#❆ ch: quinn. ❆ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hanasnx · 7 months

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"not alone anymore."

You raked a hand through your hair, the cold night air fogging your breath as you stepped out the sliding glass door. Escaping the full swing of the party inside, you took refuge out on the balcony, and with trembling hands you struggled to take out a cigarette and a lighter. It was freezing out here compared to the stuffy inside, where the hot bodies dancing acted as a space heater. The dampness of your lips caught the cig, allowing you to check your watch for the time, wondering when you should be heading out. Staring at it for longer than a second told you that it had stopped at one AM. “Shit,” you muttered through your lips dangling the cigarette. How long had it been then? Tapping it out of anger didn’t work either, the face of the clock staring blankly at you. Instead, you tried to light your cig, cupping your hand around it. The lighter sparked, but didn’t catch, no matter how many times you rolled it. “C’mon, really?” A couple more times offered no solution, and you were about to toss and stamp the tobacco in your frustration.

“Need a light?” A voice coming from the side startled you, jumping in surprise, and turning to the source. It was dark out, but you could see. The source was tall, and you watched him rifle his pockets.

“Please,” you replied, inviting him over. Gingerly, he stepped to you, and cupped his hand to protect the fire from the wind, offering it to you. You brushed your hair back and leaned in, letting him light the end for you. Gently, you breathed in, and pinched the cig between your fingers so you could blow the smoke away from him. He pocketed the lighter.

“Sorry to scare you, thought you saw me.” he told you, but by this point you’d already forgotten.

“Hm? Oh,” You wrapped an arm under your chest to protect your middle from the air and to prop up your elbow, sipping your cig leisurely. The smoke warmed your lungs. “no sweat. Don’t sweat it,” you mumbled, kicking the ground underneath you to hear your shoe scrape against the concrete. You sniffed, and glanced at him. “Thanks for the light.” He noticed your small smile, and leaned back against the wall.

“No problem. It seemed like you were having a hard time,” Apparently he’d seen you curse at your watch and your lighter.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “I think I’m just ready to go home.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“Nothing, I guess,” You shrugged, rubbing your temple with the hand that held your cig. “Feel like if I go home, I’ll wonder why I didn’t stay. I’ve got that fear of missing out, you know?” You glanced at him after you asked the question, and you caught him looking at you already. You idled, having calmed down from the nicotine rush, you registered who you were speaking with. It hit you how cute this guy was. Dark hair, styled up in disheveled locks. Handsome face, with soft lips and crystal blue eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn he glanced at your mouth.

“I get that,” he said softly, and you inhaled sharply at the sound of his lowered voice.

You adjusted, mimicking him to rest against the wall, and flicking off the ash from your cig. “What about you? Why are you hiding out here?”

“Not really my scene. I’m just a wingman.” He peered over his shoulder to spy his friend cozying up with the woman he’d been talking to. “Looks like I’m a retired wingman.” He returned his gaze to you, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“‘A wingman’?” you parroted in disbelief, and you looked him up and down. “You?” His lips curled at the question, recognizing it for what it was. A subtle flirt. He gave you a sly look, and to change the subject you offered him the butt end of the cig, “Care for a draw?” He accepted it, your cold hands brushing past one another, and you watched the sharp angle of his jawline as he took a drag.

“Yeah, believe it or not,” he spoke through the smoke, some curling out from his nose. “I’ll be heading out soon.” You were still occupied by the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the brief contact.

“Shame,” you muttered without realizing, and while he took his second puff he eyed you curiously with a tilt of his head.

“‘Shame’?”

You rolled with it, since it was too late to back track. “Shame,” You shook your head, listening to the bump of the bass inside shake the apartment. “I was just about to ask you if you wanted to come back in with me for a dance.”

“Dance, huh?” he said with interest, handing off the roach. The temperature of your skin giving him an idea. “I’m not a big dancer.”

“I bet you’re great, c’mon,” You found yourself wanting him to stay. “Just one, I’ll be really nice even if you make a fool of yourself,” you assured, coaxing him.

He merely shook his head, “Maybe next time,” It was an empty promise. “Nah, I wanna grab a cup of coffee. You should come with.”

“I’m just saying, I find it hard to believe that out of every animal on the planet you’d wanna be a… porcupine.”

He eyed you over the rim of his mug, brows furrowed. He hissed when he placed it down. “And I’m just saying, that in a world full of predators, I’m gonna be the guy with the impaling armor.”

