to her feet with gusto. Phoebe followed suit, keeping one arm slung over Vernon’s shoulders as they stepped through the doors of the mall.

***

Vernon returned from the cafe, carrying their regular set of drinks – a plain iced coffee for herself and a technicolor, overly sweet monstrosity topped with whip cream, syrup, and sprinkles for Phoebe.

Soft, impatient hands took a break from banging a beat on the table to reach for the sugary concoction. “So,” Phoebe drawled, “Theater competition, huh?" She stirred her straw slowly, watching as the layers of color blended together.

Vernon knowingly rolled her eyes. “Don't get me started,” she grumbled. “Can’t believe I got dragged into another one of these damn things.” She took a long sip, stealing a quick glance over her shoulder while Phoebe wasn’t looking.

“Hm. Yeah. What a shame.” Behind steepled fingers, her smile turned devilish. “Is this gonna be anything like the first one?”

Vernon groaned, wiping her hands down her face. “God, I hope not.”

"Where's it at?" Phoebe pressed as she dipped her finger into her mound of whip cream.

Vernon gazed at the ceiling, biting her lower lip in feigned concentration. "I think they said Jackson."

Phoebe’s hands flapped in excitement. "When is it happening?"

Vernon shook her head then went for another sip of her coffee. "Nope. Nuh uh. That's all you're getting out of me, Ferb."

"Aw, come on?! No way!” Phoebe leaned back into her chair, crossing her arms and frowning.”I didn't get to go to the last one,” she whined. “Jerk."

Vernon waved her off. "Deal with it. Besides, you would just sit there trying to make me corpse the whole time."

"But that’s part of the fun, Verm!” she giggled. “Anyways, I’ve seen you on stage before. You don't need my help choking."

"Piss off.” Vernon ducked her head once more to hide her smile. “You'll just have to contend yourself with this rehearsal, okay?"

Phoebe rolled her eyes dramatically. "Fine, fine. Whatever you say, partner."

Relieved to have put an end to her line of questions, Vernon nodded. She dug into her bag, then dangled an oversized print out of a crown across the table. "Here. Put this on."

Phoebe’s eyes widened as she examined the prop. "Ooh! Fancy.” She daintily opened the crown, then gently placed it on her head. The band sat still for a few seconds before sliding down over her eyes. “Oh! Uh, Vermin, I think this one's a little too big."

"That's precisely the point, Ferb. The role calls for it. Now, keep it over your eyes. Close them, too, if you would be so kind."

Phoebe’s eyes narrowed as her lower lip jutted out in suspicion."O-kay. Is this–"

"A vital, central aspect of your character’s design?” Vernon interjected. “Why yes,” she paused to adjust the fit of her crown, “How did you know?"

Phoebe couldn’t help chuckling. "Pfft. And that was totally, 1000% what I was gonna ask you.” She took one last sip of her shake before pushing it aside. “Alrighty then. Anything else you need from me, Mr. Director?"

Now that Phoebe’s eyes were closed, Vernon rose to her feet. "Just sit there, and wait until you hear my cue - Oh, and no peeking. "

"Okie dokie!” she beamed. Confusion pinched her brows together one last time. “Wait a sec, if my character has no lines, why do y–"

"Ferb, think of this as me working on my stage fright."

"Hm...Ok.” She snapped her fingers to convey her understanding. “Got it."

Vernon held back a sigh of relief. She snuck another glance behind her. The act was just about ready to start. Her now clammy fingers tapped the sides of her thighs. Vernon steadied herself with a few quiet breaths. "Alright. Three, two, one."

With a pace that matched the quick rhythm of her heartbeat, Vernon reached the cafe before the servers could shout her name again. The tray wobbled in her hands as she returned to their table. She jerked her head back to keep her crown from falling forward. Once at the table, Vernon set the tray down almost silently. She stole a glance at Phoebe as she reached down for her bag. The girl had taken to swaying in her seat, slapping the beat from before on her thighs. Vernon stared a little longer than she intended before refocusing on the task at hand. With careful hands, she placed the card on one side of the tray. Then, she quietly stuck a candle in the center of the dessert. Lastly, she held her lighter over the candle, flicking the spark wheel a few times until the flame held. She watched with pleasure as the wick caught on fire.

Vernon raised her eyes. Phoebe had stilled, hands folded together while she twiddled her thumbs. Vernon sat down and began her recitation, her voice flowing with a rich tenderness. “To me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first you eye I ey’d, such seems your beauty still.” She paused, watching fondly as a smile brightened Phoebe’s face. “You can look now.”

As if to avoid rushing the moment, Phoebe slowly pushed the crown back up. She blinked until her vision came into focus. Her eyes widened in a combination of surprise, disbelief and wonder. The first thing to grab her attention was the cake - small, white, dusted with coconut flakes and topped with fruits as well as spirals of meringue. A lone, neon pink candle burned at the center. Phoebe rushed to meet Vernon’s gaze, a question in her eyes.

“Aren’t you going to make a wish?,” Vernon whispered softly. “The wax will melt into your cake if you wait too long.”

“Yeah, right…” Phoebe breathed. Her round eyes shone wistfully. A short, quick breath put the flame out. Phoebe turned her focus to the card, raising it delicately to her face. She turned the card between her fingers, marvelling at the glitter that lined the rose petals painted on the front and back. Phoebe graciously opened the card, almost as though she feared damaging the spine. Her eyes moistened as she read the handwritten note. She drew the card closer to her face, tilting it repeatedly to watch the ink catch the light. She looked up to find Vernon watching her with a cautious, yet caring smile.

