[ Max's ass is sore. Not entirely a new concept for him but uncomfortable nonetheless. Thankfully Tris had the sense to handle all of Max's tattooing aftercare business before letting him pass out, and while he did wake up to a sheet a bit stuck to the side of his ass, luci's portrait was marvelously intact. The remainder of the morning/early afternoon was spent lying on Tristan's couch, nursing a hangover, and alternating between cursing Tristan's existence and laughing his ass off at himself.
He tattooed a cat to his ass.
He tattooed a cat he hates to his ass.
It was some time around 1pm that he'd finally realized he was missing his phone, when he'd gone searching for it to take a picture of his tragic new art for Instagram. He honestly can't be too mad, especially given that Nic or Grant's humane magic could probably lift the ink out if he wanted (with enough time, annoyance, pain and berating). But this is the kind of bullshit max likes having a reminder of. The cat stays. However, he's really wishing moving wasn't on the table for today, when he slides out of his jeep outside the tattoo shop tris tells him they stumbled into the night before. When he makes his way back in, with considerably more grace than the night before, it's with the loosest sweatpants he could find (they were left behind by Marco), and some kind of tragic, worn graphic tee souvenir from the pyramids at Gaza, sleeves ripped off and armholes stretched low. He's definitely commando under those pants because ow. Tugging sunglasses off his face, max pauses at the unmanned front counter, flipping through a photo book of the shop's work as he calls out to whoever might be in. ]
Hey, I was in last night. The dumbshit with the cat inked to his ass. [ a soft snort to himself. Yes max, this is a new descriptor you, and friends, can use. ] Think I left my phone here.
[The previous night had been an interesting one, the kind of interesting that made Dafydd smile well after the pair had stumbled back out of the shop. Maybe getting a cat tattooed on your ass wasn't the most sensible choice, but it was as cute as Max's ass had been. And had the pair been more sober, Dafydd might have brought up the subject of magic and the fact that he'd been able to feel the demonic energy burning in Max's veins. He hadn't meant to reach out and touch, but he was so used to using his own magic to sooth customers that it happened naturally. That and the fact that he considered demonic users something of a specialty for him. He'd wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure at the time if the second one—Tris, he recalls Max calling him—was aware of it. Though it might have been a nice change to bond with other witches in the area, he'll have to hope for another chance another time.
Which apparently is the next day when he hears a voice that sounds familiar if only because he'd heard so much of it the night before, cursing at the sting of the needles against his ass. It's early enough in the day that he's not expecting walk-ins, and there weren't any scheduled appointments, so he rushes out of the back while swallowing down the bite of sandwich he'd been working on eating.]
Oh, hiya! [He smiles brightly, leaning on his hands against the business side of the counter. Max looks like a guy who got smashed to the level of spontaneous tattoo choices the night before.] Yep, I was gonna trying calling someone but it's locked. Just a mo.
[Riffling through the messy desk, he takes a little longer than necessary considering he knows right where the phone is.] How's your arse feeling? You took it like a champ last night.
[ oh no he's cute. There's a vague memory of the night before, but max knows he can't really trust himself on accurate details, as he tends to go from 'hitting on most people' to 'hitting on absolutely fucking everyone' when drunk. Considering the man had his hands on his ass for the better part of an hour or so, max is pretty much certain he came onto him at least once. But hey, he's adorable, so that works.
As he comes bouncing up with a pep in his step, max can't help the smile he flashes, with a chuckle. ]
Shit, you are Welsh as fuck, I wasn't imagining that.
[ look he does that some times, okay? Once he was convinced a statue in Madrid was a Frenchman. And he was also convinced he knew French. He does not. Watching Day dig around in the drawer, he's not too worried about the man finding the phone quickly either, especially now that they're discussing his ass. ]
You don't have to lie to spare my pride, it's okay, I probably cried like a bitch. [ for as much as max is hailed the meat shield of the group, and spends a lot of his time taking hits, he's a freaking baby about sensitive spot tattoos. Dani has threatened to gag him before. ]
I can't sit without wanting to cry, but hey, look-- [ leaving his sunglasses on the counter, max steps out and around as he tugs down the waistband of his pants (in the middle of the waiting room (again)), to show Day the cat newly printed to the side of his ass. ] --It's turning out pretty nice.
[ as far as cat tattoos go, at least. But it was still nice work and it deserves praise. ]
[His attention snaps up to Max at the comment, but he's grinning a little sheepishly as he nods.] Tragically, even, I know. Happens when you grow up in the Welsh countryside. I've got the funky name and all.
[Even though he tends to pronounce his name more as "David" than "Dafydd" these days, the spelling is still ridiculous enough that he continues to go by his childhood nickname.
Straightening up from the desk, his smile turns into more of a lopsided, knowing smirk.] Yeah alright, you were moaning quite a lot at the start. [Not so much after Day started pumping him full of healing calm, but he doesn't say that out loud.
Eyes widening as Max, once again, pulls down his pants, he bites back a laugh.] Yeah, still a nice arse. Didn't do too bad with that cat, though, did I?
Do you? [ he grins wide, no need to be sheepish, it's cute. ] Let's see it, do you have a business card?
[ maybe he also just wants to get his number. both for future inking and the fact he's adorable as hell and may he's considering trying to tap that before heading out of town again. ]
Isn't that how it always goes... [ he mutters, mock wistfully, because come on, that sentence was asking for it. he'd felt the bit of magical assist, then, and had assumed it was tris at the beginning, but, now that he's thinking of it, he knows the feel of tristan's magic like the back of his hand. being drunk isn't enough to cloud that. huh.
there's a moment that he stands there, with half an ass cheek revealed, as the thought that this dude maybe has some magic in him, and is also coming on to him, mingle together, resulting in a wolfish smirk tugging at his lips. oh, bae. oh, gente welsh bae, we're gonna do this. ]
You're welcome to cop a proper feel, now that I'm present enough to enjoy it.
Somewhere round here, yeah. [A little more digging, this time much more quickly, and he produces a business card. It's the one that he gives out with his personal cellphone number rather than the landline at the shop, mainly if he's keen on being the one to get his hands on a specific design. Or for witches. On the back it says "Dafydd Llewellyn" since his middle name hadn't fit.
Raising an eyebrow, he hands the card over.] Only moaning at that start? Hope you just mean tattoos, mate. Otherwise that's pretty disappointing.
[He blushes at Max's bluntness, just a little bit of red across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Coming out from behind the counter, he tries to think of an excuse to touch but realizes he doesn't need one.] I could make up a line about checking the healing, but it'd be a lie.
[Reaching out a hand, at first he just strokes a finger over the skin surrounding the tattoo. It's a way to poke Max with his magic again, just to make sure that he'd been right. When he feels that boiling hot magic pushing back at him, he grabs a proper handful of Max's ass and gives him a grin.] Knew it.
[Roughly noon the next day, Jules finds herself standing outside his apartment. Blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing a pink and white tartan shirt with threads of yellow laced into the pattern, jean shorts, and sneakers. The tartan shirt buttoned down, but was left open showing her pink tank top. A small stud in her left ear was off put by the long, dangling earring in her right.
She knocked on the apartment door after double checking to make sure she was in the right place. When he answers, he'll be greeted by a bright smile and a casual wave.]
Day, yeah? Jules.
[Her accent was lightly English with some undertone of... something hard to pinpoint.]
[Since Dafydd is expecting her, he'd tidied up his apartment a little. He's not usually that messy, but it would probably boost her confidence in the sterility of his tattoo equipment if he didn't have dirty dishes in the sink. Since he knows he's going to be tattooing and never likes wearing long sleeves while working, he's in a simple white shirt and jeans. He's not one for complex clothes, which is kind of a contrast to all the bright colors people wear in this city. He can usually be coaxed into something more exciting if he isn't just staying around school or his home.
