“you drunkenly paid for an appointment to get a tattoo at my parlor and didnt want to lose the money but the day has come and i have to hold your hand while someone else tattoos you” au with Warren Worthington from Xmen Apocalypse please babe?? Thank you thank you lovely, you and your writing are both amazing

alexsunmners:

Warren Worthington iii + this prompt list

A/N: I know literally nothing about how tattoo parlours/tattoo guns etc actually work so just? idk bear with me because I made it all up. This isn’t great but I wrote it on a long haul flight on like? No where near enough sleep? Also Alex and Warren run it together bc I’m a sucker for their friendship dynamic

You’ve decided to swear off tequila. And
also jaeger. Definitely swearing off jaeger.
You make stupid, terrible decisions
after jaeger. Decisions like booking an appointment at a tattoo parlour. A
non-refundable appointment. You tried really hard to pawn this off on a friend
who had a birthday coming up, but none of them would take it, and you thought
about just not going through with it, but that would just be a waste of the
money you already spent. After staring up at the sign over the door
reconsidering whether or not it would really be a complete waste of money to
just bail at the last moment for almost five minutes you finally manage to
propel yourself to action.

“At least drunk-you only walked out of
there with an appointment, not an actual tattoo,” you mutter to yourself as you
approach the door of the tattoo parlour, trying to boost your failing
confidence in yourself. There’s a man with brown hair pulled back into a rough
bun and intricate spiralling tattoos up both arms sitting at the desk towards the
front, and he looks up when you approach. “Hi, uh, I’m (Y/N)? I made an
appointment here on Friday night?” You start hesitantly. You’re about to keep
going when the guy at the desk chuckles and offers a wry smile, twisting in his
seat to face the back of the shop.

“Alex, you owe me ten bucks. The one who
thought I was pretty on Friday actually showed up.” He calls over his shoulder
and you blink, taken aback.

“I’m-I’m sorry, what?”

“God, sorry, I did not mean to say that,
that was very unprofessional of me,” He apologizes hurriedly, flushing
slightly. “I just-you were really apprehensive about making an appointment even
when less than sober-” you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you
vaguely remember that night “-I mean, you talked yourself into and out of the
thing like three times. Alex didn’t think you’d follow through,” he explains. “I’m
Warren, but Alex-” Warren jabs a thumb towards the back of the shop “-is the
one you made the appointment with, so he’ll actually be tattooing you.”

“I guess let’s do this before I talk myself
out of it again,” you quip with more bravado than you actually feel, fishing in
your bag for the piece of paper with the design your friend Jean had come up
with for you. “I was thinking maybe sort of lower ribcage area?” You suggest,
gesturing to the spot on your left side as you hold the paper out to Alex, who
has just emerged from the back to stand beside the desk.

“Are you sure? Ribs are generally a more
painful area to have tattooed, just as a warning,” Alex informs you, studying
the design you handed him. You just shrug with what you hope is a lot more
nonchalance than you actually feel.

“I mean, it’s gonna hurt either way, so I
might as well get it where I want it,” you say, and Warren grins.

“That’s true.”

It takes Alex all of about five minutes to
get your design traced out onto transfer paper while you situate yourself in
the chair and tug up the side of your shirt to reveal your ribs.

“I’m just going to put some disinfectant on the area, if
that’s alright.” Warren holds up the alcohol wipe and gestures at your exposed
side by way of explanation and you nod, voice suddenly gone as you hear the
whir of the tattoo gun. His hands are callused and warm as they brush briefly
against your skin, and the surprising gentleness of his touch is comforting as
it pulls your focus from where Alex is prepping the ink for your design. You
feel almost calm about the prospect of permanently marking your body as the
guideline design is sponged on from the transfer paper to your ribs, until you hear
the click of the tattoo gun and a sudden wave of panic threatens to overwhelm
you.

“This was a bad idea, this was a very bad
idea,” you mutter to yourself, staring at the wall on the opposite side of the room to Alex,
who pauses at your words.

“You don’t need to get the tattoo if you
don’t want,” Warren reminds you gently, but you just shake your head, taking a
deep breath.

“No, keep going. I can do this. I am a
strong, independent, highly competent adult who can absolutely do this.” He
gives you a smile that’s half sympathetic, half amused.

“Do you want me to hold your hand or
something?”

“Please.” The blatant gratitude in your
voice makes him chuckle.

“I thought you were a strong, independent,
high-”

“Strong, independent, highly competent
adults need morale support too. Just shut up and hold my hand, okay?” You
retort, and Warren gives you a slow smile that makes your heart skip a beat as
he reaches for your hand.

“It would be my pleasure.”