“Happy birthday, Ferbie.” Vernon said, her voice hushed so only Phoebe could hear it.

The girl flew out of her seat, card in hand, and rushed to the other end of the table. She bounced on her heels, hands slapping the front of her thighs.

Vernon stared up in bemusement. “Wh–”

“Get up!” Phoebe commanded.

“What for?”

“Okay, okay, okay, nevermind. Push your chair back, then.” Phoebe’s hand flaps grew restless. “Hurry up, push it back!”

“Alright, alright, I’m pushing. Take it easy.” The instant Vernon brought her hands down, Phoebe hopped onto her lap, wrapping both arms around her neck and squeezing tightly. Overwhelmed with joy, Phoebe raised her head and screeched, rocking them both from side to side, kicking her feet.

Vernon, cheeks now thoroughly flushed, turned away and laughed. “What? Did you think I’d forget?”

Phoebe gave her another tight, but affectionate squeeze. “I love you, you big jerk!” she squealed, brushing her cheek against Vernon’s head, making a thorough mess of her hair.

Vernon closed her eyes, savoring the success of her plan. While Phoebe remained in her lap, eating her cake and gushing over the card, Vernon checked her back pocket. The tension in her shoulders eased as her fingers graced the pair of tickets she’d printed in advance. Vernon wrapped an arm around Phoebe’s waist and sighed contently. While she doubted her friend could ever fully come to know it, Vernon hoped this gave her a glimpse into the depths of her love, and all that she meant to her.

***

Bronze eyes reel me in

Fire springs from your mouth, dancing

As you sing off key

It’s customary to give this a name

I guess I’d like to call you

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#chena fic #original writing #short story #slice of life #creative writing #writeblr #original work #my ocs #chena's donutsteelz

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psitrend · 4 years

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Interview with tattoo artist Chen Jie

New Post has been published on https://china-underground.com/2020/05/12/interview-with-tattoo-artist-chen-jie/

Interview with tattoo artist Chen Jie

Chen Jie is a tattoo artist that creates intricate watercolor tattoos that look like real ink brush paintings.

Chen Jie is a tattoo artist that established Chen Jie Newtattoo Studio tattoo workshop in 2005. The stunning beauty and distinct details features of her works, which look like a brush ink painting, made her became popular on Instagram, with followers from all over the world. Chen Jie has become an internationally well-known tattoo artist that attracted many overseas clients to China due to her style, which had incorporated traditional Chinese aesthetics. She paints elements of Asian culture and old art into her tattoo artworks given than a watercolor style effect. The effect of the gentle touch of ink brushes instead is made with tattoos needles on the skin by the professional and accurate hand of Chen Jie that works with great precision. In 2017, Chen collaborated with Nike on their The Force is Female campaign which celebrated the strong women shaping their culture and inspiring their communities. She runs her own boutique studio at Sanlitun, where she is turning bodies into living canvases.

Related articles: Zhuo Dan Ting, China’s Queen of Tattoos, 90+ Chinese tattoo symbols with images and meanings, Interview with Heng Yue, tattoo artist

on Facebook | Instagram

Do you remember when you ﬁrst saw a tattoo that fascinated you? When and how did you realize you wanted to become a tattoo artist?

I remember seeing a picture of a tattoo on Angelina Jolie’s arm in a magazine that particularly struck me. Ah, ah, being a tattoo artist it was quite an unexpected thing. One of my tattoo artists (and who later taught me to tattoo) once said to me: “You can try to be a tattoo artist.”. I just bite the bullet and made up my mind in 2004. I didn’t realize that I had become an artist. I prefer to consider myself an artisan. There are too many great artists around the world who are too young to be artists, I really don’t deserve it.

Who inspired you as an artist and what is your aesthetic philosophy?

My tattoo artist became my teacher and said I might have a gift for this, and I could give it a try. When I learned the art of tattooing, I realized that nobody in China did tattoos of this style. I said to myself, why not? Chinese paintings are so beautiful. So I tried to make ink tattoos following the Chinese style.

Later I was recognized by everyone.

Traditional Chinese art and calligraphy are the biggest inspirations in her art. She use the body as a canvas, allowing people to have a unique piece of art that nobody will ever take away from them.

Can you tell us about your experience with the ﬁrst tattoo?

I was very nervous … Fortunately, I had many friends who trusted me and were willing to get a tattoo on their skin.

Doing watercolors on the body and paper is essentially the same, on paper, you need to dilute the ink to get lighter colors and achieve that faded effect. It’s the same on the skin.” – Chen Jie

When we take a serious look at tattoos, we can see how much emotion and wisdom the tattoo artist has devoted to its artwork. She is a tattoo artist, that strives for excellence in her customers’ tattoos.

Do you remember the ﬁrst person you tattooed? What did you tattoo?

I approached the world of tattoos in 2004, and I did the first tattoo on the skin in 2005. I remember the first tattoo: a six-character mantra in the Tibetan language. And as for my first client, it was too long ago.

What was the relationship with tattoos in China when you started working as a tattoo artist. What were the biggest difﬁculties you encountered?

