len. thirty-one. autistic triple aquarius. chakaswan on ao3.
i dug this blog out of the archives to have somewhere to talk about the long walk with likeminded nerds.
hey there friends! you can call me len or paul. i'm thirty-two, autistic, and i've got five aquarius placements in my big six. i'm transmasc and it would be super rad if you used he/they pronouns when talking to me, but my gender is pretty fluid and at the end of the day, you can really use anything you want as long as you're cool about it.
i enjoy writing fic and you can find my works on ao3 at paulmescalien or by clicking here! i've got brainrot for the long walk right now so that's all i'm really posting, but please talk to me about richard harkness, art baker, and billy stebbins.
They’re so lucky I care abt them deeply coz drawing 4 ppl in once canvas was h e l l.
Anyways, small drabble under read more coz I did originally want to write for this prompt but didn’t have the time unfortunately 😞 so a snippet of what I originally intended xP
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“You can say you were worried about me Barko. In fact I’m flattered you—“
“Jesus christ, just fucking take this and shut the fuck up already!”
Hank doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. In fact he’s thinking 10 more different things to say to fluster Gary further. It’s way too fucking easy to do and—
“Wait. What is this?” Hank whispers, all mirth gone from his voice and soon anymore words are gone too, effectively giving Gary what he wants. Hank shutting the fuck up.
But of course, pleasing the fake blond is never easy. “Wh-what? Did you go fucking blind too?” Gary stutters out, that familiar edge coming out of him, but Hank can only focus on the picture in his hands.
Hank knows he should say something. Gary is never good when people don’t fall for his bait, but how can he when he’s holding a photo of—
“I swear to god if you go silent again. It’s just a goddamn photo of you and your best fucking friends. The muskaqueers or whatever you assholes call yourselves.”
It’s the Musketeers, you dick. Hank wants to say, but he doesn’t. After all, in his hand is a photo of him and the Musketeers. Pete has Hank in a sort of chokehold and his fellow brother in arms, Ray, is ruffling Hank’s hair. Art was no help back then and instead laughed at Hank’s plight so he was left alone to deal with his friends and get them off him.
They’re all smiling brightly. A shine in their eyes.
“…I took it at the party. You guys were being noisy ass shit and— uh—“ Gary’s rambling knocks Hank back into his senses as he continues talking, “I had my camera and—“
“Yeah, well it’s a good fucking photo. Man…” Hank interrupts him causing both of them to fall silent. Words somehow gone been two fuckers who have too much shit too say, yet the air remains thick. “Thank you, Gary.” Hank finally says, looking up at Gary who turns his head away immediately, cheeks flushed red.
“Yeah, well— Never say I didn’t do nothing for ya’.” Gary pauses, “But you’re welcome...” It’ s quick and rushed out and Gary looks like he wants to leave, but even so, Hank can’t help but feel as if we can still hear the laughter just by looking at this photo. As if somehow Barkovitch has managed to capture the joy of him and his best-fucking-friends in one photo.
"Think they'll let us back into the reception?" It's an honest question, really. Harkness punctuates it with a vulgar sound as he tilts his head and spits out a mouthful of blood on the concrete by his shoes. It splatters on the scuffed soles of his sneakers. He ignores it, looking instead toward the watch on his wrist. The crystal is cracked, but he can make out the time between shards of glass if he squints. It's not as busted as his glasses anyway. "It's not even ten yet. I mean, they're probably gonna be going all night."
"After that shit? No shot." Olson scoffs, picking at the gauze wrapped tight around his skinned knuckles. It's already starting to come apart at the edges. "Not a fuckin' snowball's chance in hell. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's common fuckin' practice to have your invitation revoked after you ruin someone's wedding."
"Me?" The indignation pitches Harkness' retort up until it sounds almost shrill. Or maybe that's just Olson's ears still ringing. Who knew the nerd could pack a punch? "You're the one who started it! I wasn't even talking to you when you decided to—"
Olson cuts him off. "You really trying to do this shit again right now? Round two right outside of the ER? Be so fuckin' serious right now, Harkness."
"No," Harkness huffs, scowling as he settles quickly at the threat. He might've gotten in a few good hits, too, but it's clear who won this fight. He's not looking to get back into it. He can't even see. "No, I'm not. All I was saying is—"
"And all I'm saying is, sometimes you need to learn to shut your fuckin' mouth," Olson interjects before Harkness can even start finish his thought. He hesitates then, if only for a second, and for once, Harkness doesn't try to fill the silence. "Take it from someone who knows, alright? You gotta learn to have some fuckin' tact."
"Says the guy who took a swing at me in the middle of a wedding."
He has a point. Good lesson, bad location. At least it was outside and not in the middle of the fuckin' reception, right? Only a couple of people saw it. Olson's pretty sure he'll be forgiven. He doesn't want to admit Harkness has a point, so he won't.
"Jesus Christ, shut up," Olson says instead, pulling out his phone and unlocking the screen. "You should be taking me seriously, asshole. I'm tryin' to give you good life advice here, alright? Talk shit, get hit. You wanna learn it from me or some fuck twice your size?"
"I don't want to learn it from any—" Harkness begins.
