『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

40. Lance Eucliffe (OC) x Artistic! Reader | Festive Lights, Ruin His Complexion

》character: Lance Eucliffe | Fairy Tail; original character by mochapineapple (a.k.a. me)

》requested by: Sasy_little_fox

》06192017

》wherein it's not uncommon to see her with her tongue caught between her lips, frozen over the upper one, as she deepened her colored skin further. what's uncommon is lance joining her.

》a bit of information on lance eucliffe:

— the son of sting eucliffe

— has blond hair, like his father, though a shade darker. his eyes are the same color as his mother's.

— takes after his father quite a lot. enough that he's been told that at parties, but not too much that he's practically a duplication.

— grows taller than sting much sooner than the latter would have liked. sting still distresses about it silently

— he really likes the color white. and any other light colors, really. winter and snow is really artistic and all, but it's too cold for him so he quite dislikes the season.

— he likes windy days, because they're just the right amount of cold.

— listens to female singers more than male ones. just his preference???

— looks like a possessed demon (no, not possessed by a demon. i mean, a demon that's possessed by another wilder, crazier demon,) when he's trying to dry his hair

— misspells a lot of things when he's feeling sleepy or when he's just woken up. give him five minutes and a splash of water to the face to wake him up.

— likes cherry

— that one kid who knew all of the kiddie games you'd play on the street after school, but rarely ever did get to play those games

— only believes in the 5-second rule when it's food that he likes (same, dude, same.)

[a/n]: when in doubt, rely on artistic contexts. {author rants: this was an absolute mess and i hate this}

xx

Lance forgets to knock. He only seems to remember when he pauses just in front of the door, to let the soles of his shoes feel the floor properly, to open his eyes a little wider at the temperature of the doorknob, which stood erect and motionless and at a different temperature from the noise of the room. Like when he told his parents that he'd fallen in love, worried himself thinking he was far too young for something that's existed farther than what historians could record; when he'd told them he wanted to move to a home, like what they had done when they were Lance's age, a home that's theirs to paint and pour memories in.

That's where Lance is now, in a home that's not the one he dreamed of when he was a kid that kept worn crayons dearer than friends. She's there, and it'll be the closest to a dream Lance is ever going to feel when he's not sleeping. She loves the color the house dressed in when she and Lance first saw it, afraid to ruin it with her hands, and they decide to keep it that way.

His feet are bare, and light. The floor felt cold, having been served a generous meal of the chill of a storm that's already passed. The door swings open, and in the moment, it's the loudest noise in the small house, certainly loud enough that she lowers her tools as if they were offending things and she turns to him with wide eyes.

"Hi," Lance says, shyly. He lingers beyond the door, as if repelled. He's told her once that she always seemed so peeved whenever she was disturbed, and she says her face naturally turns expressionless as she works; right after she said that, she sips from her drink, and there's that look again: the kind of look a parent would give another couple's spoiled child. Disappointed.