I started in 2005, so early enough. Tattoos were not very popular at the time (I’m a woman, and it was even worse for me). In the past, in fact, there were many negative prejudices. With the development and subsequent opening of the country, and innovations in the themes, everything has changed.

Nowadays, many bring their parents to have the same tattoo done.

Her tattoo that are turning traditional watercolor paintings into skin art is gaining popularity in China, due to her unique, simple and distinct art style. Chen Jie’s watercolor tattoos look like real paintings.

Can you share some stories with us that touched you emotionally about someone who asked you for a tattoo?

There are too many. Many foreigners came to get tattoos and trust you. It was moving, since some people lost their love wanted some commemorative designs related to their relationship. Others wished to remember a place where they had lived. There really are many.

For regular tattoos, you have first to outline and then fill in the colors, but Chinese watercolor tattoos don’t have outlines. You have to ink it slowly, bit by bit from the bottom to top.” – Chen Jie

What has changed in the relationship with tattoos in China nowadays, since you started? Do you think there are still prejudices and taboos about tattoos in China?

Maybe my style can convince many people who don’t want to have tattoos and have prejudices about them. What I do are mostly Chinese paintings with more ink and wash, floral, or bird-themed elements… Therefore, I had won many girls’ love.

There are fewer and fewer taboos and prejudices about tattoos, which may have something to do with pattern types as well.

You create intricate watercolor tattoos that look like real paintings with incredible precision. What are the differences in making traditional tattoos?

I like the traditional Chinese painting style and I think it is beautiful, it is the expression of artistic conception. The technique and method of application are a little different, but they are not difficult to achieve.

Many tattoo artists are good, but much depends on the themes and aesthetics, and also on the experience.

Beijing based tattoo artist Chen Jie makes traditional Chinese landscapes, still-life paintings, and portraits.

What is the strangest thing you’ve been asked to tattoo?

Nothing weird, just something personal, but all good.

Compared to conventional styles, Chen Jie’s watercolor tattoos require greater precision and different techniques. The process for creating her watercolor and ink brush tattoos requires two types of guns: one that acts as a pen to draw the bold lines and another to act as a paintbrush injecting faded colors.

What differences did you notice in the course of your activity regarding the requests for tattoos between Westerners and Orientals, women and/or men (body parts to be tattooed, motivations, subjects of tattoos, ages, etc …)?

Perhaps boys prefer more tough patterns. Compared to women, western countries are more open to tattoo culture, therefore the places chosen are more exposed.

Since it is still developing in the East, or at least still in the stage of being accepted by the public, there are countless employees, doctors, teachers, police officers and other professionals who cannot have tattoos on exposed parts. (On Instagram there is a graphic that shows how most of my customers are women between 25 and 40 years old).

You can always bring with yourself one of her piece of art since is indelible on your skin. Tattoos are the only painting, that you can bring with you, even into the grave

Photos courtesy of Chen Jie and Newtattoo Studio

#ChineseTattooArtist, #Tattoos

#chinese tattoo artist #tattoos

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peablesart · 3 years

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tried a new watercolor brush and the dry ink on csp and you know what..... not bad

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hansoulo · 3 years

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whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett fic #boba fett oneshot #boba fett imagine

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kater1n · 3 years

Text

Soulstain

Author’s Note: This fic is inspired by @sarcastich’s soulmate!AU prompt here and is dedicated to @starkerdestroyedmylifee as my first follower on Tumblr. I hope you both like it!

Warnings: accidental voyeurism, story typical violence, minor character death

You can also read it on AO3.

Peter doesn’t notice until he’s washing up and some of the splatters won’t come off. They’re small, faint, and look just like the acrylic paint he’s been using all afternoon. It’s not unusual for him to have rainbow flecks up his arms, ink between his fingers, charcoal smudges on his nose. Your stereotypical artist. But these won’t come off no matter how hard he scrubs.

Peter drops the nail brush in the utility sink, stunned.

It’s soulstain.

He’s only seen it on other people. You only get it after you’ve met your soulmate. Some people never get it at all. These splatters, whatever they are, belong to someone else. It means that the water still dripping down Peter’s hands is on someone else’s hands, too, right now, somewhere in the world.

“May!” Peter yells, voice cracking on the vowel.

He can’t believe this is happening. Peter doesn’t even know who it is or when it happened and he’s so excited right now that he might pass out.

May runs into the makeshift art studio they converted from the apartment’s laundry room. Her hair is half up, makeup partially on. She’s getting ready for another twelve hour graveyard shift at the hospital. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Look!” Peter shoves his hands in her face.

She takes an exasperated step back. “What am I looking at?”

“They’re not mine.” Peter breathes, lowering his arms to inspect the splatters again. They’re red, but soulstain always appears muted. Peter can’t decide if the color is more ruby or scarlet. He touches one of them tentatively. It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s just there. Existing.

Wow.

“Really?” May bends forward, squinting behind her glasses. “That’s not paint?”

“N-no. At least, it’s not mine. Maybe they’re an artist too?”

And wouldn’t that be something. Peter tries to imagine it, working all day next to someone, side by side, in this cramped little room while they create beautiful things together. Playfully flicking a watercolor brush at them and then darting away. Drawing lopsided hearts on their cheek with the leftover charcoal on his fingers.

Peter’s chest squeezes. He wants that. He wants that so bad.

May squeals and pulls him into a hug, dancing them around in circles. Peter laughs and pushes her away. He’s still wearing his apron and it’s always a mess after a session.

