#i look at the shape of the sun and i the tangerine you offered to your brother. do you feel

[oatbugs]

lightning fried our satellite dish and now we are alone

#old geometry on old walls + her hand flowing along the river delta. sudden stop pulls on stitches #you are not allowed to laugh unrestrained for the next two months. in the next world #i look at the shape of the sun and i the tangerine you offered to your brother. do you feel #artificial ? do you feel man-made? what is more natural than man ? what is more natural than the creation of a natural thing? #do you feel like an organic automaton? will you love me if i change? will i love you if you change? if i prophesise about #not loving you it wont change the fact that i wont stop loving you. you are going to draw again because in a few weeks #you have to paint something sacred along the length of my spine. my friend asks me if im okay #and in my head i want to scream at her IM JUST HAPPY YOU'RE ALIVE. im sorry we were both in pain. im sorry you have to think about #endings. i will think about your beginnings. the air here feels like spring and i think of you every day. #my boy texts me on the train station about the snow and how he waited 4 hours in the underground. he said his hands were shaking #and i thought of how much i missed holding his hands. you were freezing on the train i was burning in the sky. #of course your password is phi. just like her. i miss you all. 10 friends teaching each other how to slow dance #in the kitchen. 10 friends cook a feast together and say goodbye. the last thing i told the boy who was once #in love with me was that i wont say goodbye because no one would care to hear it. the last thing he said was fair enough. #im glad you kissed me when i was drunk. i am visiting my town by the sea for the first time in a decade and i hope to #peel it open and bite again. my love، how do i make you feel? pomegranate cracked open. you saw the blood inside #and you dug your hands inwards. messed up through all the red، you still bit in. #i will make you feel safe enough so you can lose your mind again. you can create again #im sorry i didnt realise how much you had missed me. im sorry i didnt realise thats a part of why you stopped creating #i am not sorry that it matters so much. it matters because i love you. ill be back soon. keep cracking me open. ill keep cracking you open. #world of chroma blue and crimson. a girl asks a policeman for direction without a headscarf on. this was an act of war. i reveal my own #hair in the wind and think of how much i love you. i stare at the policeman through the eyes of the slaughtered. #my lovely economist drinks up the ocean and i think of her beautiful hair with its bloody ends in the wind #chase your dreams. dont say goodbye. politics is an act of love. i look at the killer with the eyes of those he killed and i think of #kissing you over the river kissing you in your bed kissing you before you left kissing you until we were late kissing you goodbye #for five consecutive days kissing you in the train station kissing you in the rolling fields kissing you by the cityscape kissing your neck #until it bled. i love you. i will kiss you until you can create again. #i miss my love i miss my starlights and i miss the sky. one day ill make you tomato soup again. #and now it is time to replace a very old very young self.

[pinknipszz]

dragon!simon riley and phoenix!reader

for centuries, humans have honored the phoenix. they fell to their knees at the steps of your temple, uttering graces in hopes of prosperity and good fortune. they often came with baskets of tangerines and figs, barrels of wine, and bars of gold. you were generous on most days since humans were your favorite. even in the most vile, like arrogant kings and nobles, all of whom you struck down, you found entertainment.

humans found pleasure in you, as well, albeit vicariously through. you were an elegant creature, with sun-kissed feathers and a long, sweeping tail that draped from your figure like a dress. many were tempted to climb up the temple steps, and some had the gall to try, but never made it past the third step. you spent your immortal days like this—munching on fruit on an elevated seat, revered like a glorified empress.

until one day, you felt an unwelcome presence enter your realm. the sensation was fleeting, but it put you on high alert. 

then the humans stopped visiting you. you weren’t concerned about it at first. perhaps there was a drought or maybe a flood that swept the villages, killing hundreds of thousands. that happened often with how fragile they were. whatever it was, you knew they would come running back to you with more gifts. or so you thought. you grew wary of how many nights passed without a single mortal stumbling upon your temple. 

one night, you caught onto the reason for your realm’s silence, the humans’ absence. it was a mistake on his part, really. a misstep that revealed himself to you far sooner than he planned.

“i’m impressed by your stealth, though i don’t appreciate whatever you did to my villagers.” you called out into the dark forest, waiting for a response. you only had one source of light—a lantern in your hand that did more to illuminate your face than cast away the shadows hiding your intruder. when none came, you considered retreating inside.

you were in no shape or form to hold a fight against whatever beast was out there. you could try to shift into your full form and fly out into the sky, only returning after a long while, but you needed offerings to do so, and the most recent, a rotting basket of persimmons, could only do so much. perhaps those were its intentions, you thought bitterly. killing my humans to make me weak.

you were pulled out of your stupor when a large figure suddenly materialized from the darkness. it was tall and broad, cloaked in heavy fabric with a strange mask over its face. underneath all of that cloth, however, you saw a pair of eyes. scoffing, the grip on your lantern tightened. “do you consider myself a fool, fallible to your cheap scare-tactic?”

when it—or he—tilted his head, almost mockingly, you bit your cheek. the nerve!