Going to answer the door, he mirrors her smile with an equally bright on of his own.] Yup, that's me. C'min.
[He holds the door wide open for her, shutting it once she's entered. His rather thick Welsh accent will be much more apparent now than it had been over text.] Forgot to ask, have you been tattooed before?
[She steps in and glances around. It was cleaner and far safer than the location of her last tattoos, for sure. It was the fact that she was going to someone she didn't know that worried her more than anything, but he seemed nice.
When he asks, she turns her right arm over and on the inside of her forearm, she bears an amplifying tattoo.]
Got a couple. [Jules points behind her, over her shoulder, with her thumb.] One between my shoulders, too. I picked them up in my home town. I was... young. [The more she talks, the more he'll notice she seems to lightly tap-roll her "r"s, flatten her "a"s, and lightly--very lightly--put a soft "d" before her "th" words.] It was not this nice. And the person holding the gun wasn't nearly so friendly.
[Hopefully the recommendation from Grant was enough to sooth her worries. He'd put ink in both twins, and they were alright, right? Worst case scenario, she walks away with some good-looking but non-magical tattoos. But he hasn't had a problem with that before.
Stepping closer to get a look, he whistles lowly.] Them's some thin lines. All those circles and arrows, I'm guessing amplification?
[He wrinkles his nose when she mentions being young. Not that it was all that uncommon to tattoo magical children, but he didn't agree with the practice. If you couldn't consent to it yourself, someone else shouldn't be allowed to.
And thought he can hear the difference in her English, he keeps it to himself. He's been teased enough for his accent that he doesn't want to draw attention to hers, even if it would be to say it's charming.] Well, then I'm confident in saying I can give you a better experience. To start, care for a cup of something? Or something to eat, if you haven't, to get your blood sugar up.
[The twins' recommendations were his ticket to her business. She trusted them like she trusted her own brothers on the important matters. She just isn't the best with strangers, but has no doubt in his abilities.
Even if she did have reservations about his skill, his identification of her tattoo would alleviate those. Jules' lips quirk into a slight smirk.]
Sounds like I'm in the right place. Amplification.
[If she could hear his thoughts about young tattooing rights, she'd agree. She didn't appreciate being tattooed against her will, but she was too young to know better.] I think you might just be right.
[Jules purses her lips in thought at that.]
Tea, if you've got any? You're a proper gentleman, aren't you? How on earth did you make Ellie's acquaintance?
[He laughs and gives her a bit of a wink, happy to hear that he's soothed any concerns of hers. If there's one thing Dafydd cares about most, it's others being at ease around him. He could influence that with his magic, of course, but it was way better when it was genuine.
Moving into the kitchen, he flips on the kettle to get the water boiling while he grabs a pair of mugs.] You're asking a Brit if he's got tea. I thought you knew the twins. [Though he was just as keen on coffee, he didn't want to get jittery if he was working.] What kind d'you prefer?
[He laughs brightly, nodding because he knows it's probably a little strange that he's close with the twins.] Fell in with Grant first, since we shared some classes. I asked if he'd show me around the city so El came and they showed me everything but made up the names. Almost had me going into a whorehouse thinking it was a bookstore.
[Which would put most people off, but he'd just laughed and pulled Elliot into a headlock so he could ruffle his hair. He was fond of the boys as anything, especially since they'd been kind to him in an unfamiliar city. Maybe it was a unique brand of kindness, but it was still there.] What about you?
I don't count Ellie's taste as normal. First day we met, he shoved a horrendous grave dirt smoothie on me. To this day I won't take another bloody drink from him unless I watch him make it. [Jules follows him, lagging just a bit behind as she looks around. If he's feeling out for her emotions, he'll be pleased to note her anxiety has already dropped from about a 7 to a 4. She just has trust issues.] I'll drink whatever you're having.
Grant's good. [She playfully rolled her eyes.] Ellie, on the other hand... a whorehouse? That sounds about right. [She laughs.]
Grant and I shared a class when I moved here. He was easy to talk to. His English was clear and easy to understand. Then his brother stole my passport and tried to distract me with that awful drink. He helped me out more that day than he'll own up to.
You're... [She squints at him, thinking too hard, and chews on her lips.] ...Welsh? Right? The accent's nice. Musical.
I hear grave dirt is great for possessions. [He grins as he takes out some loose-leaf tea, just a plain English breakfast since he's predictable. Absently he wonders if she picked up the word 'bloody' from Elliot as well.
There's a twinge in his heart, because he has to admit that he gets on a little better with Grant. He loves Elliot and his pickpocketing and his unique way of mothering Dafydd, but with Grant he can share things like art. His smile turns a little soft as he nods along and pours out the tea.] Elliot likes to act like a shithead, but it's just 'cause he's hurting. [Realizing what he'd said, his head snaps up to look at her.] Don't tell him I said that, yeah?
[Relaxing because he trusts her not to rat him out, he chuckles and hands her a mug of tea. Setting his aside, he goes for milk and sugar next.] Swear he steals something from me every day. It's incredible, innit? Once he did my belt. How do you lift a belt without being noticed?
Tragically. [He loves his heritage, even if he makes fun of it.] Ah, you're definitely not from anywhere in the Isles if you like my accent. Get the piss taken for it most of the time. Not American, though, either. Maybe some kind of European.
[Guilty as charged. Much of her English was picked from the twins at large. Not that she'll admit to that. She hums at his insight but doesn't comment on it yet and nearly laughs when he seems to backtrack.]
Your secret's safe with me. You're not one of those Psychologist sorts, are you? [Asked maybe a little cautiously as well as curiously.] And he doesn't even use magic doing that. It's as incredible as it is worrisome.
[She takes the offered mug and breathes in the warm blend. She appreciates both coffee and tea, but the latter always seems to uplift her spirits and soothe her.]
Not of the Isles, no. I've been, though. Beautiful. Smaller than I imagined. [She smiles fondly.] I see nothing tragic about it. What's tragic is that godawful noise Elliot makes when he's annoyed with ya. That... Chav? I think he calls it? Ah, but I'm not American either. English isn't my native language. That's another tragic sound that shall go unheard to spare your ears.
You ever heard of a grave dirt cocktail for corruption? [Segue not so gently segued at the discomfort of her heritage.]
[It's alright, if they ever spend time all together she'll probably catch Dafydd going a bit more towards a London accent, or at least something less firmly set in Southern Wales.
Raising an eyebrow, he shakes his head.] Not so much. My focus is healing, of different sorts. I'm sensitive to emotion but I don't read minds or nothing.
[He bursts into laughter, nodding as he stirs his tea until it's pale from cream and sugar.] He does a good job of it, trust me. Sounds like some of the punks I went to school with.
[He lets it slide, not wanting to press her for an origin story when it was their first time meeting. There were plenty of witches, at this school and elsewhere, who had sad enough stories that he didn't like to pry. But the choice of corruption as the change of subject is interesting.] Is that why he was trying to feed you a smoothie?
Ooo, an empath. Fancy stuff, that. [Jules dresses her tea with a bit of sugar and brings it to her lips for a relaxing drink.] I can change what you feel in a different way.
[Jules turns her arm over again, showing him that amplification tattoos once more and traces a finger over it. The lines and arrows start to move, then the whole thing looks like running ink as it drips off her arm, vanishing before it hits the table. Her magic is cold. Reminiscent of a nostalgic memory that you just can't reach. Like an itch you can't scratch. The cup she's holding seems to fade out of view as she sips from it.] I twist perception. [The mug slips back into reality, changing colours to a soft pastel pink and the tattoo draws itself back onto her skin.] Healing seems a far more useful skill.
