#frenetically slapping words onto paper

[wantonlywindswept]

Skybird abandoned sequel ficlet

for @lucdarling <3

So Skybird is a fic I wrote many many many years ago, back when fandoms were still on Livejournal and we had writing kinkmemes (which were honestly only like 50% kink/smut tbh) where you could post story ideas and invite people to write something on that idea. I had been on an Inception kick and was current up to like, 2.5ish? seasons of White Collar, and found this prompt:

Arthur and Eames adopt a kid and raise that kid into Neal Caffrey.

Thus began a descent into a fevered writing fugue that involved far too many hours of researching art and resulted in 30k words of fic written in the space of a month.

This is a snippet of what had been the vague idea of a start of a sequel to that fic. Looking back at it, it’s actually a surprisingly coherent/self-contained little story intro, so I don’t mind posting it. Unedited b/c I cannot be bothered, please have pity and remember that this was written *checks* thirteen years ago jesus god i am so fucking old

---

They tricked him the first time.

Neal came to his senses by way of a hand slapping across his face, jolting him out of a bleary haze. He squinted up through the gloom of the—basement? cellar? something underground, at the very least—into angry brown eyes that stared out from two cut holes in a ski mask.

Neal resisted the urge to groan.

Amateurs. And even worse: clichéd amateurs.

“What do you know?” demanded the blurry figure. Male, middle-aged, hint of a foreign accent covered up by years of playing at New York posh. Unfortunately, the question held no ground with Neal, not without context. He could think of a hundred—a thousand, really—things that he knew, locations and names and numbers and faces and plots and conspiracies, all of which he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to talk about.

So he collected that information and buried it away, pushing it into the furthest reaches of his mind as he affected a serious expression.

“The earth revolves around the sun,” he replied, nodding decisively.

The punch to the mouth was hard and disorienting, but disappointingly predictable. It also made Neal realize he was sitting tied to a chair as it tipped dangerously beneath him.

“What do you know?” the man gritted, grabbing a handful of Neal’s hair and yanking his head back, pressure put on the exposed line of his throat. Neal let out a huff of exasperation.

“It would help if I knew what you wanted, wouldn’t it?”

The man scoffed and dropped his head.

“You know what we want.”

“I really don’t,” Neal replied mildly. He craned his neck around as the sudden whir of power tools echoed through the stone room, trying to catch a glimpse of the noise. He knew that noise. He knew it like he knew New York, like he knew the feel of lockpicks in the dark. That was the sound of a drill, and it was going through a Class TXTL-60 grade safe.

“Robbery?” Neal asked, perking up instantly. “Where are we? Some old bank vault? An old heiress’ abandoned wealth?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m going to go with the heiress.”

“Shut up,” the man snarled, and this time the punch sent Neal toppling back onto the floor, the chair and all his pressure on it landing atop his bound arms. His head smacked against the floor and he bit his lip against the pain, the room spinning and a low rumbling in his ears.

“What is that?” a new voice asked. Also male and younger, maybe twenties, rough and unpolished. He walked upside-down into Neal’s line of sight, wearing the same boring black outfit that every small-time thug had grown attached to ever since Hollywood decided to buy stocks in ski masks.

“This wasn’t in the plan,” Middle Age snapped, because apparently Neal wasn’t the only one hearing things. The younger man just spread his hands as the noise grew louder, looking around the room in a decidedly nervous fashion.

“Don’t look at me, I had nothing to do with this,” Twitchy declared. Middle Age snarled and stalked over to Neal, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him up, chair and all.

“What have you done?”

“Bees,” Neal replied at once, a little groggily. “Thousands of honey bees migrating—”

And then the far wall smashed in because there was a bulldozer driving through it, and at the wheel of the bulldozer was Arthur.

“Huh,” Neal said blankly, even as he was dropped back down. The chair stayed blessedly upright this time as both Middle Age and Twitchy grabbed for their guns. Arthur leapt out of the bulldozer in a smooth motion that was almost inhumanly graceful, a pistol in each hand and a murderous look on his face.