You shimmied in your seat, sizing him up. “You wouldn’t wanna be a predator?” you teased. “Most guys I ask usually go for one of the big cats, gator, rhino, or gorilla—“

“—Those are the most popular options—?”

“— From the guys I’ve asked, yes!” A smile tugged at his lips from the conversation, and you continued. “It’s science, really.”

“Science?”

“Science. I’m telling you. There’s a psychology to it.”

“Explain,” He took another sip of his coffee. The diner you two occupied was cool toned, greens and silvers and blues. Empty, except for a gray bearded man in the corner, and the two of you sitting on the bar stools, facing each other.

“The guys who say they’d be gator, those are the rednecks,” You began, and with fake interest, your companion perked up in his seat, flashing you a wide eyed expression.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” you told him playfully, reaching over to nudge his shoulder. He rested his cheek on his fist, and gestured for you to go on. “So those are gonna be the guys with the camo, they’re from Florida primarily, probably carry without a license.” You listed on your fingers, crossing your legs. “Gorilla guys are the big, buff for no reason— like The Rock-level buff— maybe less. From my research,” He raised his brows at you in feigned intrigue, knowing this was based on nothing but your own observations. “they’re more of the hit-first-ask-questions-later type. Rhinos too, however I think Rhinos are the more husky of the two. Other than that, those have been pretty interchangeable. Now, the cats, that’s where it gets interesting.” He checked his watch and glanced up at you, and you rolled your eyes at his bad joke. “I’m almost done. Lions are the vain type, usually long hair, real pretty boys, probably have a tattoo of one or want a tattoo of one.” Your eyes searched the ceiling, feeling hot under his gaze for talking this long. “Tigers are the serene type, zen, yoga, I’ve-trained-with-a-bo-staff and studied-abroad. Jaguars, usually black jaguars, are the goths. The piercings, the tats, the rockstar hair, skinny jeans, and tight v-necks.” You met his eyes.

“Done?”

“Mm-hmm,” You sipped your coffee, and added some cream before tasting it again.

“So what about porcupine guys? What do you think of them?” he asked, downing the last of his drink. You saw how his downturned lips attempted to hide his smile, betraying his eagerness to hear your opinion of him.

“Pretty cool, I guess.” You pushed out your lips, letting your gaze travel generously this time. “Tall, lanky—“ You noted the shift in his expression, and you revised, “—toned,” You narrowed your eyes, gauging his reaction. When it was satisfactory, you moved on, “Nice hair, pretty eyes. Very cool leather jacket.”

“What about personality?” he interjected, leaning back in his chair, and you were unable to ignore how he spread his knees.

“Calm,” Was your first thought, and he quieted. “charming, endearing.” Your gazes met, locking eyes as you finished. “Hopelessly alluring.”

As if to taunt you ever further, your companion inclined into your direction— and marginally you leaned in— but his purpose was to shed his leather jacket, sliding it off of his shoulders. Only encouraging his suspicions of your helpless attraction, you stare unapologetically, mesmerized by his elegant movement, and how close the two of you were. His dirty trick had done its dirty deed, and he folded the jacket within itself, tossing it onto the bar behind him so he could face you in his black turtleneck. One that highlighted his figure that had you wondering if he modeled clothing wear by the way he sported it like it was made for him. You moistened your lips and he glanced down at them, drawn to you like a moth to flame.

His voice was soft, feather-light and carressed your ears like a saint’s prayer. “So what animal did you choose?”

Having been lost in such a small and seemingly insignificant disrobing, you were stupefied. You shook your head as if to clear your brain fog, responding dreamily, “What?”

Since you required reengaging, he crossed his arms and fixed his elbow at the edge of the bar so he could insert himself further into the conversation. Demanding your attention, and begging you to check out how thick his arms looked in his sleeves. “You ask all these guys their philosophical animals so what did you say when they asked you?”

You flashed a confuddled furrow of your brow. Downturning your lips as you searched the corners of your mind for an answer even when it was doomed to chart a naughty course. “Um…” a single nervous chuckle emitted, “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked, actually.” All of a sudden, you were painfully aware of the kind of men you’ve been wasting your time with.

Perhaps the self-proclaimed “predators” had a bad streak of being conceited.

Somehow, he understood your entire thought process, watching your expressions shift. This was noted, but not commented on. “So?” he awaited your answer.