“I’ll get paint all over you.”

“I don’t care. This is so exciting!” May cups his cheek in one of her hands. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I don’t even know who it is.”

And he really doesn’t. No idea. It has to be someone he met today, but they could have just passed each other on the street when he went out to buy coffee. Over eight million people live in New York. It could be anyone.

May plucks a paintbrush from the bucket of clean water next to the utility sink. She presents it to him like a queen bestowing a sword to a knight. “Use this and ask.”

Tony hates blood. It’s sticky and hard to get out of your clothes and it smells. Usually he leaves extraction to Natasha, but she was unavailable. In Tokyo to deal with some Yakuza. So Tony had to get his own hands dirty.

The man strapped to the chair in front of him groans, head hanging limply against his chest. Blood and other fluids drip down to swirl into the rusted metal drain built into the concrete floor. Tony’s lip curls and he turns away.

“Take care of that.” He says to no one in particular, waving a dismissive hand. It’s not his problem any more. Someone else can deal with it. He doesn’t care who.

Pepper offers a rag when he exits the room. It’s damp. “And? Did you find out who stole the shipment?”

Tony wipes his hands clean as he walks, the sound of Pepper’s stilettos following him down the hall. “Justin Hammer, as we suspected.”

“He must be getting desperate to go this far. Do you want me to arrange a meet?”

“No.” Tony shakes his head, tossing the dirty rag on the ground. Housekeeping will find it later. “That’ll just tip him off.”

Pepper delicately steps over it without a word as Tony stabs the button to call the elevator. It dings open immediately. “So what’s our next move?”

“We make an example of him. I don’t want more shits like Hammer getting any ideas. It’s time to remind this city what it means when you fuck with the Merchant of Death.” Tony leans back against the elevator walls. They’re lined in velvet.

“Penthouse, sir?” JARVIS asks over the intercom. “My scans detect biological matter on your suit.”

Pepper answers for him. “Yes, thank you, JARVIS.”

Tony closes his eyes and listens to the elevator music on the ride up. It’s an instrumental cover of AC/DC’s Dirty Deeds. Tension radiates from his shoulders the whole way.

“I’ll wait for you here, shall I?” Pepper says when they arrive at the penthouse, taking a seat on the half-moon couch. Her laptop is already open and on and she begins typing without waiting for a response.

Tony stalks off to the bathroom. The shower is running and the room is full of steam when he enters. A fresh towel is folded on the counter next to a sweating glass of whiskey. Pepper really is worth the millions he pays her.

He strips and throws the whiskey back in one shot. The liquid burns down his throat, scrubbing him clean from the inside. He steps into the shower and lets the scalding water also burn him. Eyes closed, the water sprays directly onto his face, through his hair, and down across the scars crisscrossing his spine. A satisfied rumble vibrates in his chest.

Tony needed this. Next time he’ll just wait for Nat to come home. He’s never had a taste for hitting someone who can’t hit back. It feels dirty. Even if it is necessary sometimes.

He only notices the message when he pours soap into his hand. The words are small and carefully painted down the length of his forearm in neat cursive.

Hi, I’m Peter Parker. Who are you?

Tony blinks water out of his eyes and stares. This cannot be happening. He’s too old for this shit.

Pepper’s mouth falls open when he storms back into the living room, naked and dripping all over the marble foyer. Modesty is the last thing Tony is concerned with right now. She’s seen worse.

“Pepper,” He barks, “Find out who Peter Parker is immediately.”

Peter obsessively checks his arm the rest of the day. The only sign of his soulmate had been the rivulets of water that sluiced over his entire body right after he wrote the message, an echo of a shower. Peter watched in rapt fascination and bated breath, waiting for a response that never came.

He eventually forced himself to sleep, trying not to think about what the silence might mean. Hoping he’ll wake up to something.

He doesn’t.

In the morning his arm only contains the remnants of his own words. They flaked away during the night, littering his bedsheets with indigo paint chips. Peter swallows his disappointment. It’s bitter and tastes like rejection.

Maybe he should write a new one. Maybe they didn’t see it. Maybe-

Peter stops anxiously ringing his hands together in his lap. The sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window highlights a dark shadow on his knuckles. It’s mottled purple. Bruised. Peter rubs his thumb over the knuckle of his pointer finger, where the discoloration is the worst.

His soulmate is not an artist like him, then. That wasn’t paint sprayed up his arm yesterday. It was blood. His soulmate punched someone. Repeatedly, for their knuckles to look like this.

The concept should scare him, but it doesn’t. Not even a little. Peter just wishes he could help. It probably hurts.

The kid paints ice cubes across his knuckles. Tony watches them appear, one by one, while his hand grips the steering wheel of his Audi e-tron. They’re misshapen and partially melted. Realistic. He tries not to find it cute.

Pepper produced a file on Peter Parker late last night with only a confused frown. An adult by law but really just a kid, living in Queens with his aunt. Their age gap is laughable. It’s larger than Peter has been alive. And according to the file, he’s a good kid. The best. Impeccable grades with an even more impeccable community service record. An art prodigy.

Tony won’t go near that with a ten foot pole. Not even he’s that messed up. Tony would ruin him.

So he did the only sensible thing any man could. He locked the file in his safe, swore Pepper to secrecy on what little she knew, and drowned himself in whiskey. Covered the question on his arm and tried to forget Peter Parker’s pretty face. It mostly worked. Once Tony finally passed out.