Two shots took out Middle Age and Twitchy. A third, aimed at a point Neal couldn’t see, stopped the sound of drilling.

“Pѐre,” Neal sighed as Arthur strode toward him, relief warring with embarrassment in his chest. But when he looked up he saw the guns still in Arthur’s hands, and a look on his face that sent a shiver down Neal’s spine.

The look on his face was wrong. It was all wrong. His eyes were cold and his face was a blank mask and he wasn’t Neal’s father. He was something else, something inhuman and wrong and bad and he wasn’t Arthur.

“No—” Neal struggled to scoot back, to break free, to do anything to escape the implacable force moving toward him. But all he could do was stare, helplessly, as the not-Arthur came to a stop in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut as one of the guns rose, turning his face determinedly away.

“Wake up, Neal.”

Neal’s eyes snapped open in understanding just as the bullet entered his skull.

#lucdarling #skybird #god that fic is so old it predates my tumblr tags #white collar fanfiction #inception fanfiction #i have never again reached the frenzy of writing that skybird inspired #that was a solid month of just WRITING #frenetically slapping words onto paper #doing research on art and both media in question #think 'huddled in a cave gnawing on a bone' kind of vibes #it was great! #extremely unsurprised that i did Not do well in college that semester #(or any semester tbh but that was an entirely different problem) #the fic was posted in snippets on LJ #as you did at the time #so there was a lot of interaction in comments and stuff #eventually i shoved the whole thing onto AO3

[billdenbrough]

hi i’ve had a headache all day (my fault for staying up until 5am smh) and am coming down with a cold (outrageous, fuck u winter) so i’m not sure how coherent this is but @trentadepresso was having a rough day which is a Crime™ bc andrea is an angel, and she really loves stenbrough, so i thought i’d try my hand at this to cheer her up a little? andrea, babes, i have v little experience/thought w them so i hope i do them justice for u!! i love u v much. also i’m mobile as per so like. apologies in advance for any typos

STENBROUGH + 30. you don’t see me

It’s a Thursday, so it should be a quiet night, but there are about twenty people crammed into various nooks and crannies of the dorm that Bill, Richie and Ben share.

There are three girls sitting in a circle on Mike’s bed, braiding each other’s hair as they listen to him tell a story about Bill, Richie and an ornery goat that has Bev in stitches across the carpet; she’s sitting with some of Richie’s classmates from his Calculus class (“Rich, you’re doing an Arts degree,” Bev had pointed out with a laugh when he’d first slapped his schedule down in front of them all, which he’d met with an unrepentant shrug) at the foot of Ben’s bed, half-watching Community on Ben’s laptop, half-listening to Mike’s story; Ben and Richie playing a very intense game of Charades, along with about ten other people, in front of Richie’s bed, where Eddie is seated, watching the chaos between his fingers, laughing helplessly at absolutely every ridiculous impression Richie does; and finally, where Stan’s eyes always are, Bill, lying down on the carpet, lazily sketching some of the tableau in front of them.

Stan, for that matter, is sitting on the windowsill by the head of Ben’s bed, perched in a way that allows him to survey it all. He’d been talking to some of the braiding girls before Mike had started telling his story, and has since escaped to his raised position. Despite what Richie might say when teasing him, Stan likes these sorts of kick-backs, likes seeing his friends have fun, likes engaging with their peers. He’s not the most sought-out ever (that would be Richie, Bill, or maybe Bev), but that’s hardly a concern of his; he likes having his odder sense of humour, likes having shorter interactions with people, likes having less demands for his time and energy. Richie gets energy from other people’s attention. The only attention that sends a zing through Stan is that of the people he cares about.