Does he? Uck. I'm sorry for your poor ears in school. [A chuckle.]
It would. Says he can feel it. Like it screams to him. I haven't touched corrupt magic since I moved here. But, I was curious if that atrocious thing actually did any good. He thinks it did.
Partially. [He doesn't say more, mostly because he's focused on her display of magic. His initial reaction is to stare at it dumbly, then grin like a kid on Christmas morning. He loves things like this, physical manifestations of magic like what his family could do with nature. His was something felt more than seen, and it made different planes all the more fascinating.]
That is wicked. Can you affect anything, or are living things more difficult?
[He'd give her a demonstration of his own magic, but honestly, that's better saved for when he's working on her and she needs it more.
His expression falls a little more grave at the mention of Elliot's magic. Necromantics are usually seen as ugly, wicked things, but he thinks Elliot punishes himself too much for it. Dafydd's of the (perhaps overly optimistic) opinion that all magic is beautiful. But right now, with Jules in front of him, he's more interested in the fact that she said "since I moved here."] I'm sure it did. Elliot shows concern and caring in ways some people aren't used to. He'll keep a look out for you.
[Smiling, he sets down his mug and reaches for a notebook to one side of the table, flipping it open. He leafs past several pages full of tattoo sketches with the margins crammed full of notes. Opening to a blank page, he grabs a pen and starts writing.] So. Anti-possession usually looks pretty simple, but I need you to tell me about any details you think are important. Past possessions or corruption are kinda important when you're trying to prevent future cases. And, if you don't mind, it helps if I, er, poke your magic a little to feel which way it flows.
[She winks at him playfully and the cup fades back to its usual colour.] Actually, it's the opposite. And for that to make sense, I should probably explain that I don't change the cup at all. I change what you see, smell, and feel, even hear. The more complete the sensory manipulation, the harder it is to maintain. We could sit here all day, and I could hold a pink cup, but if a flatmate walked in, they'd see this cup right here unless I touched their senses with my magic.
It's why I overlooked him stealing my things. I think he finds it a challenge to lift my stuff now. When I know he's prowling, I mess with his senses. He can't pick a pocket he can't see. ...or that's the theory anyway. I'm still waiting for it to actually work. [She's seen ugly, and it wasn't a Necromantic. She'll tend to agree with Day for the most part.
As soon as the subject turns to past corruptions, she's immediately uncomfortable and you don't have to be an empath to see it. She shifts and fidgets with the edges of the mug, dropping her gaze. But he's right, of course.]
Poke away. [She holds a hand out to him, palm up, unsure if he needs contact for it or if its more of a spiritual thing.] I... we had a possession scare, but Ellie was there to stop it before it happened. Some angry spirit--I didn't see it until it was on top of us. Corruption's another story. As you probably already can imagine, the ability to twist someone's senses could be used for less than honourable things. [She hunched her shoulders, drawing into herself.] My papa, he-- [Wow, Dafydd. Getting the origin story anyway. Way to go.] --thought it was an easy way to get rich. I was little and I didn't really understand back then. He had me using blood magic to boost my potential. Robberies and heists. I don't... do any of that anymore. It felt awful; made me sick and I hated it.
[If he has any sort of touch on her emotions at the moment, she's a swirling mess of turmoil. Guilt and discomfort foremost in the bunch. It's a wound that hasn't closed yet.]
Duh. [He says it to himself, feeling stupid for being so caught up in the illusion that he'd forgotten she explained it to start.] Perception. Extra wicked. But it's hard to mess with that in a guy like El who knows something valuable is there without needing to sense it.
[He can feel the switch, pen hesitating as he watches her. Dafydd likes to think he's good with people, but he feels like a blunt idiot when he gets such a drastic reaction from some simple prodding. Clearly she has demons, and once she starts spilling her history it's easy to see where they come from.
Frowning at the physical and spiritual signs that she's withdrawing, he reaches out for her hand and runs a finger up from the tip of her middle finger, through the palm, and rests it on her pulse point in the wrist. He doesn't need to be touching her, but it makes it easier for both of them and gives the added comfort of physical touch to go with the magical one. He doesn't press down hard, barely ghosting his fingers over the skin, but it's followed by a sense of calm. It's a gentle one, because he doesn't want to force it on her, but it's there if she wants to welcome it in.
Besides that, he draws some of her magic into himself to get a sense of it so his tattooing can work with it rather than against it. There's nothing fancy to accompany the magic, no perceptible difference in the physical sense, but the tattoos on the back of his right hand and the knuckles glow a faint white around the edges.]
He's like a bloodhound for valuables. It's almost unsettling. [She tries to find that warmth again when she speaks.
It's strange, feeling the calm brush at her senses, like an invitation into a tranquil room. She's hesitant at first, but ultimately decides to place trust in him. The calm is nice, letting it more than just nudge her mood back into place. She worries her lip between her teeth and focuses on his touch. Another calming presence, if only a natural response to physical contact.]
Russian, by the way. I'm from Kazan. [Her gaze is drawn to the tattoos and she can't help but stare. Okay, hers drips, but the glowing thing? It's elegant and fascinating in a subtle way.]
That's you, yeah? The calm? It's nice. My casting disguises an issue, yours fixes it. I think that's actually pretty amazing.
[When she accepts the magic, he smiles and pushes it a little harder so it can seep into her skin and mingle with her magic. The mixture of spiritual and material is always a little unsettling for him to feel as first, since he's not used to that plane, but her permission takes the edge off.]
Honestly, I wouldn't have guessed. I'm shite at accents beyond the UK or France. [The glow gets stronger as the magic flows more freely, sparking when he smiles as the praise.] Thanks. I'm not useful in a fight, but I'm good for after.
So it's a good thing Tris has enough pretty to dip into when he gets his hands a little dirty exacting vengeance for a very painful flying feline attack. No harm, no foul, Max has some new and somewhat humiliating ink on his ass, and Tristan believes that his wounds have been suitably licked enough that he can forgive him for the misstep. Point: he's never leaving Max to his own devices ever again. He must always include him. Always. The less of a chance Max has of getting bored, the better the outcome.
-
They say that God don't like ugly and fuck is that true when Tristan feels the soft tug of Heavenly energy against the dregs of his own somewhat mended seams. The bar he's chosen tonight is dark and the air tastes sweet with magic and when he turns to his left, he sees someone familiar walking in. That tattoo artist... he remembers him from the night he'd made Max regret all kinds of shenanigans. To see him again in a different light (literally) brings his brows up just a bit from his place perched at the bar. He's got sweet eyes, an even sweeter smile, and Tristan leans an elbow against the bar deciding why the hell not. There's a tug in the air, and he borrows from the immaterial magic that's residual and hanging in the air from the dancing bodies out on the floor (people leak all kinds of power when under the influence). It creates a soft, little ball of light that murmurs gently to before sending it forward and going back to his drink.
Whether Day catches it up in his hands or lets it break against the shell of his ear is all up to preference, but it'll feel like a soft kiss all the same, an enticing whisper that acts like a thread to be spooled up and followed in a labyrinth of mingling bodies that dance too close together, drink like they're sharing secrets, kiss like they aren't going to meet sometime next week in the same, dark, shadowy spot.
Closer, closer, closer, closer.