He has nothing to show for it this morning, except for a foul mood and a fouler headache.

Something starts to form above the ice cubes, along his middle metacarpal. It’s an impression of lips, full and gently pursed into a kiss. As if to take the pain away from the bruising. Tony nearly swerves into oncoming traffic.

This kid is going to kill him.

He flips an illegal U-turn, ignoring the cacophony of angry horns. His meeting with Rhodey can wait. He needs to invest in a pair of gloves. Now.

It’s been two months. Every day Peter sends something new, nothing long, just a tiny snippet. He mixes up the placement and the media. Sometimes it’s a watercolor mandala on his thigh with a few encouraging words in the center like have a good day or thinking of you. Sometimes it’s ink doodles between his fingers, stick figures waving hello or shooting stars trailing behind make a wish.

And every day it’s the same. No response. Silence.

Peter eats a bit less, strains to smile a bit more, and perseveres. He has to. There must be a reason why they’re silent. Even if it hurts, even if Peter doesn’t understand it and his heart is a little broken, they’re soulmates and Peter has to remind them that he’s here. He’s not going away. He won’t.

He’s currently sitting on the bathroom counter in nothing but his boxers, painting a bouquet of wildflowers on the bottoms of his feet. They’re pressed together in the basin of the sink while Peter works. The stems run along the arches and broaden into blooms across his toes. The brush tickles, just a bit, and Peter struggles not to squirm. He’s meticulous, methodical. Doesn’t let himself think that this gift will probably go unanswered too. Because gifts should be freely given without expectation.

He’s so engrossed in the painting, humming a tuneless song to himself, that he doesn’t notice the soulstain until movement in the vanity’s reflection catches his eye. A movement that’s not his. Peter pauses mid-brushstroke and glances up. There’s a shadow of a hand sliding up his bicep, and then another gripping onto his waist.

Oh, no-

More soulstain appears. First a mouth and then what looks like teeth, nipping at the skin below his collarbone. Peter’s palms darken as his soulmate touches the other person back.

No, no, no-

The wood handle of his favorite paintbrush snaps in half. The broken pieces clatter into the sink basin, next to his feet still covered in wildflowers.

The mouth slides lower, leaving a trail of coral lipstick, and bites again. And again. Hickeys slowly bloom across Peter’s chest. His eyes sting as he watches each appear. He can’t look away.

Please, no-

The hands caress everything in their path, leaving behind residue of a clear substance on Peter’s skin. Slipping lower and lower while all Peter can do is watch in mute horror. Until the shadows disappear beneath his boxers. Until that mouth is probably tasting Peter’s soulmate right now.

He whines, high and distressed. Shattered. He finally squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to know.

He’s not sure how long he sits there. How long he waits for it to be over. He’s terrified of opening his eyes too soon and seeing it again. At least May is working another graveyard shift. If she found him, if she saw him like this, begging under his breath for it to stop-

Peter opens his eyes. The hands are gone. Only the hickeys remain as a reminder that it happened at all.

Relief washes over him, quickly followed by a wave of white hot fury. It floods his veins, straightens his spine. His jaw clenches so tight that it aches. Peter swipes a shaking hand over the bottoms of his feet, smearing the wildflowers as he coats his fingers in the oily paint. He drags it across his chest, over and over until he’s covered in a muddled mess of colors like a tragic Monet.

Then Peter finally let’s himself cry.

The messages stop. Tony shouldn’t miss them, shouldn’t want them back. But god help him, he does. They were the one spec of brightness in the never ending darkness of Tony’s life.

Sure, he might have taken them for granted at first. Hid them away under layers of clothing. Tried to pretend he didn’t secretly covet each one in the privacy of his bed at night and think about the person on the other end. Busied himself with publicly destroying Justin Hammer and anyone else associated with Hammer’s pathetic gang (it didn’t take long; Natasha and Pepper are nothing if not efficient). When it was over, when Hammer sniveled and swore retribution, Tony drank so much that he couldn’t think anything at all.

And then the messages stopped.

Tony knows why. Knows what he did. Knows exactly what fucking someone else would do to someone like Peter Parker. And he did it anyway. Did it on purpose.

Tony didn’t think he would regret it this much.

Peter picks at his food while MJ and Ned chat about college. Ned no longer has classes on Fridays (something about Professor Vanko disappearing a few months ago without notice and his university couldn’t find a replacement) and MJ is home for the weekend from MIT. They unceremoniously kidnapped him for dim sum the moment MJ arrived back in town.

“How’s the showcase coming along, Peter?” Ned asks around a mouthful of pork bun, shoving an elbow into MJ’s side when she mutters gross.

“Ok, I guess. It’s taking longer than I would have wanted.” Peter hasn’t been happy with any of his pieces lately. They’re not coming out right. They feel stagnant and stale and uninspired.

MJ tilts her head. “Isn’t it only a few months away?”

“I can’t wait!” Ned grins when Peter nods. There’s something green in his teeth, like a piece of bok choy or seaweed. MJ points it out with a grimace before Peter can warn him. Ned flushes and uses the camera on his phone like a mirror to remove it with a fingernail.

“May gave us advanced tickets. She said the gallery is already sold out.” MJ casually stirs her matcha milk tea with a compostable straw, swirling the yellow boba at the bottom into a miniature whirpool. “She also said she has an extra.”