There’s a girl giggling—well, there’s several, it’s Richie, but this one stands out in her intentionality—over Richie’s antics at Charades, and Stan winces. He thinks her name’s Belinda—or maybe Bethany?—which would already be a no from him, given how many fucking B-names his friends have, but he’s very certain she’s out of luck. She’s attractive, he supposes, and he could see Richie being interested for a night, but, well. They’ve never talked about it, but Stan is Richie’s best friend. He’s always been aware of how Richie’s eyes travel to Eddie after every antic, always craving his reaction more than anyone else’s. 

Of course, that goes two ways. Like, Eddie glancing back, sure, but that’s not what Stan means. He means that he’s pretty sure Richie’s aware of the way Stan’s always on the look out for a crop of auburn hair half a head above everyone but Richie or Mike, the way his gaze always—inevitably—finds Bill in any room, the way something in his heart hurts when it’s late at night and Bill’s looking at him with that sleepy smile.

There’s a shout of triumph, and Stan glances over at the charades crew, which seems to have grown in number. Richie’s whooping, Ben’s laughing at him, and Mike and Bev have ended up over there too, on either side of Eddie, shouting “best of three!” Richie glances at Ben, who shrugs, making Richie beam. “All right! This time, though, Eds, you’re playing,” Richie announces, and Stan stifles a laugh at the expression on Eddie’s face.

“Wait, Rich—” Eddie’s saying, and then Mike says, “C’mon, Eddie, I’ll be with you guys too. Who’s going to get Richie’s impressions faster than you?” and the expression on Eddie’s face... kind of knocks the breath out of Stan. He dearly wants to talk to him and figure out exactly what Mike’s words did to Eddie’s understanding of it all, but Richie’s still smiling brightly at Eddie, all hopeful eyes, and just like always, Eddie sighs, and nods. “Yeah, okay, as long as Mikey’s with us,” he says, and Richie whoops.

“Guess that means I’m with you,” Bev says to Ben, who smiles back. “Guess so,” he says. “Bill, do you want to play?” he asks, turning to where his roommate is still lying on the floor. Stan, again, stifles a laugh at the expression on Richie’s face (“He is entirely too good of a friend sometimes,” Richie had grumbled to Stan once, “like he and Bill are close, and Bill and Bev are totally over what the fuck ever you wanna call what they had going on for literally like, two weeks, so it’s not like he needs to do it to be a good friend to Bill anyway, but holy shit, I wish he’d realise that Bev, like, wants to hang out with him for him. Like, love yourself, dude.”), before his eyebrows shoot up at what Bill’s doing.

Because Bill is standing, shaking his head, and completely abandoning the two people who were lying beside him, not so subtly trying to get him to sketch them. “Nah, I wanna show Stan some of these,” he says, which is... odd. Not that he wants to show him things—Stan knows, realistically, that he’s one of the most important people in Bill’s life, and that Bill values his opinion—but just the timing of it all.

Ben nods, asking one of the girls braiding hair if she wants to join their team instead, but Bev’s eyes stay on Bill. There’s something knowing in them that Stan’s not entirely sure what to do with.

“Hey, you been having fun?” Bill asks, leaning against the wall just to the left of the head of the bed. He’s close enough that Stan can feel every movement brush against him.

“Yeah,” Stan says agreeably. “I mean, probably not as much as them—” he leans his head towards a few of the audience members for the charades shenanigans who seem to be drinking beer, even though Stan didn’t see any boxes around, “—but it’s been fine. What about you?” He nudges Bill, inclining his head towards the sketchbook Bill’s got under his arm. “Any good scenes?”

Bill’s lips, in a grimace at the drinking students, twist into an embarrassed smile. “Yeah, I mean, kind of? Everyone’s having fun, and that’s, you know, soothing to draw.”

“Can I see?” Stan asks. He doesn’t usually ask. He’s the only one. He’s always been the most sensitive about the idea of Bill saying no. But. But Bill is warm and bright and next to him, and he said he wanted to show Stan some of them, and maybe Stan’s not foolish to believe it.