Tristan is out of place in all the brilliant lights, dressed head-to-heel in black with a series of all kinds of rings draped up and down slender, long fingers and more likely to hug the shadows than to embrace the bright lights, but he has always loved the noise and the neon. His smile, unlike his clothing, is brilliant when Day gets right close. ]
[Maybe God don't like ugly, but Dafydd doesn't mind it so much. It's one of the reasons he's always drawn to places that are full of things that some people would consider ugly: drugs, alcohol, sex. Sins of gluttony and greed and lust all mixing together in the most human ways possible. There were many people who would say Dafydd shouldn't taint his magic by associating with these things, the ugliness of the world, but that's the reason he'd steered clear of those people. He'd decided to go to JBC for school to avoid them, and he'd stayed clear of Italy for years after. There hadn't been any Heavenlies at school, either, so maybe he's a bit biased towards the ugly side of the spectrum. When one of your best friends is Necromantic, it's hard not to develop a softness for ugly. When your other best friend is a ghost, you learn to love people in new ways.
It's that bias that drives him to the bar, one that he'd been recommended by another guy when Dafydd had mentioned his proclivities. The bias and his own ugly human desires are motivating his actions tonight, and he's in Los Angeles so why the hell not? He's dressed a little casually for a night out, but fashion has never been his strong point. (Plus, honestly, if he gets drunk enough the shirt is coming off and will probably lost to some corner of the bar. Or, if he's really lucky, it'll end up on the floor of someone else's apartment.)
Glancing around, it's instinctual to tune in to the hum of Heavenly magic if only because he's so unused to sensing it anywhere outside of himself. He feels it before he sees the light, and without hesitating he reaches out for it with his right hand. The tattoo on his palm glows gently as he pulls the energy into himself, stepping forward and following the intangible trail it had left behind. His palm glows brighter and brighter, almost like a foreshadowing of his smile as he catches sight of Tristan. When he gets to the end of the proverbial rainbow, his hand slides up Tristan's arm and greets him with a warm caress of energy seeping down under that black shirt and into his shoulder.]
Knew you were both magic. [Max he'd confirmed a few days ago when he'd returned to the tattoo parlor to get his phone and had left with Dafydd's phone number.] Was harder to tell with you since I didn't have my hands all over your arse.
Well, I don't let just anyone put their hands all over me.
[ But the touch that slides up his arm, pours a familiar warmth into his shirt, kisses his nerves, makes him glow almost flush with the stuff, integrating it in with the dregs of what he has left to send out the softest curl of magic in return. ]
Unfortunately, I try not introduce myself ass first.
[ All the same, Day's magic is... a refresher. It's a reminder. And god does it soothe the ache inside. The hole in him is gaping, but it doesn't sting anymore. It's a dull ache, like a slow-rotting tooth, and some days Tristan wishes he could pull it out altogether. There's only so much happiness that little glowing balls of light can bring and lighting candles with the tips of your fingers stops feeling satisfying after the sixteenth candle.
There aren't many Heavenlies in a place called The City of Angels, but that's to be expected, and maybe that's why Tristan chose here of everywhere else. Alaska. New England. Nova Scotia. The Spanish border just wasn't far enough, he had to be over the sea again.
Day is like... a breath of fresh air in the low-hanging smog, in the violet smoke that tastes like lavender and earth on his tongue when he meets someone at this bar, this bar for people who moonlight as the unawoken. The sun sets and they become who they really are--elementals of all kinds, Spectrals, Demonics, Mechanical plane workers who play with the lighting tracks and spin the music, Unnaturals who make the shadows dance along the bodies of the patrons...
Clock strikes midnight and they're all about as boring as pumpkins again.
Los Angeles is magical, but only when the lights go down, and then it's all dirt and grime and sweat in the light.
So when a Heavenly kind of magic blips on his radar, he's loathe to not try and draw it near.
All that aside, there is something half-made about Tristan as he guides Day into the seat beside him and lets the tips of their fingers touch briefly. Something Heavenly, but overshadowed with something a little darker now. All the same, magic tinged sweet draws to Day's own and he grins. ]
[With his hand on Tristan, it's easy to tell that he's not quite Heavenly. It's strange, like an emptiness with jagged edges left as a reminder of what had been there. His own magic itches to soak into those tears and fill the void, calming and refreshing and healing. It's his line, but deeper than that is his nature that just wants to make things right even if Tristan is all but a stranger to him.
He sees the magic in places like this, but it never stops when the sun rises. It's corny, but Day looks for the incredible through ever aspect of humanity. He'd been told it was an annoying trait that would probably getting him mugged one day, or worse.
Taking the seat, he barely blinks at the touch of fingers of the brush of shoulders. Day might have spiritual magic, but he loves everything physical. That doesn't mean it isn't thrilling to swap magic with Tristan, his smile growing brighter in the gloom. He doesn't flinch from the fact that it's a little less than sweet, a little bit darker. Day makes it his specialty to work with people who access darker magic since they tend to need him more.]
You should start. It looks like a nice one. [His ass, though he's only seen it through jeans.] You alone? Or do I have to stop touching you now we've said hellos?
[ Tristan tilts his head just a bit, finding a comfort in the fact that he doesn't move away, doesn't ask about anything. He knows it can raise all kinds of questions, but tonight isn't the night for them. Day's smart, at least he seems it and Tristan lays his bearings on it carefully, folding one leg over the other as he calls the bartender over so that Day might be able to order a drink if it suits him (Tristan himself wants another so it won't be wasted either way). ]
And no, I'm alone. So I'd be upset if you just up and stopped. [ He does remove his own hand to grab his drink, finishing off what isn't ice and tapping the rim gently at the bartender, who knows him far too well. It's a particularly favorite haunt of his, mostly because he's been trading readings for his tab for almost two years now without a single qualm. It works out.
All of his attentions turn back to Day once the bartender is gone however, eyes bright blue, wholly interested now as he rests fingertips gently on his knee, the denim patterned sleek under his fingertips. His smile is contagious, and that kind of thing is what invites Tristan to lean in a little closer, curious, pleased with the familiarity always, no matter how often he's run into it. There's something so addictive about the Heavenly, something he misses desperately. It's drug like, full of heat and light, a magic sweet and fleeting on the tongue like goddamn candy floss.
He squeezes his knee just a bit. ] Polite of you to ask anyways.
[Smart maybe isn't the best word for Day, but he's at least in tune enough to know when something shouldn't be poked. It was a skill he'd had to learn over the years, that being able to feel someone's emotions didn't give him the right to ask about them. He's grateful when Tris waves over the bartender, asking for a cocktail that most would probably feel shy about ordering. Whatever, he likes fruity juice with his hard liquor.]
And I'll take that into consideration. [Even when Tris moves his hand away, Day keeps his magic wrapped around his wrist like a little sunspot of contact. It warms up when Tris turns that smile on Day, like the bracelet of energy reacts to his happiness. With the squeeze of his knee, it sparks.]
You know what they say about bees and honey. [When his drink is handed over, he gently knocks it against Tristan's glass and takes a sip.] Though it might have been fun to convince you to share.
You're saying that like you'd actually have to convince me. Not being willing to share is sort of a deal breaker when it comes to being with people.
[ Tristan takes a sip from his replenished glass, eyes never quite leaving Day, even as he lowers it down to a fresh napkin and rests his cheek on his open palm. He feels that little tether of energy, fingers flexing a little bit as he admires the strength of it. It warms his wrist, seeps into his bones, up his arm as Tristan draws gently on it, smiling privately. It feels... beautiful. He twists himself in his seat a bit, knees brushing warmly together. The torn fabric of Tristan's black denim feels the warmth that seeps through Day's clothing, magnetic in its draw.
Magic flow is a two way street, and so Tristan reaches out very lightly with his fingers, brushing the edges of Day's knuckles lightly. With that touch, he delivers a very lulling, return transfer of sorts, stretching out the softest, thinnest tendrils of magic towards him. ]
So what's a boy like you doing in a city like this giving poor losers like my friend Max tattoos?