Peter’s lungs constrict. He hasn’t told them, so he attempts to play it off. “May might bring a date.”

MJ stares. Her gaze is flat. Damn. He clears his throat nervously and maintains eye contact. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this.

And then her eyes widen, shifting diagonal on his face. Ned sees it too. He quickly snaps a photo with his phone and shows the screen to Peter.

“What the heck is that?”

It’s blood. Dark and fresh, oozing from a gash that’s just split open along the top of his left cheekbone.

“I-it’s nothing.” Peter stammers, jolting out of his chair. “I have to g-go.”

He ignores their protests as he runs out of the restaurant.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. He’s noticed other injuries before. Like the bruises on his knuckles. Or the faded scars crisscrossing his back. Those were the worst. Most of the time they’re small, nothing serious. But the injuries occur often enough that Peter suspects his soulmate has questionable hobbies, a dangerous job, or both. And May’s a nurse. He knows what a graze from a bullet looks like.

Heart pounding, Peter ducks into an empty alleyway. He strips down to his briefs behind a dumpster, mindlessly tossing his clothes onto the ground so he can inspect the rest of his body.

Nothing. There’s nothing else. Thank god.

Peter’s knees are like jello. He’s been angry and jealous and confused but-

It appears so suddenly that Peter swears he can actually feel it. A hole punches through the front of his abdomen and out the back. It immediately erupts with blood, cascading down his hips and dripping off his knee like a crimson waterfall. Peter moans in alarm and covers the wound with both hands as if he can stop the bleeding.

For a moment Peter’s not sure what else to do. He just stands there, frozen and hyperventilating. Useless. His mind is vacant with panic. Then the blood begins to flow through his fingers and Peter realizes his soulmate must be holding the wound, now, too.

It spurs Peter back into action. He grapples with his jacket on the ground, frantically rummaging in the inside pocket to pull out the mini sketch pad that he takes with him everywhere in case he’s struck by inspiration. Attached to it is a ballpoint pen. His fingers tremble so violently that he can’t remove the cap, so he rips it off with his teeth.

The ink skitters and jumps across his skin in his haste to write, inconsistently flowing from the nib. There’s at least enough to form mostly legible words on the back of his hand.

Where R U?

Peter’s tries to keep his expectations low. They might already be on their way to the hospital. They might not even be conscious anymore. At least Peter knows they’re still alive. Soulstain disappears when you’re dead.

So he waits.

And waits.

Almost ten minutes pass before the first letter appears on Peter’s stomach, bloated and painted in his soulmate’s blood. It takes almost five more for the message to be finished. A location.

The breath Peter’s been holding surges out in a dizzying whoosh.

Peter is prettier than the photo in Tony’s file. He’s flushed and sweaty and real as he bursts through the back door of the pub that Tony is hiding in. His eyes are frantic until they settle on him, collapsed on the sticky parquet floor. Tony’s back is resting against the bar counter, suit jacket and white dress shirt hanging open over his chest. He holds a half empty bottle of Tullamore DEW in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.

If Peter is shocked to learn that his soulmate is both a man and a much older one at that, it doesn’t show on his face. He drops to his knees by Tony’s side, breathing heavily from exertion. “What happened?”

Tony’s wry isn’t it obvious earns him an unamused frown. Even that expression is attractive. Tony likes how the corners of his lips pull down and his nose crinkles. Despite his best effort, all it took was one minute in this kid’s presence for Tony to be summarily charmed.

Without asking for permission, Peter lifts up a corner of the bar rag that Tony doused in vodka and pressed against his abdomen. He winces at the sight of the jagged hole, even though Tony knows he’s already seen a mirror of it on his own body. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

Tony snorts and Peter’s frown deepens. His eyes are a warm, doe brown, reflecting sparks of gold when they catch the dim light leaking in through the boarded up windows. Tony turns away and knocks back a long pull from the whiskey bottle. It sloshes in his unsteady grip and some of it spills down into his neatly trimmed beard. Tony tells himself it’s the blood loss making him lightheaded.

“Ok, no police.” Peter mutters, replacing the rag over the wound. “What do you want me to do?”

Tony wants to invent a time machine and prevent this clusterfuck of a day from ever happening. Wants to jump Ivan Vanko before he jumped them. Wants to forget the memory of Maria Hill’s dead body crumpled in the street where he left her.

“Do you have a phone?” Tony asks instead. His is broken. It took the bullet meant for his heart.

“Um, yeah.” Peter digs a flip phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. They’re ripped at the knee and discolored with what looks like old paint. “Here.”

Tony dials Pepper’s number while puffing on his cigar. The smoke tastes like hickory and clove and adrenaline. She picks up on the third ring.

“Who the hell is this?”

Tony rolls his eyes. She must be terrified. She never swears.

“Relax, Nagatha Christie. I’m fine.” Tony pointedly ignores Peter mouthing you don’t look fine. “Come get me.”

He hangs up and texts her the address with instructions to bring Helen Cho, thumbs leaving bloody fingerprints on the keyboard. He thinks about wiping it off before handing it back to Peter, but decides it’s not worth the effort. He’ll buy him a new one. That brick dinosaur should have died in the Cretaceous Period.

“Make yourself comfortable. The cavalry will be here soon.”

Peter cautiously slides into position next to him on the floor until his legs are straight and pressed into the flesh of Tony’s thigh. His cheeks are flushed an adorable shade of pink.

