Her apartment smells like paint and turpentine.
It always makes me gag for the first minute I'm there. She smiles that small, sly smile of hers, like she knows something I don't, as I clutch the doorframe and cough and sputter my guts out on the threadbare hallway carpet.
I don't know. Maybe she does know something I don't.
The stench doesn't seem to bother her anyway.
Pointing me to her pullout couch/bed/table/workspace/place where she does those hot yoga stretches just to toy with me, she tells me to sit after I've finally picked myself up off the floor. If you would feel so inclined?
Well, I don't really pick myself off the floor so much as kind of crawl my way over it, but who really wants to delve into specifics?
She just rolls her eyes and tells me not to strain myself.
I flop onto the pullout, digging my fingers into the sheets and my nose into her pillow. Mmmm. It was all scents of jasmine and lavender and whatever else she uses to make her hair defy the laws of nature and gravity and common sense.
At last, somewhere I can breathe!
She tells me to shut up and stop being an idiot, will you please, the neighbors complain about your random shouting.
"All shouts of joy," I explain to her and her head shakes a little before she walks off to get her supplies.
Flipping to lay on my back, I slip off my shoes and stretch my toes, sticking them through rips and holes. She isn't going to be too happy when she sees I burned my way through another pair of socks.
Third pair this week. A new record.
I hear a shuffling noise coming from the kitchenette, and neatly duck when her giant black toolbox comes flinging at my head. It lands on the bed with a dull thud.
"What did I tell you about running around in those socks! Those are the expensive ones!" She screeches predictably and jumps onto the edge of the bed.
I only can smirk at her. "You know, you're almost too easy to provoke sometimes."
She hisses at me. Like actually hisses. Damn she's hot when she's angry.
"And I thought we weren't supposed to be shouting, my dear." I give her my most innocent grin, the one that shows all my teeth. Flexing her jaw in frustration, she mutters for me to sit up straight while she pulls out her paper and sets up her charcoal.
She says she's laying low for a while, playing the whole Titan thing by ear. I know Robin would accept her because I accept her, but she doesn't seem to think so. Says there's more to being a Teen Titan, to being a hero, than just having the team like her as a person.
I personally think that she's still having trouble with the fact that the rest of the H.I.V.E. Five are more popsicles than people right now, but I'm not about to push the issue. Not with her already doing so well.
It was her idea to enroll in art school, surprisingly. Usually I'm the one to drag her out from that hell hole she calls a living space to do something social, but this she did all by herself, no intervention necessary.
It's good for her, this art thing, I think.
No, I know.
I hold as still as I possibly can while she sketches out the broad outer contours of my face, and then the fine inner lines. It takes all of my concentration not to twitch, or talk, or waggle with eyesbrows at her-
And yet without even glancing up from the page her free hand shoots out to grab my -apparently- jiggling foot.
Really, she knows me too well.
Sitting there what seems like hours ( read: ten minutes) I slowly grow mesmerized as her porcelain fingers dance across the paper in looping strokes and sharp edges. Her eyes dart up at me and then back down, and she bites her lip in the cute that she does and erases something. Flipping her bangs out of her eyes, she squints and leans closer to the picture. She's so pretty is all that I can seem to think. A pretty girl making pretty things.
What kind of miracle stunt did I ever pull for me to be lucky enough to get her as my girlfriend?
She pretends not to notice how I'm practically drooling, obliviously drawing away as I slowly go insane.
I need her near me.
Right. This. Instant.
Slowly I inch towards her, subtly at first and then more pronounced, until I'm virtually on top of her. Looking up at me, she sighs.
"Can I help you?" Her tone feigns annoyance, but she should know better by now than to play that game with me.
"I think you can." Suddenly I'm kissing her and everything else falls away. Her weak protests about needing to finish this portrait for her next class soon turn into a drawn out moan, and her sketch drops to the floor. I push away the tool box and the pencils and the erasers and whatever the hell else she uses to draw, not caring when they nosily clatter to the ground.
She rips off my hoodie and peels my socks she now hates off with her feet. I nip at her collarbone. Running her fingers through my hair, she groans.
Her hands are covered in charcoal dust and, by extension, now I'm covered in charcoal dust, but screw it I can live with that.
I mean, come on. A hot girl wanted to make out with me. Good enough reason as any to get a little dirty.
Giving up any pretense of class, my hands snake up her shirt and reach for her bra clasp.
To my disappointment, this is the moment she chooses to regain her sense, and she knees me in the stomach.
I grunt and fall off of her. "What was that for?"
"I think you know," Glaring at me, she smoothes down her hair.
"I really don't."
"For … for…distracting me!" Her eyes glow dangerously, but I laugh with ease.
"I think you were the one distracting me." I shrug. " What can I say babe? You're hot."
That comment earns me the sexiest snarl I have ever heard. I grin with glee.
Picking her drawing up from the carpet, she growls angrily for me to leave and come back when I'm not so horny.
I clumsily scoop up my hoodie and put on my sneakers, all the while watching her watch me with that bemused smirk on her face.
She leads me to the door and fumbles to get it open, almost breaking the lock in her attempt.
I lean down to kiss her goodbye, to which she responds by pecking me on the cheek and pushing me out the door.
I run home, full tilt, just for the hell of it. To clear my head, I guess.
The smell of paint and turpentine follows.
A/N: Fluffy KF and Jinx thing is fluffy. I've written myself into a corner with my other KF and Jinx story, so I decided to take a break and regroup.
Might expand on the whole "Jinx being in art school" thing. Coming from personal experience, I can tell you that being an artist makes you a little wonky in the head. All the paint fumes, I suspect. Could be some story potential in that I guess.