Bill glances at him in surprise. “You want—yeah, sure,” he says, and it sounds so easy in his mouth, even though it was accompanied with the kind of initial surprise that used to get him stuttering so hard that even their teachers referred to him by it. (That had always made Stanley angry, so angry; the idea that anyone could see Bill, with all of his bravery and determination and loyalty, his creativity and care and warmth, and think the thing that mattered most to define him was his fucking stutter.)

He pushes off from against the wall and tilts his head towards his now-empty bed, and Stan nods. He slips down from the windowsill onto Ben’s bed, gently closes Ben’s laptop mid-rant from Jeff Winger, and ends up sitting at the head of Bill’s bed while Bill drops himself into his desk chair. He passes Stan the sketchbook, and Stan opens it, drawing in a breath. The first one is of Richie, and it’s—fuck, it’s just beautiful. Richie’s always been so in motion that Stan would never have guessed he could see a paper page and feel like he could find his best friend in the lines on it, but Bill’s managed it. There’s something striking in the lines and slopes of Richie’s face, something frenetic in the feathering lines of his hands, something in the expression on his face that suggests of a laugh beginning to form. It’s bright and bold and fucking beautiful, and Stan was always sure Bill was talented, but he doesn’t have words for this.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and he’s vaguely aware of Bill’s eyes on his, the weight of his gaze, but he’s mostly losing himself in the sketches. He flicks to the next page, and it’s Bev and Ben. Stan always thinks of the way Ben looks at Bev, maybe because he’s a little closer to Bev than he is to Ben, but Bill drew it the other way around. Ben’s the star of the piece, with his burly arms and wide, sweet face, and Bev’s looking at him, and the expression on her face is so fond and amused and fierce and affectionate that it hurts, because it’s so her, but Stan prides himself on being observant, and if he didn’t notice this tonight, then Ben definitely didn’t. Maybe if he sees it here, rendered in such vivid detail that it’s impossible not to swallow as something true, it’ll hit him.

“She looks at him like Eddie looks at Richie,” Bill says with a quiet chuckle, and Stan’s heart stops in his chest. Because, yeah, Richie and Eddie feel very obvious to Stan, especially Richie at Eddie. But he can’t fathom how Bill could possibly notice Bev looking at Ben and Eddie looking at Richie and not notice Stan’s eyes following him through every room. He flicks more hurriedly through the pages, soaking them all in, and they’re beautiful, all so beautiful. Mike’s strong and tall and genuine, laughing quietly with three girls on Bill’s bed; Bev’s legs are tangled in Richie’s from earlier in the night, the two of them setting up Community; Eddie’s laughing so hard that he’s breathless, leaning on Ben for support, and—

Wait.

Stan glances back at it, brow furrowing. The background is half filled-in, and something in Stan’s stomach lurches, because he remembers this moment. He’d been right there, on the other side of Ben, looking at Eddie with amusement. But he’s not in the sketch.

He flicks to the next page. It’s Mike and Bev, sitting cross-legged on the floor, well before most people arrived, and Stan’s frown deepens, because he knows he was there, standing behind Bev, hands resting on her shoulders. They’re bare in the pictures. He flicks forward again. Richie talking to Mike. Stan feels like he and Eddie should be laughing in the background, but they’re not. He’s not.

He flicks forward again. There are more of the kick-back, all these people Stan knows only vaguely, and yet. None of Stan. This whole night is basically immortalised in this sketchbook, but there’s none of Stan or Bill. He... really doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Stan?” Bill’s voice breaks through. “What’s wrong?”

Stan doesn’t look up. He’s thinking this through in his mind, examining it from every possible angle. He ends up with one possible conclusion, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You don’t see me,” he says carefully. His heart thuds, but his voice is level. He finally looks up.

Bill blinks. “W-what?” Clearly, it’s the last thing he expected Stan to say. Some distant part of Stan notes that the stutter is back.