Fuck it.

Tony slings an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. His smaller frame fits perfectly against Tony’s side, like a puzzle piece slotting home. Slowly, carefully, Peter rests his head on Tony’s bare chest, right over his heart. He sighs happily and Tony shivers.

They sit quietly together for a time, comforted by the sound of their own breathing. Tony lets his mind wander, as it often does. It doesn’t take him long to conclude that he will never let Peter go. He knows when to admit defeat. It feels a lot like love.

Peter’s curls tickle as he cranes his neck to look up at Tony’s face. “Who are you?”

Tony leans down to whisper his name against Peter’s lips.

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #mafia!avengers #artist!au #artist!peter #mafia!tony #starker fic #soulmate!au

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descendantofthesparrow · 3 years

Text

Soulmate au! tattoos - Harry Hook x Reader - Oneshot

Small spin on two soulmate au ideas that got sent in, name tattooed somewhere on the body and whatever is drawn on the skin shows up on the other, and im including tattoos (except those don’t disappear so if your soulmate get a tattoo you get one too and unless you get it removed it's there to stay)

soulmate au ideas from anon and @harryhasmehooked

tattoo designs/ideas borrowed from @kindofchaoticgood

Everyone was born with their soulmates name tattooed somewhere on their body, on their wrist, on their collarbone, on the back of the neck, anywhere really. Another thing was that whatever your soulmate had something written or drawn on their arm, it would show up on your body as well.

Many soulmates found each other by communicating with a pen and writing their information on their skin, others liked to make it a hunt and only give hints to their soulmate.

Then there were the tattoos. and not the ones that one was born with. The ones that someone got willingly inked onto their body.

If someone got a tattoo, that same tattoo would appear on their soulmate's body, but unlike when they simply wrote on their arm with a pen, it wouldn’t disappear unless they got it removed.

Sometimes, people gushed over their soulmate's tattoo and proudly wore them, others hid their tattoos away in fear they would be judged.

Usually, the ones who hid their tattoos either had a good reason to hide them or were just ashamed of their soulmate's choice of art.

You weren’t one of those people.

Around the time you were 11 or 12, small temporary tattoos began to appear on your skin, first just little inked ones that would easily wash off, but soon little stick and poke tattoos started to appear, they would fade after a while but they were cute and you retouched them on your own when you could. Some were little music notes, others resembled constellations, and one, which was your favorite, was a small hook nestled in the crook of your palm.

The first “real” tattoo showed up several months after the first poke and stick tattoos, your cousin had joked about how cliche it was and your soulmate must be a pirate or something, a skull with crossed swords on the right side of your chest.

Your parents had pretty much freaked out, you only being 12 and already having a tattoo but you brushed it off and admired it every day, writing on your arm to ask your soulmate where and how they had gotten the tattoo.

Unfortunately, you had never gotten a response.

The next tattoo to appear, on the left side of your chest this time, was a ship sailing into the horizon. Again you asked them where and how they had gotten the tattoo, along with asking the name of the ship, once again there was no response.

Only a week later a new tattoo showed up, this time on the inside of your left arm, written in slight cursive were the words “No grave can hold me down” you had traced the words the entire night into the next morning.

Soon after that, another tattoo showed up, this one on the back of your left hand, depicting three swords crossing their blades.

Your cousins always teased you about how pirate-like your soulmate's tattoos were, but you laughed at the slight irony of it since your soulmate might have been a pirate after all.

Considering their last name was “Hook” it was a pretty good chance that they had followed their dad's footsteps.

“Harry Hook” a name that drifted through your dreams, you always imagined what they would be like, hopefully, nothing like James hook.

It was years before a new tattoo showed up, when you were 16 and attending Auradon prep, after King Ben had invited four villain kids to Auradon, curling black inked words on the inside of your right arm ‘death before disloyalty’. You had no clue what it meant, but it clearly had a deeper meaning.

Throughout the years you had no luck in attempting to contact your ‘Harry Hook’, you had either sent a simple ‘hi’ or a small little note mentioning one of the tattoos. It was always no response. Though you got little notes from them that were rare and never had anything to do with what you sent him. Just little ‘hello’s and asking your name, but every time you responded, nothing came back.

you had mentioned it to Evie, who was in your art class, who said that because of the barrier, it prevented soulmate magic as well, meaning Harry hadn’t ever seen your little notes and didn’t even have your name tattooed on him somewhere.

Evie was also the only one who knew of your soulmate's name that was willing to tell you about him, being the least…biased against her fellow vk. Mal, Jay, and Carlos all seemed to have some sort of grudge against him and always badmouthed him when the topic of Harry came up.

Though thanks to Evie and her thankfully amazing art skills, she had depicted Harry for you, she had said it wasn’t perfect since she was more of a concept artist than one who practiced realism, that was more Mal’s thing, but you could tell she was just being modest.

Black fluffy hair, ocean blue eyes always lined with liner, plump lips that Evie said were always in a sharp smirk, a jaw that could cut someone. He was perfect, and you hoped you could meet him soon.

Three months after the vks had come to Auradon, a new tattoo appeared; this time of a solid black anchor on your right forearm. You traced it constantly with your finger, wondering what this one meant, just as you did with every tattoo appearance.

Soon after that, a swallow appeared just above the crook of your right elbow, and a lioness with a language you couldn’t speak written under it appearing on your left wrist.