"It was rhetorical, fuck's sake," Olson groans, finally looking up from his phone. "Now are you gonna shut the fuck up or am I taking this Uber to Denny's by myself? To be clear, I'm gettin' a fuckin' Grand Slam with or without you."
Harkness blinks. "Wait, we're going to Denny's?"
"If a punch won't shut you up, maybe pancakes will," Olson deadpans. "And if they don't, I'll just kick your ass in the parking lot after. That's what it was built for."
There's a laugh as Harkness rises to his feet. Olson wants to be bothered by it.
He's not.
"You'll read the menu for me, right?" Harkness asks, squinting across the lot as headlights turn toward them. "You did break my glasses."
If Olson wants to protest, he manages to bite his tongue. Practice what you preach, right? Instead, he reaches out to give Harkness a shove—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to throw him off balance.
"Yeah, I'll read you the fuckin' menu, four-eyes. But you're paying."
(Harkness still tastes like iron and salt and liquor when Olson pins him up against the stall door of the Denny's bathroom thirty-three minutes later. Olson learns there's more than one way to shut Harkness up and Harkness learns a Grand Slam isn't just a menu item. They both receive a lifetime ban from the Denny's on Pennsylvania Avenue, and they're not even allowed to pack up their leftovers. Harkness drafts a lengthy apology to Art and Collie on the ride home. Olson proofreads vocally over his shoulder.)
pls speak on belated birthday fic im so greedy len
for you, nina, a sneak peek of the first few paragraphs:
"Well, hot damn! Look at you, big boy."
The wolfwhistle that directly precedes the crude exclamation is high and loud enough that Stebbins half-expects it should crack the mirror he's been meticulously adjusting his tie in for the past five minutes. It doesn't—but it does seem to echo off every square inch of slate and tile in the sleek, modern restroom.
Stebbins doesn't flinch.
A muscle in his jaw ticks, rolling swift across sharp bone, but he doesn't flinch.
Instead, he keeps his eyes directly ahead as a familiar smirk appears behind him the reflection. Olson. He strides out of a stall with more cocksure swagger than Stebbins thinks would be befitting of anybody, much less one of his very own peers and even less so in a public restroom, of all places. Olson seems unaffected as he slides in beside Stebbins at the sink.
"You don't clean up half bad, huh?" Olson waves his hands under the faucet to engage the sensor, but he's not even looking at it. His eyes are locked on Stebbins through the mirror, alight with something like mirth. It feels teasing. Of course it does. Stebbins' hands have frozen on the lapels of his suit jacket, already smoothed down thrice. There isn't a wrinkle in sight. He blinks ahead toward his reflection.
" If I didn't know any better, I might think you're under the impression you're gonna win something tonight." Olson lifts a brow and Stebbins catches it out of the corner of his eye. He's not sure he's ever met someone so infuriatingly smug. "Didn't get your hopes up, did ya? Fuckin' rude to make me crush 'em when you look so pretty."
Stebbins clenches his jaw so he doesn't choke on absolutely nothing. Pretty?
Olson's trying to get into his head. It's not going to work, though. Not tonight.
Can you tell me more about Nina’s B-Day present? 👀
yes yes yes, absolutely i can! nina's birthday present is actually the stolson rival professors au i've been working on. without giving away too much detail, olson and stebbins are both young professors at nyu on the tenure track and they've both been nominated for the same award for academic and instructional excellence, olson for literature and stebbins for history. two very different people with two very different teaching styles, but they both have the same competitive streak and they've been at each other's throats for the past school year trying to secure the award that would all but land either of them that coveted tenure position.
also, they get freaky in the stacks at a very prestigious library museum in manhattan, so at the end of the day, no matter who actually receives the award, everyone's a winner, am i right?
"hey toast you stayed up past midnight because you were working on the fic and not because you were procrastinating by making a hideous pattern for a joke cross stitch" have you never met a writer before
this is a fic i've been working on for my roommate! it's lowkey inspired by one of those one-word rarepair prompts i was requesting back in march/april ( btw i have not forgotten about those! they will still be coming at some point! ) and the prompt they sent me was 'parkness + electric.' i will confess i was turning this over for a very long time before i actually came up with a solid idea, and it was the song fame < infamy by fall out boy that gave me one while i was doing dishes—hence the name. i've got thoughts about the whole song in relation to harkness, but specifically the lyrics:
i am god's gift but why would he bless me with
such wit without a conscience equipped?
i'm addicted to the way i feel when i think of you
there's too much green to feel blue
and
signing off, "i'm alright in bed, but i'm better with a pen"
the kid was alright, but it went to his head
basic concept: richard harkness is a journalist for an indie music blog/zine whose job it is to go out and write up reviews on features for local bands. he's also notorious for flirting with band members ( who will often oblige him simply because they want their big break and they think maybe a write-up on their band might help ) and turning around to write brutally honest—and often very critical—reviews of their music after.
collie parker is the frontman of an up-and-coming punk rock band that's trying to break into the scene, and he's willing to do anything to make that a reality—well, almost anything. he knows his talent and he knows his worth and he's not about to sell out himself or his band out to a half-pint writer for <250 words that might not even help them find any success. he's read harkness' reviews before, he's not stupid.
what happens when an immoveable object meets an unstoppable force in a shitty dive bar during a sold-out set?