Not everyone is so keen on sharing, yeah? But it makes for a bit of a dull sex life, if you ask me. [Dafydd can think of exactly one person he wouldn't necessarily like to share, but even if it weren't an impossible thing he would find it in his heart if it meant making things work out. But that's a sad train of thought for another kind of drinking; tonight is about the fun kind.
His eyes follow the movement of Tristan's fingers, curious to see what they might do. The touch is simple, as is the magic, but it makes him swell a little as the circle is closed and suddenly they're sharing a little loop of warmth. As his magic enters Tris, it mixes with him and takes on a different flavor upon returning back to Day.
Licking his lips and drawing his focus back to the conversation, he laughs and picks up the little paper umbrella from his drink to spin it between his fingers.] Tattooing other losers for practice so I don't have to operate out the back of a van. As far as customers go, Max's been one of the nicer lads to stumble through the shop.
Well, Max is an old pro when it comes to getting inked up. We have a friend, does a bunch of enhancement work so Max is kind of loaded. He's a good subject for practice.
[ Tristan beams brightly at him, watching the way the streaks of light play against Day's face, over his clothing, soaking in the contact. Heavenly magic isn't rare, but Tristan's been up to his neck in Demonics and everything else since he was young. Dani's been the only real kindred spirit of the magical kind, and since he's stayed living in the Italian countryside, there's no real other Heavenly magic that Tristan's been able to connect with. It's the balm to an achey, sore wound covered in uneven scar tissue. It helps.
Lifting his brows, he tips his head. ]
I'll let you do me too if you want. [ His eyes roll just a little bit, a playful smile spreading, teeth and all. ] You've got a steady hand and I've got a nice canvas.
[Dafydd hadn't had a night like that in a long time. Not so subtle flirting, drinking, dancing—that was a little more normal. But when Tris had asked Day to go home with him, it had sparked something beneath the tipsy haze. Sex with another witch was always, always, worth it, especially someone so receptive to it as Tris had been. Magical touches mingled with physical ones, and the intimacy shared went so much deeper even if it was only for the night. And it was an intimacy Dafydd had kind of been lacking until Max and Tris had quite literally stumbled into his life. Maybe Max regretted getting his ass tattooed on that fateful night, but Day couldn't help being grateful for it. He'd been feeling a little empty in Los Angeles without magical friends, the feeling akin to being in a coven again.
As he slowly woke up in the unfamiliar bed, he anchored himself in the warm body behind him. The previous night came flooding back to him, as did a hangover he quickly did away with a spell and the flare of one of his many tattoos focused on healing. There was no hesitation as he smoothed his hand over Tris' arm that had draped over his waist, curing the cause of his hangover before he could heal it. The magic didn't stop there, though, as he slowly filled him with a feeling of calm contentedness. It was meant as a thanks for the night before, and maybe the start of a lazy morning together. He could hear the patter of rain against the window and decided, for many reasons, that he'd like very much not to rush out of the house.
It was that thought that had him carefully turning in Tris' arms so he could face him and press a soft kiss to his neck. Even though he looked so peaceful, Day couldn't help the temptation to let his hands wander, bringing warmth with them that was more than just body heat. It wasn't the same as the holy light Tris controlled, but it was something of an echo of it as it soothed possibly sore muscles and relaxed any tension he came across. He let his hand wander down his body, skirting his length though he smirked when he felt the hardness there. Well good morning, Tristan.]
[ Last night. Last night is good. Tris remembers it, even in his dozy kind of half-sleep laying on his stomach with his arm draped over one side of his mattress, legs tangled in the sheets with a warm body cozied up next to him. He remembers the heat and sound, the light, the feel of a cool wall against his back, fingers in hair and pushing someone through his door and down. It's all heat and hunger and pleasure and when he opens his eyes slowly against the dim light of day trying to finger its way through the curtains, he doesn't have to think twice about who's in bed beside him.
The rain beats hard on the window and the magic slowly rolling beneath his skin, being lent to him to ease away the start of a half-hangover, half-pressure headache is miraculous and doing wonders for making him more agreeable to this hour of the morning. Tristan shifts, rolls, eases into a more comfortable position, and there's Day sliding into his arms, gliding like a piece that fits just right against his elbows and wrists, pressing these sweet little stupid kisses into his neck. He doesn't open his eyes just yet, letting hands roam over him, keeping him hovering in that pleased, foggy state.
It's when a hand finds him hard, guilty as fucking charged, that he lets a smile break out from past his lips, teeth and laughter as he opens his eyes very slowly and presses in closer, hips moving just a little so that he fits all the more into Day's palm to show the full extent of just what he's done to him. He dips in and presses a slow, close-mouthed kiss to Day's mouth at first (it's first thing in the morning, and he doesn't want to be rude). ]
[The night had been full of good memories, and Day is happy to add a few more this morning as well. It wasn't every day he found himself falling into bed with a gorgeous man, let alone a fellow witch. Though he understood the need for secrecy when among humans, he was far more relaxed when he didn't have to second guess himself or the way he wanted to touch someone. Not every witch was accepting of his magic, but Tristan was clearly of the camp that welcomed it. Dafydd's magic begged to be shared, stronger when flowing from himself to another.
He watches that smile spread over Tristan's face and has to kiss it, leaning in and pressing his lips against it without a single care that they both have morning breath. Tristan is beautiful, especially with that gorgeous smile of his that he's been generous with around Day. And that pleasantly warm handful has been rather generous as well.]
Sorry, mate. Forgot to tell you trouble's my middle name.
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He tattooed a cat to his ass.
He tattooed a cat he hates to his ass.
It was some time around 1pm that he'd finally realized he was missing his phone, when he'd gone searching for it to take a picture of his tragic new art for Instagram. He honestly can't be too mad, especially given that Nic or Grant's humane magic could probably lift the ink out if he wanted (with enough time, annoyance, pain and berating). But this is the kind of bullshit max likes having a reminder of. The cat stays. However, he's really wishing moving wasn't on the table for today, when he slides out of his jeep outside the tattoo shop tris tells him they stumbled into the night before. When he makes his way back in, with considerably more grace than the night before, it's with the loosest sweatpants he could find (they were left behind by Marco), and some kind of tragic, worn graphic tee souvenir from the pyramids at Gaza, sleeves ripped off and armholes stretched low. He's definitely commando under those pants because ow. Tugging sunglasses off his face, max pauses at the unmanned front counter, flipping through a photo book of the shop's work as he calls out to whoever might be in. ]
Hey, I was in last night. The dumbshit with the cat inked to his ass. [ a soft snort to himself. Yes max, this is a new descriptor you, and friends, can use. ] Think I left my phone here.
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Which apparently is the next day when he hears a voice that sounds familiar if only because he'd heard so much of it the night before, cursing at the sting of the needles against his ass. It's early enough in the day that he's not expecting walk-ins, and there weren't any scheduled appointments, so he rushes out of the back while swallowing down the bite of sandwich he'd been working on eating.]
Oh, hiya! [He smiles brightly, leaning on his hands against the business side of the counter. Max looks like a guy who got smashed to the level of spontaneous tattoo choices the night before.] Yep, I was gonna trying calling someone but it's locked. Just a mo.
[Riffling through the messy desk, he takes a little longer than necessary considering he knows right where the phone is.] How's your arse feeling? You took it like a champ last night.
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As he comes bouncing up with a pep in his step, max can't help the smile he flashes, with a chuckle. ]
Shit, you are Welsh as fuck, I wasn't imagining that.