“you are trespassing this sacred place, vagrant. you must leave and never come back, unless you have something to offer.” you warned, your composure faltering as he approached the temple slowly. he was nearing the steps, but you held your ground. he walked up the first step, and then the second, third, and fourth— 

your breath hitched, catching something that couldn’t have possibly been seen from afar. your lantern light reflected strange specks that littered the exposed skin on his neck and arms. they looked like scales, you realized, dragon scales.

the shadows enveloped you, and you were face-to-face with his chest. you craned up to meet the storm behind those muddled eyes, before the lantern slipped from your grip.

(masterlist)

>> wanted to push out a cod ficlet before the yr ended tbh; might turn this into a series if im not lazy

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #call of duty #cod modern warfare #alternate universe #dragon/phoenix au #simon ghost riley

[starlightts-posts]

YOUR WARRIOR | part 1

Neteyam x Li'ona!fem!reader

i have been trying to break my writing block for six months and managed to get this piece out of it

contains: brief mentions of scars/wounds, brutal murder of a fish, forced marriage, kind of enemies to lovers

and definitely has grammar errors, sorry for that

It was difficult. He was a na'vi hybrid, an exquisite combination of human and alien species, while you were the daughter of a pure-blood king. The possibility of a lasting relationship was low, nearly non-existent among your tribe, but that thrill ignited a dangerous spark neither of you could quench.

Neteyam was mesmerized by your beauty, by the elegance of your movements, by your firm posture, but mostly by your tangerine-colored eyes. Instead of the common golden gaze, yours had a tint of orange around the pupil. They held so much mystery and passion that Neteyam wanted to grasp and solve like it was some kind of a riddle. They held a bunch of secrets he was willing to discover. Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan fell in love with the Li'ona princess who, unfortunately for him, was betrothed.

You were promised to a determined na'vi, a muscular warrior, whose reputation was apparently unhealthily pure. But tasun was raised alongside your older brother and shared some of his personality traits. He was stubborn, too cocky for his own good and disloyal when it came to relationships. There were seas of rumors about his awful behavior towards his past partners, especially towards your cousin. You strongly disliked that boy but you had to obey your mother.

Maybe that was why you felt connected to the omatikaya hybrid. Neither of you had the freedom you deserved. Both of you were forced to grow up at a very young age, to look after your younger siblings. everybody had high expectations you had to fulfill.

But in reality, you were just hopeless teenagers who wanted, no, needed to experience true love.

You narrowed your tangerine gaze at the swiftly moving target, tightened the grip you had on your whetted spear and pinched your bottom lip with the sharp tips of your fangs, precisely counting every loop the unaware school of fish had been making. After a minute of watching, you aligned your armed hand with the target and inhaled the scent of seaweed as your weapon striked the head of a fish with a splash.

Quickly leaping over the seawall terrace to get ahold of the spear, you battled the smug grin that threatened to spread across your pursed mouth and studied your catch with a burning glimmer in your eyes. When your fingertips were about to touch the handle of the weapon, several weirdly-shaped creatures casted heavy shadows on the unmoving surface of the clear sea and attracted the eyes of other fishermen as well, awaking curiosity and confusion in the Li'ona na'vi.

You collected your spear, along with the multiple breathless fish, and took your feet out of the seawall terrace you decided to clear out today, a woven net overflowing with your catches caressing your exposed lower back. You strapped the netting to your slim figure and created clicking noises with your tongue to call your ilu. The animal greeted you with an enthusiastic squeal and revealed its back to the rider. After you connected your queue to the sea creature, the group of skilled fishermen set off towards the sandy shore where the intruders had landed.

You emerged out of the resting sea with your peers and pushed some wet raven locks out of your eyes that glittered in the afternoon sun rays. You abandoned your ilu along with the woven net near a centralized ilu pen after you offered your recent catch to the bewildered animal and disconnected your queue from it.

"What happened?" your younger sister questioned the sudden cluster of your people after she surfaced beside you, tugging drenched strands of hair behind her pointed ear. You shrugged your shoulders with a shake of your head and approached the herd of Li'ona villagers with the naturally curious girl.

You swiftly dodged any arriving people, keeping your tail close to your calfs in case somebody didn't notice your presence and accidentally stepped on it as they did many times before. Untroubled, your sister walked through the cluster easily, each Li'ona moving out of her way towards the intruders.

