Не просите – и будет вам дано, не ищите – и найдете. А тот, кто делает – тому опаньки.
А вот еще, пожалуйста: букшоп-ау 
Довольно милое, кстати - хотя начало откровенно нудное, запах книг и бла-бла-бла, но я продралась из чистого любопытства, потом появился Маркус, весь такой загадочный и в кожаной куртке, и Томас влюбился решительно и бесповоротно, а это уже попадает в мои кинки))
Обнаружила, что омегаверс-ау, ау-со-львами и еще куча всегоотносительно нормального принадлежат одному и тому же автору - и это внезапно единственный автор, которого я не читаю вообще совсем. Графомания имеет много лиц)
Idle Hands by sistermercury - откровенно говоря, увидев в тегах Nail Polish, хотела пройти мимо
Хорошо, что не прошла.
“How are you feeling?” Marcus asks softly. Tomas wonders if he’s tired of asking. He knows he’s tired of being asked, but he’ll never say it. Never, not with Marcus carting him across state line, a half-conscious liability, less an apprentice and more a ticking time bomb. He’s always kind enough to withhold his ‘I told you so’s’ until after Tomas is conscious, figuring that throwing up on the side of the highway is usually punishment enough. Maybe it all wouldn’t be so bad if these last round of visions were useful, but they’re more like bombs going off in his skull, brief flashes and words and images that might be memorable if he didn’t spend so much of the aftermath picking the shrapnel out of his brain.
Еще оно помечено как херт/комфорт - и да, там есть и то, и другое, причем одновременно; а еще взаимное тепло, и горечь, и огромная усталость. И немножко юмора, и легкий налет безумия.
Marcus picks up a Q-tip and soaks it in the rubbing alcohol, swiping away his mistakes with precision. He really is a wonderful artist, Tomas thinks, having watched him sketch enough faces and buildings and birds from sheer memory, and wants to ask where he learned such a thing, such a mastery of form. Like his eternal backlog of psalms and prayers, like his ease with foreign languages, just another mystery for Tomas to roll around in his head as he watched Marcus drive, grinning from ear to ear as he sang tunelessly to Otis Redding.
“Whatever you’re going to say, just say it.” Marcus says with a defensive shrug, impatiently waiting for Tomas to judge him or scold him. Fine, he thinks. Sure. He doesn’t know many men who paint their nails. (Let alone older men, let alone excommunicated priests, let alone exorcists, etc.) So he just shrugs and yawns.
Довольно милое, кстати - хотя начало откровенно нудное, запах книг и бла-бла-бла, но я продралась из чистого любопытства, потом появился Маркус, весь такой загадочный и в кожаной куртке, и Томас влюбился решительно и бесповоротно, а это уже попадает в мои кинки))Обнаружила, что омегаверс-ау, ау-со-львами и еще куча всего
Idle Hands by sistermercury - откровенно говоря, увидев в тегах Nail Polish, хотела пройти мимо
Хорошо, что не прошла.
“How are you feeling?” Marcus asks softly. Tomas wonders if he’s tired of asking. He knows he’s tired of being asked, but he’ll never say it. Never, not with Marcus carting him across state line, a half-conscious liability, less an apprentice and more a ticking time bomb. He’s always kind enough to withhold his ‘I told you so’s’ until after Tomas is conscious, figuring that throwing up on the side of the highway is usually punishment enough. Maybe it all wouldn’t be so bad if these last round of visions were useful, but they’re more like bombs going off in his skull, brief flashes and words and images that might be memorable if he didn’t spend so much of the aftermath picking the shrapnel out of his brain.
Еще оно помечено как херт/комфорт - и да, там есть и то, и другое, причем одновременно; а еще взаимное тепло, и горечь, и огромная усталость. И немножко юмора, и легкий налет безумия.
Marcus picks up a Q-tip and soaks it in the rubbing alcohol, swiping away his mistakes with precision. He really is a wonderful artist, Tomas thinks, having watched him sketch enough faces and buildings and birds from sheer memory, and wants to ask where he learned such a thing, such a mastery of form. Like his eternal backlog of psalms and prayers, like his ease with foreign languages, just another mystery for Tomas to roll around in his head as he watched Marcus drive, grinning from ear to ear as he sang tunelessly to Otis Redding.
“Whatever you’re going to say, just say it.” Marcus says with a defensive shrug, impatiently waiting for Tomas to judge him or scold him. Fine, he thinks. Sure. He doesn’t know many men who paint their nails. (Let alone older men, let alone excommunicated priests, let alone exorcists, etc.) So he just shrugs and yawns.