“There are like twenty pictures here,” Stan says, and does his voice sound too rigid? Too taut? He’s trying for patient, or at the very least, not hurt. “All from tonight.”

Bill nods, brow furrowed.

“Bill,” Stan says patiently, wondering why he’s even pursuing this. Because he’s a constant disappointment to himself, probably. “There are like twenty pictures in here, and none of them are of me.”

Bill’s eyes widen, and his mouth pops open ever so slightly. It hurts to look at it. Because that’s what he’d look like when he kisses someone, Stan imagines, and that’s never felt like less of a possibility for him to experience than now.

“It’s whatever,” Stan says, “I mean, you’re under no obligation to. I just... was surprised, I guess.” Because we’re best friends. Aren’t we? Because even if your heart doesn’t skip a beat when I smile at you, we’re still friends, aren’t we?

Bill still looks a little taken aback, but something Stan said must have gotten under his skin, because he opens his mouth furiously, before being cut off by a whoop from Bev (“Suck on that, Tozier!”). He closes his mouth instead, and looks at Stan with such intensity that Stan feels off-kilter.

“Stan,” he says quietly, fiercely. “Stan, I see you. You’re like, the only thing I see.”

And now Stan’s mouth is slightly open, because he doesn’t know what to do with that. How to compute that, how to make it align with the facts of the universe as he knows it, with what he’s surmised from the sketchbooks.

Bill, apparently, didn’t mean to say all that, because his face shuts down for a moment, before it takes on a determined set. He slides back slightly from the edge of the bed and rifles through his desk drawers—god, they’re a fucking disaster area, Stan notes with a wince—before pulling out another sketchbook.

“Th-th-this is the one I had before,” he says, and there’s something so familiar about Bill in this moment, stuttering yet determined, that it twists something in Stan’s chest. He pushes it towards Stan, who opens it.

The first picture is of Richie again. But it’s Richie with Stan, and Richie’s laughing, joy in motion, and yet. The sketch is focused on Stan, with his wry smile and dancing eyes and the way his shoulder sits under the arm Richie slung around it. The next one is Eddie and Richie, and Stan’s in the background, but he’s got as much detail in his expression as Richie does, despite his face being a fifth of the size. Stan flicks through. They’re all like that. There’s a fair few without him, of course, but all of the ones that feature him, it feels like the pencils came a little more alive when resting on him. He looks up at Bill, open-mouthed.

“You’re just,” Bill says, before laughing shakily. “You were the only thing I could see. So I had to start drawing the space around you. To cope, you know.”

Stan’s heart is thudding. He’s genuinely, for the first time in his life, speechless. Which is saying something, given how long he’s known Richie Tozier.

Bill flicks the pages of the sketchbook from tonight to the very back, and there’s Stan’s face, staring back at him. He’s grinning to the side, amusement in his eyes, and every line of it is so fond, so carefully rendered, that Stan’s heart genuinely hurts.

“Bill,” Stan says, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying. That he gets it, maybe. That his eyes find Bill in every room. That he fell in love with everything Bill drew tonight, that to see the way Bill sees him blows him completely away.

“I didn’t mean to drop this all on you,” Bill says, running his hands through his hair. “I just. Couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking you didn’t matter.”

Stan’s hands snake out and capture Bill’s. Bill glances up at him, eyes wide. Behind them, Stan can hear Eddie shouting something about an octopus—Richie must be having his turn—but Stan wills away those noises.

“You’re the first person I look for in any room,” Stan says, and when Bill’s breath hitches, Stan squeezes his hand. “You’re always the first thing I see.”

Bill looks like he’s been struck by lightning. “God,” he breathes. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

Stan huffs. “Okay, no. Richie and Eddie are idiots. Ben too. We’re just... mildly moronic.”

“Mildly moronic?” Bill sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I mean, we sorted it out in one conversation,” Stan says, ignoring the way his stomach is fluttering. “They’re all going to need at least three. Mike’s the only one I trust.”