[ look he does that some times, okay? Once he was convinced a statue in Madrid was a Frenchman. And he was also convinced he knew French. He does not. Watching Day dig around in the drawer, he's not too worried about the man finding the phone quickly either, especially now that they're discussing his ass. ]
You don't have to lie to spare my pride, it's okay, I probably cried like a bitch. [ for as much as max is hailed the meat shield of the group, and spends a lot of his time taking hits, he's a freaking baby about sensitive spot tattoos. Dani has threatened to gag him before. ]
I can't sit without wanting to cry, but hey, look-- [ leaving his sunglasses on the counter, max steps out and around as he tugs down the waistband of his pants (in the middle of the waiting room (again)), to show Day the cat newly printed to the side of his ass. ] --It's turning out pretty nice.
[ as far as cat tattoos go, at least. But it was still nice work and it deserves praise. ]
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[Even though he tends to pronounce his name more as "David" than "Dafydd" these days, the spelling is still ridiculous enough that he continues to go by his childhood nickname.
Straightening up from the desk, his smile turns into more of a lopsided, knowing smirk.] Yeah alright, you were moaning quite a lot at the start. [Not so much after Day started pumping him full of healing calm, but he doesn't say that out loud.
Eyes widening as Max, once again, pulls down his pants, he bites back a laugh.] Yeah, still a nice arse. Didn't do too bad with that cat, though, did I?
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[ maybe he also just wants to get his number. both for future inking and the fact he's adorable as hell and may he's considering trying to tap that before heading out of town again. ]
Isn't that how it always goes... [ he mutters, mock wistfully, because come on, that sentence was asking for it. he'd felt the bit of magical assist, then, and had assumed it was tris at the beginning, but, now that he's thinking of it, he knows the feel of tristan's magic like the back of his hand. being drunk isn't enough to cloud that. huh.
there's a moment that he stands there, with half an ass cheek revealed, as the thought that this dude maybe has some magic in him, and is also coming on to him, mingle together, resulting in a wolfish smirk tugging at his lips. oh, bae. oh, gente welsh bae, we're gonna do this. ]
You're welcome to cop a proper feel, now that I'm present enough to enjoy it.
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Raising an eyebrow, he hands the card over.] Only moaning at that start? Hope you just mean tattoos, mate. Otherwise that's pretty disappointing.
[He blushes at Max's bluntness, just a little bit of red across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Coming out from behind the counter, he tries to think of an excuse to touch but realizes he doesn't need one.] I could make up a line about checking the healing, but it'd be a lie.
[Reaching out a hand, at first he just strokes a finger over the skin surrounding the tattoo. It's a way to poke Max with his magic again, just to make sure that he'd been right. When he feels that boiling hot magic pushing back at him, he grabs a proper handful of Max's ass and gives him a grin.] Knew it.
2/2
She knocked on the apartment door after double checking to make sure she was in the right place. When he answers, he'll be greeted by a bright smile and a casual wave.]
Day, yeah? Jules.
[Her accent was lightly English with some undertone of... something hard to pinpoint.]
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Going to answer the door, he mirrors her smile with an equally bright on of his own.] Yup, that's me. C'min.
[He holds the door wide open for her, shutting it once she's entered. His rather thick Welsh accent will be much more apparent now than it had been over text.] Forgot to ask, have you been tattooed before?
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When he asks, she turns her right arm over and on the inside of her forearm, she bears an amplifying tattoo.]
Got a couple. [Jules points behind her, over her shoulder, with her thumb.] One between my shoulders, too. I picked them up in my home town. I was... young. [The more she talks, the more he'll notice she seems to lightly tap-roll her "r"s, flatten her "a"s, and lightly--very lightly--put a soft "d" before her "th" words.] It was not this nice. And the person holding the gun wasn't nearly so friendly.
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Stepping closer to get a look, he whistles lowly.] Them's some thin lines. All those circles and arrows, I'm guessing amplification?
[He wrinkles his nose when she mentions being young. Not that it was all that uncommon to tattoo magical children, but he didn't agree with the practice. If you couldn't consent to it yourself, someone else shouldn't be allowed to.
And thought he can hear the difference in her English, he keeps it to himself. He's been teased enough for his accent that he doesn't want to draw attention to hers, even if it would be to say it's charming.] Well, then I'm confident in saying I can give you a better experience. To start, care for a cup of something? Or something to eat, if you haven't, to get your blood sugar up.
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Even if she did have reservations about his skill, his identification of her tattoo would alleviate those. Jules' lips quirk into a slight smirk.]
Sounds like I'm in the right place. Amplification.
[If she could hear his thoughts about young tattooing rights, she'd agree. She didn't appreciate being tattooed against her will, but she was too young to know better.] I think you might just be right.
[Jules purses her lips in thought at that.]
Tea, if you've got any? You're a proper gentleman, aren't you? How on earth did you make Ellie's acquaintance?
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Moving into the kitchen, he flips on the kettle to get the water boiling while he grabs a pair of mugs.] You're asking a Brit if he's got tea. I thought you knew the twins. [Though he was just as keen on coffee, he didn't want to get jittery if he was working.] What kind d'you prefer?
[He laughs brightly, nodding because he knows it's probably a little strange that he's close with the twins.] Fell in with Grant first, since we shared some classes. I asked if he'd show me around the city so El came and they showed me everything but made up the names. Almost had me going into a whorehouse thinking it was a bookstore.
[Which would put most people off, but he'd just laughed and pulled Elliot into a headlock so he could ruffle his hair. He was fond of the boys as anything, especially since they'd been kind to him in an unfamiliar city. Maybe it was a unique brand of kindness, but it was still there.] What about you?
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Grant's good. [She playfully rolled her eyes.] Ellie, on the other hand... a whorehouse? That sounds about right. [She laughs.]
Grant and I shared a class when I moved here. He was easy to talk to. His English was clear and easy to understand. Then his brother stole my passport and tried to distract me with that awful drink. He helped me out more that day than he'll own up to.
You're... [She squints at him, thinking too hard, and chews on her lips.] ...Welsh? Right? The accent's nice. Musical.
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There's a twinge in his heart, because he has to admit that he gets on a little better with Grant. He loves Elliot and his pickpocketing and his unique way of mothering Dafydd, but with Grant he can share things like art. His smile turns a little soft as he nods along and pours out the tea.] Elliot likes to act like a shithead, but it's just 'cause he's hurting. [Realizing what he'd said, his head snaps up to look at her.] Don't tell him I said that, yeah?
[Relaxing because he trusts her not to rat him out, he chuckles and hands her a mug of tea. Setting his aside, he goes for milk and sugar next.] Swear he steals something from me every day. It's incredible, innit? Once he did my belt. How do you lift a belt without being noticed?
Tragically. [He loves his heritage, even if he makes fun of it.] Ah, you're definitely not from anywhere in the Isles if you like my accent. Get the piss taken for it most of the time. Not American, though, either. Maybe some kind of European.
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Your secret's safe with me. You're not one of those Psychologist sorts, are you? [Asked maybe a little cautiously as well as curiously.] And he doesn't even use magic doing that. It's as incredible as it is worrisome.
[She takes the offered mug and breathes in the warm blend. She appreciates both coffee and tea, but the latter always seems to uplift her spirits and soothe her.]
Not of the Isles, no. I've been, though. Beautiful. Smaller than I imagined. [She smiles fondly.] I see nothing tragic about it. What's tragic is that godawful noise Elliot makes when he's annoyed with ya. That... Chav? I think he calls it? Ah, but I'm not American either. English isn't my native language. That's another tragic sound that shall go unheard to spare your ears.
You ever heard of a grave dirt cocktail for corruption? [Segue not so gently segued at the discomfort of her heritage.]