You slided aside to avoid approaching muscular bodies and the Olo'eyktan, who was returning with his newly organized hunting party precisely on time. You appeared behind Tasun, your betrothed, and the eldest son of the chief, your brother, with folded arms across your rising chest as Maratu walked out of the herd, spear in hand.

"What is that?" Tasun gestured to the tail of the closest Omatikaya boy, making the victim of his following remarks to glance over his tense shoulder. Your betrothed stifled a chuckle as he pointed to the thin tail that was flicking from side to side. "Is that supposed to be a tail?"

You slapped the nape of his neck in disapproval and released a warning hiss below his ear, forcing it to turn downward as you pushed the two arrogant boys apart. Your brother swatted your hand away from his chest and poked your side in return, chuckling when you took a step forward with a growl.

Neteyam lowered his piercing amber eyes on your small turquoise form and caught your tangerine-colored gaze in the process. The target of the nasty remarks flickered by his side while his withdrawn ears twitched as you displayed your full beauty underneath the bright burning star. A shimmering spark of forbidden interest twinkled in both gazes and sealed the command of the Great Mother herself.

"We seek Uturu," Jake announced and received judgemental glares and exaggerated gasps from each direction. Maratu tilted his head slightly as his wife, Kirnat, emerged out of the humongous crowd with a scowl decorating her facial features. You were pulled backwards by Tasun when the pregnant woman began to circle the foreigners and were detached from the eldest son.

"We are half-reef people," Maratu mentioned the differences as he gestured to the desperate family, weak chuckle stroking his lips. "You are forest people. Your skills will be nothing but a waste, JakeSully."

Kirnat tugged at their thin tails and pointed out that they will not be capable of swimming in the water. She approached the oldest daughter of JakeSully and Neytiri with a huff and seized her wrists to inspect her unusual hands. "These children-" she lifted them up for everyone to see and displayed her five fingers with a silent growl, "-aren't even true Na'vi."

"Yes, we are!" Kiri snatched her hands out of the Tsahìk's grasp and pulled them to her heaving chest, tangling her fingers in the shawl she had on her shoulders. Tuk wrapped her arms around her leg to hide away from the intense stares and snuggled up against her thigh, making you sigh in defeat.

Neteyam tuned out the persuasion when you sneaked past your assigned lover and appeared on his left with flattened ears, his twitching at the sight. He allowed himself to marvel at your softening face that showcased concern and some kind of pity. He absorbed your wrinkled forehead and the unique shape your pigment patterns were creating in the middle of it along with your delicate facial structure.

"Gross," your brother pretended to gag beside his friend and quickly shielded his head when you faced him with a glare and clenched teeth. The boy received a slap on his shoulder from your cousin, Maru, who silenced his laughter with a stern tone.

You bowed to show your gratitude before your youngest brother could tackle your legs. Neteyam narrowed his eyes at the interaction as his father pleaded the Olo'eyktan and Tsahìk for a chance, stating that his family can adapt like he did many years ago. You picked up the whining little boy with an eye roll and let him fidget with your handmade necklace.

The eldest son of Toruk Makto noticed the tender caresses you left on your sibling's upper back to soothe his pounding heart and throbbing headache, swallowing the hums that were threatening to escape out of his mouth. He was flabbergasted by the relationship you had with the little boy and wondered if he was your younger brother. The urge to ask for your name was clawing at his dry throat and forced him to clear it as he dedicated his attention to his father and Maratu, missing the opportunity to catch you staring at his differently built body.

"Your arms are thin, your tails are weak," Kirnat wrapped her fingers around the youngest son's forearm to reveal his five-fingered hand and pulled it upwards, a hiss drumming against the walls of her throat. "They have demon blood!" The herd of her people took a couple steps back, mouths agape with disbelief.

Neteyam flinched when the pregnant woman poked his stiff shoulder and pushed some of his tightly braided hair forward to reveal a healed wound to the little boy that had been taking in his appearance in your arms. He pointed to the scar, which made Neteyam shiver. You followed his curious gaze and noticed the wound as well, scolding the boy for pointing at the Omatikaya. Neteyam covered the healed injury with his four-fingered hand and scooted closer to his younger brother, who had been devouring the beauty of the youngest daughter of the chief.

Maratu shared a look with his mate and tilted his head slightly to convince the woman without using his words. Kirnat stole a glance at the fleeing family and closed her eyes, battling her inner voices. Once they fluttered open, she nodded and gave her husband her consent. "Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us," he began to announce and buried the smooth end of his spear into the sandy shore. "They do not know the sea, they will be like babies taking their first breath. Teach them our ways, so they do not suffer the shame of being useless."