Then a watercolor lily on the side of your right forearm, then constellations started to appear on your back, you had Evie take a picture each time one appeared, smiling as yours appeared among them (star sign, like Virgo or Capricorn)

Around April, another tattoo appeared, again on your right forearm, this time of a treble clef symbol with a series of notes within the loops. You wondered what the song was, humming it under your breath as you tapped out the notes on whatever surface your hand was resting on.

It was several months later before another tattoo appeared, and it was the most beautiful one yet. Swirling turquoise tentacles curled around and down your right arm, starting from your right shoulder and ending just below your elbow.

You had started wearing sleeveless tops more often, wanting everyone to see the masterpiece that was curled around your arm.

Once you turned 18 you started to decorate your skin as well, your first being a watercolor compass on your left bicep that melted into waves as it drew away from the middle.

Next, you got one with a moon theme on the back of your neck just below your hairline, reaching down your neck and connecting with the constellations on your back.

After that you got a skeleton hand on your right hand, then the map of Neverland on your thigh, then the north star on your ankle.

You were almost covered in tattoos, to which some people gaped and gasped, but you paid them no mind, your tattoos were your only connection to your soulmate and you couldn’t wait for the day that he would finally see your combined works.

Harry didn’t know if he had a soulmate or not, the barrier prevented any type of communication through writing on their skin or their names being tattooed on their body.

So Harry had gone his entire life without knowing the name of his, possibly non-existent, soulmate, and no matter how many times he had tried to talk to them, there was never any response.

He always did wonder though, if he had a soulmate, what they thought of his tattoos. Did they like them? Did they wear them proudly? Did they hide them? Did they get them removed? He would probably never know.

Until one day, only a couple days after the four traitors had invited four new vks, he was outside of the barrier.

The blank spots on his skin bloomed to life, a watercolor compass on his left bicep, a skeleton hand on his right hand, Gil told him about the moon tattoo on the back of his neck, the tingle of magic on his thigh and ankle told him there were new tattoos there was well.

He stared at the new tattoos, smiling slightly at the realization that he did have a soulmate. His smile dipped a bit as his left wrist started to burn slightly, and he ripped away the old bandage that covered his scar from years ago, eyes widening as the curving letters of his soulmates started to appear.

‘(y/n) (l/n)’

Harry stared at the name, not realizing everyone was moving towards Auradon till Gil gently pushed at his shoulder to get him to move “oh” Harry muttered, catching up with Uma and smirking as she stared at the large tattoo sleeve on his right arm.

“you are such a dork” she snorted, pushing at his arm and looking at his hand “didn’t think you were one to get a skeleton tattoo”

Harry just held up his left wrist with a grin “Oh holy shit!” Uma laughed, grabbing onto his hand and examining the name “(y/n) huh?...nice name” Mal yelled at them to catch up, making Uma glare at the girl. “hold your pants princess were dealing with some shit back here!”

Uma and Harry shared a look ‘we’ll talk about this later’ and followed after the other vks, Uma continuing to poke and prod at Harry's new tattoos.

Harry stood awkwardly in a quiet corner at Mal and Ben's engagement party as everyone else danced in the middle of the large garden. He swirled the pink lemonade in the small glass cup and took a careful sip. He let a small smile grow on his face as Gil and Uma spun around on the dance floor.

He glanced down at his left wrist, flexing it a bit as his soulmate's name shined lightly in the sunlight. He let out a sigh and took another sip of his drink, he had no idea where his soulmate was, they could be anywhere really, in Auradon, or maybe on the other side of the world.

“I like your tattoos” a voice spoke from beside him, and Harry glanced at them for a moment before looking back at the dance floor.

“Thank yeh” he muttered back, pausing as he went to take another sip of his drink. He whirled back around, eyes widening as he really looked at the person who had complimented him.

They were covered in tattoos, ones that matched his exactly, on their right arm were turquoise tentacles, an anchor, a swallow in flight, a watercolor lily, a treble clef with music notes, and…his name on the inside of your wrist. “Harry Hook…right?” you asked nervously, tapping your foot against the ground.

Harry looked down at his wrist again and looked back at you “aye…(y/n) (l/n)?” he asked softly, smiling as you grinned and nodded.

“That would be me, it's nice to finally meet you Harry” you held out your hand, your grin widening as Harry eagerly took it. “Come on, let's talk”

“Okay,” Harry muttered, sharing a smile with Uma and Gil as they pointed at your tattoos with wide grins “let's talk.”

You tugged Harry out of the garden party, your hands tightly intertwined. Just below your intertwined hands at the wrists, the tattooed names glowed for a moment then shimmered to a shining, just visible, gold color.

A symbol that one's soulmate had been found.

-end-

another short but sweet oneshot! probably didnt make complete sense but im just wanting to get back into writing since ive been feeling a bit of a block with my main stories, so if anybody else has anymore soulmate au ideas send em in.

permtaglist

@queer-cosette @sephiralorange

@lunanight2012 @daughter-of-the-stars11

@musicarose @remembered-license

@random-thoughts-003 @verboetoperee

@rintheemolion @jatp-rules-my-life

@thecaptainsgingersnap @imtryingthisout

#Descendents #descendants #disney descendants #harry hook #harry hook descendants #harry hook x reader #harry hook imagine #soulmate au #tattoos

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