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Raising an eyebrow, he shakes his head.] Not so much. My focus is healing, of different sorts. I'm sensitive to emotion but I don't read minds or nothing.
[He bursts into laughter, nodding as he stirs his tea until it's pale from cream and sugar.] He does a good job of it, trust me. Sounds like some of the punks I went to school with.
[He lets it slide, not wanting to press her for an origin story when it was their first time meeting. There were plenty of witches, at this school and elsewhere, who had sad enough stories that he didn't like to pry. But the choice of corruption as the change of subject is interesting.] Is that why he was trying to feed you a smoothie?
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[Jules turns her arm over again, showing him that amplification tattoos once more and traces a finger over it. The lines and arrows start to move, then the whole thing looks like running ink as it drips off her arm, vanishing before it hits the table. Her magic is cold. Reminiscent of a nostalgic memory that you just can't reach. Like an itch you can't scratch. The cup she's holding seems to fade out of view as she sips from it.] I twist perception. [The mug slips back into reality, changing colours to a soft pastel pink and the tattoo draws itself back onto her skin.] Healing seems a far more useful skill.
Does he? Uck. I'm sorry for your poor ears in school. [A chuckle.]
It would. Says he can feel it. Like it screams to him. I haven't touched corrupt magic since I moved here. But, I was curious if that atrocious thing actually did any good. He thinks it did.
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That is wicked. Can you affect anything, or are living things more difficult?
[He'd give her a demonstration of his own magic, but honestly, that's better saved for when he's working on her and she needs it more.
His expression falls a little more grave at the mention of Elliot's magic. Necromantics are usually seen as ugly, wicked things, but he thinks Elliot punishes himself too much for it. Dafydd's of the (perhaps overly optimistic) opinion that all magic is beautiful. But right now, with Jules in front of him, he's more interested in the fact that she said "since I moved here."] I'm sure it did. Elliot shows concern and caring in ways some people aren't used to. He'll keep a look out for you.
[Smiling, he sets down his mug and reaches for a notebook to one side of the table, flipping it open. He leafs past several pages full of tattoo sketches with the margins crammed full of notes. Opening to a blank page, he grabs a pen and starts writing.] So. Anti-possession usually looks pretty simple, but I need you to tell me about any details you think are important. Past possessions or corruption are kinda important when you're trying to prevent future cases. And, if you don't mind, it helps if I, er, poke your magic a little to feel which way it flows.
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It's why I overlooked him stealing my things. I think he finds it a challenge to lift my stuff now. When I know he's prowling, I mess with his senses. He can't pick a pocket he can't see. ...or that's the theory anyway. I'm still waiting for it to actually work. [She's seen ugly, and it wasn't a Necromantic. She'll tend to agree with Day for the most part.
As soon as the subject turns to past corruptions, she's immediately uncomfortable and you don't have to be an empath to see it. She shifts and fidgets with the edges of the mug, dropping her gaze. But he's right, of course.]
Poke away. [She holds a hand out to him, palm up, unsure if he needs contact for it or if its more of a spiritual thing.] I... we had a possession scare, but Ellie was there to stop it before it happened. Some angry spirit--I didn't see it until it was on top of us. Corruption's another story. As you probably already can imagine, the ability to twist someone's senses could be used for less than honourable things. [She hunched her shoulders, drawing into herself.] My papa, he-- [Wow, Dafydd. Getting the origin story anyway. Way to go.] --thought it was an easy way to get rich. I was little and I didn't really understand back then. He had me using blood magic to boost my potential. Robberies and heists. I don't... do any of that anymore. It felt awful; made me sick and I hated it.
[If he has any sort of touch on her emotions at the moment, she's a swirling mess of turmoil. Guilt and discomfort foremost in the bunch. It's a wound that hasn't closed yet.]
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[He can feel the switch, pen hesitating as he watches her. Dafydd likes to think he's good with people, but he feels like a blunt idiot when he gets such a drastic reaction from some simple prodding. Clearly she has demons, and once she starts spilling her history it's easy to see where they come from.
Frowning at the physical and spiritual signs that she's withdrawing, he reaches out for her hand and runs a finger up from the tip of her middle finger, through the palm, and rests it on her pulse point in the wrist. He doesn't need to be touching her, but it makes it easier for both of them and gives the added comfort of physical touch to go with the magical one. He doesn't press down hard, barely ghosting his fingers over the skin, but it's followed by a sense of calm. It's a gentle one, because he doesn't want to force it on her, but it's there if she wants to welcome it in.
Besides that, he draws some of her magic into himself to get a sense of it so his tattooing can work with it rather than against it. There's nothing fancy to accompany the magic, no perceptible difference in the physical sense, but the tattoos on the back of his right hand and the knuckles glow a faint white around the edges.]
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It's strange, feeling the calm brush at her senses, like an invitation into a tranquil room. She's hesitant at first, but ultimately decides to place trust in him. The calm is nice, letting it more than just nudge her mood back into place. She worries her lip between her teeth and focuses on his touch. Another calming presence, if only a natural response to physical contact.]
Russian, by the way. I'm from Kazan. [Her gaze is drawn to the tattoos and she can't help but stare. Okay, hers drips, but the glowing thing? It's elegant and fascinating in a subtle way.]
That's you, yeah? The calm? It's nice. My casting disguises an issue, yours fixes it. I think that's actually pretty amazing.
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Honestly, I wouldn't have guessed. I'm shite at accents beyond the UK or France. [The glow gets stronger as the magic flows more freely, sparking when he smiles as the praise.] Thanks. I'm not useful in a fight, but I'm good for after.
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It's that bias that drives him to the bar, one that he'd been recommended by another guy when Dafydd had mentioned his proclivities. The bias and his own ugly human desires are motivating his actions tonight, and he's in Los Angeles so why the hell not? He's dressed a little casually for a night out, but fashion has never been his strong point. (Plus, honestly, if he gets drunk enough the shirt is coming off and will probably lost to some corner of the bar. Or, if he's really lucky, it'll end up on the floor of someone else's apartment.)
Glancing around, it's instinctual to tune in to the hum of Heavenly magic if only because he's so unused to sensing it anywhere outside of himself. He feels it before he sees the light, and without hesitating he reaches out for it with his right hand. The tattoo on his palm glows gently as he pulls the energy into himself, stepping forward and following the intangible trail it had left behind. His palm glows brighter and brighter, almost like a foreshadowing of his smile as he catches sight of Tristan. When he gets to the end of the proverbial rainbow, his hand slides up Tristan's arm and greets him with a warm caress of energy seeping down under that black shirt and into his shoulder.]
Knew you were both magic. [Max he'd confirmed a few days ago when he'd returned to the tattoo parlor to get his phone and had left with Dafydd's phone number.] Was harder to tell with you since I didn't have my hands all over your arse.
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[ But the touch that slides up his arm, pours a familiar warmth into his shirt, kisses his nerves, makes him glow almost flush with the stuff, integrating it in with the dregs of what he has left to send out the softest curl of magic in return. ]
Unfortunately, I try not introduce myself ass first.
[ All the same, Day's magic is... a refresher. It's a reminder. And god does it soothe the ache inside. The hole in him is gaping, but it doesn't sting anymore. It's a dull ache, like a slow-rotting tooth, and some days Tristan wishes he could pull it out altogether. There's only so much happiness that little glowing balls of light can bring and lighting candles with the tips of your fingers stops feeling satisfying after the sixteenth candle.
There aren't many Heavenlies in a place called The City of Angels, but that's to be expected, and maybe that's why Tristan chose here of everywhere else. Alaska. New England. Nova Scotia. The Spanish border just wasn't far enough, he had to be over the sea again.