It took you a second to decide. He had spat his so easy, ready with an explanation as soon as you’d thought up the question. Did he choose a creature based on his preference toward it, or was it just the intelligent answer?

Did it really matter? It shouldn’t, yet here you were, worrying yourself over what this stranger would think of you. Pick you apart like you so carelessly did to the others in front of him. “I’ve always liked white foxes.” Insecure in your decision and how it shone through in your voice, implied an invitation for him to scrutinize you. You expected it.

A very slight shift in his expression, how he tilted his head, and his oceanic blue eyes traveling you from head to toe— was unhelpful in easing your nerves. “A white fox,” he hummed, interested, playful. “The storybook archetype of a clever and intelligent creature.” You swallowed. “The symbol of trickery, or luck, depending on your culture.” He bowed his head forward to catch your eye, looking at you through his brows, “Cunning, silver-tongued, and beautiful. However,” The start of his new sentence implied something promising, adjusting in his seat to tap his finger onto the bar. “a white fox suggests you hide something.”

It refreshed you to hear his thoughts about you. Eloquently stated, without sparing too many details. You hadn’t connected any dots without his assistance, but you were more alike to a white fox than you anticipated. Your famed animal inquiry allowed you a small and idiotic window into how people thought of themselves. Not only had he played your game, but he turned it around on you.

“Is that a bad thing?” you asked, unable to tear your eyes away from each other.

“I like a good mystery.”

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lavampira · 11 months

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just breathe

lux kennedy x orion quinn. pre-infamous. 1.5k words. cw: smoking. [ao3]

Lux has lost track of how long they’ve been trapped in the booth. The windows in the exterior room had already gone dark with the setting sun, giving them nothing to guess at the time of night. Whoever decorated the room apparently decided that recording artists didn’t need to know the time either, considering the lack of a visible clock anywhere in sight, and with their phone still buried in their jacket in the other room, they remain uncertain of it in their own personal hell with a producer staring them down through the glass and a microphone in their face.

Their voice breaks on their sixth attempt to land a note for the bridge.

The little red recording in progress light turns off.

“Do not say that it’s okay again,” Lux warns before the producer can lean into his own mic, watching the man’s eyes widen almost comically as he hesitates mid-motion to do exactly that. “It isn’t.”

Maybe they’re acting a little melodramatic. But after who knows how fucking long they’ve been trying—and utterly failing—to match the vocals that they wrote themself, they figure that they’re allowed. The producer repeatedly trying to placate them in a faux soothing tone like a cornered wild animal really, really doesn’t help.

A frustrated noise rips from their throat as they rub their palms over their face. It shouldn’t be so hard to duplicate. Interviewers have referred to them as a dramatic tenor, able to soar to a clear run from a raspy lower range, expressive of the emotions in their lyrics. But all they’ve shown tonight is that the bridge is kicking their ass.

“Let’s take a pause on the bridge,” the producer finally says. “We’ll come back to it after some work on the guitar.”

Humiliation swells through them at being pulled out of the booth, and it must show on their face because Rowan catches them at the door, clapping a hand to their back in support on his way past them. Lux doesn’t stick around to see if any of their other bandmates are shooting them pitying glances. They move for the exit, needing to get out of there to clear their head.

What starts as aimlessly wandering the studio eventually leads them through a side door outside the building. It's a habit, really. They often slipped away from their manager to sneak a cigarette or two at a time during their last album, winding up at this exact spot each time for a moment of quiet, slouched against the wall with a knee bent where they rest an arm, or at least as quiet as the city can get.

Which is why they aren’t entirely surprised when the door opens not long later and their manager steps out with them.

Lux twists their head to take a cautious look at the man towering over them. Haloed by the building’s exterior light behind him, Orion still appears as pristine as ever, dressed down to his waistcoat and sleeves immaculately rolled to his elbows as he folds his arms over his chest, only his tousled black hair out of place despite the hour. A fleeting thought passes of what it would take to make him look rumpled, but it treads on dangerous territory.

Orion glances at the lit cigarette between their fingers, and they brace for the lecture on why a singer shouldn’t smoke as a pinch forms in his brow, but it never comes. Somehow, it makes Lux feel worse to know they’re struggling so badly to record that even their uptight manager is pitying them, too.

“I’m trying,” they say in lieu of a greeting.

If he hears the pathetic crack in their voice, Orion graciously doesn’t acknowledge it. “I know.”

“I don’t know why I can’t get it right.”

“You will, Linden. You always do.”