Bill really does laugh then, and he’s sliding his chair forward, and Stan’s breath hitches. “Mike’s the smartest one of us all,” he agrees, speaking into the small space between them.

“Richie is so fucking clever, and yet,” Stan murmurs into the space between, and is it getting smaller...?

“No braincells,” Bill sighs, and then he’s sighing it into Stan’s mouth, and Stan was so wrong earlier, when he thought he’d never see what it looked like for Bill Denbrough to look at him like he meant to kiss him.

(When they separate, Stan’s flushed and Bill’s ears are red. The noise is still coming from the charades crew—Bev’s the one acting it out now—but Richie catches Stan’s eye, waggling his eyebrows, but the beam on his face is sincere, and the thumbs up he gives Stan completely genuine. Stan rolls his eyes back, but can’t stop the smile spreading across his face, least of all when he meets Bill’s gaze again, and sees the giddy grin on the taller boy’s face.)

#stenbrough #bill denbrough #stan uris #stanley uris #stanbrough #x #m #jane writes sometimes #andrea #stan #bill #the losers club #i rly dk what i'm doing babes i hope you liked it though <333 #also i've made the playlist for that post i made yesterday lmao mayhaps i will post it soon #stupid cw #ableist slur // #unedited as ever we die like men #what the fuck is this ending #UGH andrea i hope this is ok #this is almost 3k... why am i this way

[marksleepy]

golden bloom

genre: fluff, songfic (nct dream - walk you home) word count: 1k+ audio: here (HAHAHAH but that’s the only thing i’ve been listening to) a/n: this is a one-shot so i apologise if it isn’t good. walk you home is such a great song tears. if you read this (and what’s below) thank you! i really appreciate it

Mark has been acting weird. Not the friendship-kind of weird where you discuss poop problems with each other, but the kind of weird where he gets really jittery about everything. You have noticed this about him about a week ago when he offered to walk you to the bus stop where you usually waited at alone. You thought it was such a convivial gesture, so you agreed casually without much cogitation.

Which leads to where you are now, walking beside Mark, whose uniform is stuck to his back due to sweat produced from the warm summer heat. His hand grazes yours as the two of you walk down the semi-deserted pathway and towards the familiar grey-roofed bus stop. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shifts a little away from you. A smile plays at your mouth. It slowly fades when you realise how uncannily quiet he is. It's fortunate that you know him too well to know that he's deep in thought.

"Mark?" you say, giving him a poke in the ribs. He flinches, then hums in response.

"You okay?" you ask. You wipe the back of your hand on the beads of perspiration accumulating on your forehead. He hums again. It takes seconds for you to register the fact that he has stopped a foot behind you. He's eyeing on the wooden bench resting under a stretch of marigolds.

"Mark?" you call out again. He turns his attention to you and jogs towards you. You fill in the silence by talking about something humorous that happened in homeroom today. Mark doesn't hold back when he laughs, and that makes you laugh even harder. The cars on the street speed past you and Mark in a blur. You gesture wildly, aware of everything but the look of admiration plastered on his face as he gazes at you.

The roof of the bus stop provides ample shelter from the ruthless rays of sunshine. You sit, and Mark stands. He fans himself with his hand, tugging at the collar of his uniform lightly.

"This weather is killing me," he says.

You glance at the bus as it gets larger and closer. "Quit complaining. The bus is here," you jest.

The bus isn't too crowded and you smile when you spot the seats at the back of the vehicle. You throw yourself down on one of them and drop your bag on your lap, Mark following suit. His shoulder touches yours every time the bus switches lanes. The world outside is nothing but obscure images. As the bus comes to a stop at the fifth stop, the pair of you hops off. You recognise the same routine from the past days. Mark would walk you to your house, a building which stands in a quiet cul-de-sac.

"Thanks for, um,"—you itch at your nose awkwardly—"walking me home." He shakes his head, a toothy grin spreading across his face. "You don't have to thank me every day, you know?"