Day is like... a breath of fresh air in the low-hanging smog, in the violet smoke that tastes like lavender and earth on his tongue when he meets someone at this bar, this bar for people who moonlight as the unawoken. The sun sets and they become who they really are--elementals of all kinds, Spectrals, Demonics, Mechanical plane workers who play with the lighting tracks and spin the music, Unnaturals who make the shadows dance along the bodies of the patrons...
Clock strikes midnight and they're all about as boring as pumpkins again.
Los Angeles is magical, but only when the lights go down, and then it's all dirt and grime and sweat in the light.
So when a Heavenly kind of magic blips on his radar, he's loathe to not try and draw it near.
All that aside, there is something half-made about Tristan as he guides Day into the seat beside him and lets the tips of their fingers touch briefly. Something Heavenly, but overshadowed with something a little darker now. All the same, magic tinged sweet draws to Day's own and he grins. ]
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He sees the magic in places like this, but it never stops when the sun rises. It's corny, but Day looks for the incredible through ever aspect of humanity. He'd been told it was an annoying trait that would probably getting him mugged one day, or worse.
Taking the seat, he barely blinks at the touch of fingers of the brush of shoulders. Day might have spiritual magic, but he loves everything physical. That doesn't mean it isn't thrilling to swap magic with Tristan, his smile growing brighter in the gloom. He doesn't flinch from the fact that it's a little less than sweet, a little bit darker. Day makes it his specialty to work with people who access darker magic since they tend to need him more.]
You should start. It looks like a nice one. [His ass, though he's only seen it through jeans.] You alone? Or do I have to stop touching you now we've said hellos?
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[ Tristan tilts his head just a bit, finding a comfort in the fact that he doesn't move away, doesn't ask about anything. He knows it can raise all kinds of questions, but tonight isn't the night for them. Day's smart, at least he seems it and Tristan lays his bearings on it carefully, folding one leg over the other as he calls the bartender over so that Day might be able to order a drink if it suits him (Tristan himself wants another so it won't be wasted either way). ]
And no, I'm alone. So I'd be upset if you just up and stopped. [ He does remove his own hand to grab his drink, finishing off what isn't ice and tapping the rim gently at the bartender, who knows him far too well. It's a particularly favorite haunt of his, mostly because he's been trading readings for his tab for almost two years now without a single qualm. It works out.
All of his attentions turn back to Day once the bartender is gone however, eyes bright blue, wholly interested now as he rests fingertips gently on his knee, the denim patterned sleek under his fingertips. His smile is contagious, and that kind of thing is what invites Tristan to lean in a little closer, curious, pleased with the familiarity always, no matter how often he's run into it. There's something so addictive about the Heavenly, something he misses desperately. It's drug like, full of heat and light, a magic sweet and fleeting on the tongue like goddamn candy floss.
He squeezes his knee just a bit. ] Polite of you to ask anyways.
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And I'll take that into consideration. [Even when Tris moves his hand away, Day keeps his magic wrapped around his wrist like a little sunspot of contact. It warms up when Tris turns that smile on Day, like the bracelet of energy reacts to his happiness. With the squeeze of his knee, it sparks.]
You know what they say about bees and honey. [When his drink is handed over, he gently knocks it against Tristan's glass and takes a sip.] Though it might have been fun to convince you to share.
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[ Tristan takes a sip from his replenished glass, eyes never quite leaving Day, even as he lowers it down to a fresh napkin and rests his cheek on his open palm. He feels that little tether of energy, fingers flexing a little bit as he admires the strength of it. It warms his wrist, seeps into his bones, up his arm as Tristan draws gently on it, smiling privately. It feels... beautiful. He twists himself in his seat a bit, knees brushing warmly together. The torn fabric of Tristan's black denim feels the warmth that seeps through Day's clothing, magnetic in its draw.
Magic flow is a two way street, and so Tristan reaches out very lightly with his fingers, brushing the edges of Day's knuckles lightly. With that touch, he delivers a very lulling, return transfer of sorts, stretching out the softest, thinnest tendrils of magic towards him. ]
So what's a boy like you doing in a city like this giving poor losers like my friend Max tattoos?
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His eyes follow the movement of Tristan's fingers, curious to see what they might do. The touch is simple, as is the magic, but it makes him swell a little as the circle is closed and suddenly they're sharing a little loop of warmth. As his magic enters Tris, it mixes with him and takes on a different flavor upon returning back to Day.
Licking his lips and drawing his focus back to the conversation, he laughs and picks up the little paper umbrella from his drink to spin it between his fingers.] Tattooing other losers for practice so I don't have to operate out the back of a van. As far as customers go, Max's been one of the nicer lads to stumble through the shop.
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[ Tristan beams brightly at him, watching the way the streaks of light play against Day's face, over his clothing, soaking in the contact. Heavenly magic isn't rare, but Tristan's been up to his neck in Demonics and everything else since he was young. Dani's been the only real kindred spirit of the magical kind, and since he's stayed living in the Italian countryside, there's no real other Heavenly magic that Tristan's been able to connect with. It's the balm to an achey, sore wound covered in uneven scar tissue. It helps.
Lifting his brows, he tips his head. ]
I'll let you do me too if you want. [ His eyes roll just a little bit, a playful smile spreading, teeth and all. ] You've got a steady hand and I've got a nice canvas.
semi-nsfw
after a long night of clubbing ;
spending a lazy morning in.
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As he slowly woke up in the unfamiliar bed, he anchored himself in the warm body behind him. The previous night came flooding back to him, as did a hangover he quickly did away with a spell and the flare of one of his many tattoos focused on healing. There was no hesitation as he smoothed his hand over Tris' arm that had draped over his waist, curing the cause of his hangover before he could heal it. The magic didn't stop there, though, as he slowly filled him with a feeling of calm contentedness. It was meant as a thanks for the night before, and maybe the start of a lazy morning together. He could hear the patter of rain against the window and decided, for many reasons, that he'd like very much not to rush out of the house.
It was that thought that had him carefully turning in Tris' arms so he could face him and press a soft kiss to his neck. Even though he looked so peaceful, Day couldn't help the temptation to let his hands wander, bringing warmth with them that was more than just body heat. It wasn't the same as the holy light Tris controlled, but it was something of an echo of it as it soothed possibly sore muscles and relaxed any tension he came across. He let his hand wander down his body, skirting his length though he smirked when he felt the hardness there. Well good morning, Tristan.]
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The rain beats hard on the window and the magic slowly rolling beneath his skin, being lent to him to ease away the start of a half-hangover, half-pressure headache is miraculous and doing wonders for making him more agreeable to this hour of the morning. Tristan shifts, rolls, eases into a more comfortable position, and there's Day sliding into his arms, gliding like a piece that fits just right against his elbows and wrists, pressing these sweet little stupid kisses into his neck. He doesn't open his eyes just yet, letting hands roam over him, keeping him hovering in that pleased, foggy state.
It's when a hand finds him hard, guilty as fucking charged, that he lets a smile break out from past his lips, teeth and laughter as he opens his eyes very slowly and presses in closer, hips moving just a little so that he fits all the more into Day's palm to show the full extent of just what he's done to him. He dips in and presses a slow, close-mouthed kiss to Day's mouth at first (it's first thing in the morning, and he doesn't want to be rude). ]
Causing trouble already? This early?
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He watches that smile spread over Tristan's face and has to kiss it, leaning in and pressing his lips against it without a single care that they both have morning breath. Tristan is beautiful, especially with that gorgeous smile of his that he's been generous with around Day. And that pleasantly warm handful has been rather generous as well.]
Sorry, mate. Forgot to tell you trouble's my middle name.