Orion Quinn doesn’t do pep talks. He isn’t that sort of manager, not when he can push their band to meet higher and higher standards, every compliment met with critique. They know that he believes in them, but he also believes that they can be better, too. Rather than extending any of it to Lux, though, it’s that use of their real name that grounds them, his simple faith in not only the band, but them, from a man not satisfied by only good enough that relieves some of the tension that has been gripping them all evening.

They take a final drag before stubbing out the cigarette. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know what to say to help.”

“It’s my job to know my clients,” Orion returns after a prolonged moment, and before that statement can ring hollow in their chest, he adjusts his slacks to comfortably squat in front of them. “You’re stuck in your head. You start to focus on things going wrong, and when that happens, you end up in a frustrated work cycle.”

“Like you.”

Lux stills, realizing that actually left their mouth. It seems to catch Orion off guard as well, judging by the way his lips twitch as he stares at them, but then the briefest laugh escapes him, a singular and soft ha that he can’t quite hold back and echoes in the alley. Part of Lux mourns the fact that none of the others are around to see it, but at the same time, they desperately want to bottle this moment to hoard it for themself alone, and maybe try to get that sound out of him again.

“That may be true,” Orion admits, his throat bobbing as he swallows, but then business mode returns, his face smoothing back into his usual sense of control while he rises to his full height. “You have the talent, Linden. But if you keep telling yourself that you can’t do it, then you’ll fail.”

At first, all Lux can manage is a shaky breath. Then a nod. And then they clamber back to their feet, dusting off their jeans from sitting on the fucking ground, somehow resolved to face down the producer and the recording booth again.

Orion allows them to lead the way through the winding halls back to the room that was booked for the band. They consider asking if he thinks that they’ll bolt, but considering his usual approach to the band, they don’t really want to know the answer to that question, especially after he did just hunt them down from their preferred hiding spot in the first place.

Pausing with their hand on the door, Lux shoots him a smirk over their shoulder. “You know, Orion, we may have to keep you as our manager.”

“Glad to hear it,” he returns dryly.

All eyes are on them when they walk back into the room, but it isn’t as heavy now. The recording sign is off while Rowan tunes his guitar in the booth, so Lux wanders to the small couch where Devyn and Iris have settled practically in each other’s laps, their knees hooked together, and perches on its arm. Their gray eyes track Orion as he moves to sit with the producer, but a hand light on their back draws their attention.

Devyn offers them a soft smile. “All good?”

“Sure fucking hope.”

The producer counts before either of them can say much else, and then the red light is on, silencing the room for Rowan to play. The transition into his solo is smooth, exactly what Lux has known he could do for the song. But then it’s finished, and the producer tells him that he can leave the booth, and tendrils of dread unfurl in their chest when they get signaled to go back in, too.

Lux takes their time. Standing in front of the microphone, they untie the ribbon from their long silver hair only to tie it back into a loose ponytail again, hesitating with the headphones in hand. They glance at the window, catching their manager’s eyes on them and the steadfast look on his face.

Orion leans into the exterior mic, hesitating as though he’d pressed the button before fully formulating his thought, but then he says, “Just sing, Linden. Don’t think.”

The producer counts down as Lux settles the headphones over their ears. This is what they have wanted to do for their whole life—Orion is right, they need to just do it. When the sign goes on, they draw in a ragged breath, and then they pour themself into the song, letting themself get lost in the same emotions that led them to writing it.

They opt to start from the second chorus prior to the bridge this time, building up to it with a grittier tone as if the feeling has grown rougher with lyrics, and it carries into the exact raspy whine that they’d been aiming for on the section. And when they reach the bridge, their voice doesn’t break.

It fucking soars.

The entire room falls silent once they stop singing. No one moves until the producer ends the record, but once the sign turns off, the door bursts open for their band to barrel into the booth. Rowan reaches them first, nearly tackling them as he throws his arms around them. Devyn reaches for their hand to squeeze, Iris playfully smacks their shoulder, and Jazzy absorbs them all into an even bigger embrace. Looking past all of them, Lux finds Orion still on the other side of the window, gathering papers with the slightest upturn in the corners of his lips while tucking a file under his arm.

#the title is a song reference. but it fits the emotions here. anyway #pls clap idk how i managed to write this much in one day #dani writes things #if: infamous #fic: infamous #oc: lux kennedy #ch: orion quinn #lux/orion #infamous if #infamous mc

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