You stand at the entrance and grin back at him.

"Now go," he prods. You turn your back to him and step into the dingy house. You push the door close gently and lean against it for a moment. Once you're sure he's gone, you walk to the rectangular window beside the door and look out. You watch as his figure becomes smaller.

You can't stop smiling.

As the weather gets hotter, the days seem to get longer. You close your eyes in peace and embrace everything summer—the heat, the sweating glasses of beverages, the dripping Popsicles, the fruits that are like saccharine love songs. You look at the digital clock resting on your bedside table. 1:45 pm. Just 15 more minutes before you have to be at Donghyuck's house for a pool party. His house is only a five minutes walk away from yours. You continue lying on your bed, sweat already forming everywhere.

Your phone buzzes. You sit up and pull it off the charger.

Mark hey :) you coming? [1:51 PM]

You of course. wouldn't miss it for the world [1:52 PM]

Mark great! can't wait [1:52 PM]

Your fingers curl around your phone. What can't he wait for? The pool party? Seeing you? A flush of heat sweeps your cheeks when you realise you'll much prefer the latter.

Donghyuck's house is bustling with frenetic energy by the time you arrive. You specifically see Renjun pushing Jeno into the pool, cackling at the edge of it. Jisung sneaks up behind him and bumps his hips against Renjun's, sending him plunging into the water. You shoot a thumbs up in his direction when he waves at you. The inflatable beach ball is thrown around in the glistening pool. It flies out of it suddenly, rolls towards you and stops at your feet.

"Hey, Y/N! Over here!"

You turn your head at the familiar voice, picking up the ball and hurling it back into the pool. Mark shouts thanks and beckons you over. "Put your things down and join us!"

Putting your towel and other personal belongings down on an empty plastic beach chair, you scream, "Make way!" before jumping into the pool. The cool water washes the heat away. Your shirt and shorts cling onto you tightly. You tug at them. Everyone in the pool cheers as you wipe at your face. You bounce up and down, trying to get used to the cold water despite how hot the weather is.

"Guys, let's play Marco Polo!" Jaemin suggests. He throws his watermelon rind away and swims to the centre of the pool. Chenle, who's enjoying his watermelon slice with Mark and Jisung on steps of the pool where it's shallowest, yells, "Can we switch it up a bit? Instead of saying Marco and Polo, let's say 'dolphin' and players have to reply with dolphin sounds." Jisung puffs out his cheeks and laughs, slapping Chenle on the back playfully.

"That's actually an ingenious idea," Mark chortles. He leaves his watermelon rind next to Chenle and Jisung's and swims to the centre as well.

After a game of rock-paper-scissors, Mark is chosen to shout Marco (how coincidental), or in this case, dolphin. Donghyuck tosses him a blindfold and soon the game starts. You swim to the furthest end of the pool, holding on to the edge as it gets deeper. Mark rests his arms on the surface of the water and shouts 'dolphin'. Ear-splitting screams are elicited from you and the rest, Chenle especially. You close your eyes and rest your head on your forearms when Mark moves in Chenle's direction—somewhere that isn't near you at all. Mark manages to get ahold of Chenle's foot, with peals of laughter bubbling out of the latter's mouth. The game continues when he returns to his previous position on the steps.

"Dolphin," Mark sings.

Everyone including Chenle answers with dolphin impressions again, and your eyes widen in shock when Mark starts moving towards you, all the while saying, "Shut up, Chenle, unless you want to be the new dolphin."

"I already am," he effuses. He then lets a penetrating laugh escape his mouth. Mark has his arms out in front of him as he creeps ever so slowly to you.

Please don't say dolphin.

"Dolphin!"

A shriek tumbles from your lips before Mark smiles with satisfaction and wraps his arms around you tightly. Your heart thrums in your ear and you blink rapidly at the blinding light. You can feel the rising and falling of his chest, with the faint beating of his heart. Through Mark's hair in your face, you can make out Donghyuck smirking and giving Jeno a fist bump. Mark pulls the blindfold off and gawks at you, temporarily frozen in place. His arms stop circling around you and he heaves himself out of the pool, taking faltering steps into Donghyuck's house.

"What's up with him?" Jisung puzzles, hopping onto a flamingo inflatable.

"Yeah, what's up with him?" Donghyuck echoes. You catch a glimpse of him looking at you knowingly.

It is exceptionally hot today. You sit in front of your fan, which is already on full speed, but it isn't helping much. At least the sun is setting. Your phone buzzes on your desktop. Reading the sender's name sends butterflies through your chest.

Mark it's so hot [6:45 PM] wanna go get ice cream? [6:45 PM] or are you having dinner? [6:45 PM]

Your mouth quirks up in a half smile.

You i've already had dinner [6:47 PM] where do we meet? [6:47 PM]

Mark i'm near your house [6:48 PM] i was running some errands [6:48 PM]

You cock your head to the side and you type your reply.

You what errands? [6:49 PM] you don't live nearby [6:49 PM]

He doesn't reply, but you hear the ringing of the doorbell. He's probably the only person who still does that. You rush downstairs and open the door. Mark is dressed in a white tee, ripped jeans hugging his legs. He's wearing a white cap, his hair short but visible underneath it.

"We're just getting ice cream, right?" you ask, looking down at your plain tee paired with an old pair of shorts. How attractive.

"Yeah. We can even walk along the river pathway," he proposes. And with that, you walk alongside Mark down the trail.

Mark attempts to lick the drop of ice cream running down the side of his cone. Your eyes flick to a gazebo in the park. It's the perfect place to sit at to watch the glorious sunset. You point at it and Mark nods eagerly.

You pop the last bit of the ice cream cone into your mouth as the sun disappears below the horizon. A flock of birds flies across the sky. You can feel the cool summer night breeze glide itself over your arms.

"Are you okay?" you begin, still looking out at the now dusky sky. "I mean, the other day at Donghyuck's pool."

He observes you for a second. "Oh, that. I really had to pee."

You scowl at him. "Seriously, Mark? I thought it was something I did."

After a few minutes of tranquillity, he intones, "Maybe it was."

You are briefly dumbstruck. "What did I do?"

He's silent.

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry for stealing one of your gift cards. I'll return it," you confess, wiping your sweaty palms on your shorts.

His jaw tenses and he studies you incredulously. "Wait, what? I didn't know about that."

You turn to stare at him but he's focused on the silver speckles in the sky. "Then what is it?"

His fingers brush yours. You look down but do not move away. "Do I really have to say more? Or have you gotten the hint?"

-

Mark slows his pace after some time. You match his steps. "I wish it was still early." He smiles wistfully.

"We can meet up tomorrow," you offer quietly. It sounded better in your head. "There's this movie I'm very keen to watch," you add meekly.

Mark doesn’t seem to mind. A smile flicker across his face. As you and Mark stroll under the starry sky, the all too familiar house at the end of the road comes into view. Mark chews on the insides of his cheeks.

"Go in. I'll watch you," he breathes. Dim light comes from the small window upstairs, a signal that your mother is already home. You've lost track of time.

"Goodnight, Mark."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You wake up the next morning, clearly sleep-deprived. Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone.

Mark let's meet again later at 2 pm :) [9:17 AM]

You spend the next four hours screaming at Donghyuck over text and rummaging through your closet for something decent to wear. Noon rolls by, and then it's only seconds to two. Your ears pick up the sound of the doorbell ringing. You run down the steps two at a time. Taking a few deep breaths, you pull the door open.

He stands before you, ears pink and you know for a fact has nothing to do with the heat. Ecstasy tugs at your lips.

#nct #nct scenarios #mark lee #nct mark #lee minhyung #nct dream #nct 127 #nct u #this was my latest request and i just had to write it #sorry