JakeSully encouraged the rest of the family to bow and mutter a quick thank you to the Li'ona leaders. Maratu accepted their politeness easily while his wife stifled a snicker and dissolved the cluster with a wave of her hand, motioning you to follow and return to the village with her. "My oldest son Ralu and youngest daughter Aneya, will teach yours the way of water," he clarified despite the protests of his son and silenced him with a glare. "Enough, ma 'itan. It is decided." [son]

By the imperfect posture of your mother you could tell she was against the idea of allowing armed strangers inside your village. you couldn't blame her. After the RDA attacked your former home, you refused to accept anyone who had the guts to travel beyond their territory, but here you were, trusting a title - Toruk Makto. the legend was well-respected in your tribe and beautifully captured in your songcords and celebrations, but would a true Toruk Makto seek Uturu among strangers? Run away from the threat?

Based on the stories your Ancestors provided you with, no. Toruk Makto would never flee, but a father would. JakeSully was also a father who cared deeply about his children and that was something a true warrior, a true legend would do - he would protect his most valuable treasure.

The thought of leaving your home, the people you love, behind just because humans are sickeningly greedy and unappreciative made you physically ill. And in some way, you had to go through that as well. So, after your father returned into your family marui pod and got scolded by his wife, he approached you with pleading eyes.

Your legs were dangling over the edge of the pod, ankles submerged. Various shoals of fish swam around your feet, trying to avoid colliding with them as your father took a seat beside you in silence. Your bioluminescent dots began to glow along with the underwater world you learned to appreciate and take care of.

Maratu exhaled heavily and placed his hand on your hunched back. You immediately straightened your posture but kept your exhausted gaze on the never-ending sea. "I know you aren't happy with my decision," he stated, figuring how you felt from your behavior during dinner. "And trust me when I say, I am not exactly happy either."

Your ears twitched at his confession which made him chuckle. "I know it will be hard to accept their presence and most people will take decades to do so." You turned to face your father, confusion flashing across your tangerine gaze. He grabbed your hand and placed it against his beating heart - an intimate gesture among your people, your father mostly used to show his seriousness and affection.

"What I am about to ask you may be selfish after what we had to go through, but you are the only one capable of doing what is right." His words scratched the back of your mind which awoke unpleasant memories. "I spoke to JakeSully.." you nodded and encouraged him to continue, "his oldest son Neteyam, I believe it was, was trained to be an Olo'eyktan-"

"What are you trying to say, dad?" you interrupted his speech as your fear of interacting with the Omatikaya boy kept growing. Maratu squeezed your hand and pursed his lips, giving away his request. "No," you snickered sarcastically and pulled your hand away from his tattooed chest, shaking your head in disbelief. "No, dad, that is- I am not-"

"I want you to become his personal trainer-" Before you could protest, he put his index finger on your lips. "He has great potential for a warrior and you will help him get there."

"But dad-"

"There isn't room for buts," he interjected harshly as he collected himself and stood up, silencing your upcoming grunts. "I do not want to hear it, daughter. You will help that boy out either way."

"Yes, sir.." you muttered angrily while your father walked back inside where a wave of joyful cheers and laughter of your younger siblings engulfed his tall figure.

You clenched your fists hard it made your knuckles white. You should have known. Your father never came to have a chit-chat with you, he always assigned you new chores, or ordered you to babysit your siblings.

What was so special about that Omatikaya anyway?

Was it his muscular body that seemed to be perfectly built for the sea and rainforest environment? Was it his pretty privilege? Was it his daddy's title? What the hell made him so suitable for the position you have been trying to get ahold of for years?

You had no clue and that made you furious. A frustrated growl crawled out of your throat before you plunged into the calm sea to clear your head. After you managed to swim far away from your marui pod and realized you were running out of air, you resurfaced at the edge of your resting village, fighting the urge to cough.

"Are you alright?"

Your bloodshot eyes scanned the shore for the source of that sickeningly soothing voice, finding nothing but pure darkness. A trail of tiny glowing dots started to move inside the rainforest your village was surrounded by from the other side. A lean, pretty tall figure emerged out of the woods, clutching a bow with a half-full quiver of arrows hanging on their shoulder. As they stepped out of the shadows into the bioluminescence, you noticed the bold dark-blue skin that was decorated with sharp and straight patterns.

You narrowed your eyes in an attempt to focus on their face, praying silently for any Sully besides Neteyam. But as they entered into the moonlight, you swallowed your prayers. Their tightly-braided hair was tied up in a high ponytail, revealing their defined face features. You traced their glowing dots, from left to right, and captured their golden gaze.

"Oh," you breathed out and cleared your throat as the Omatikaya boy approached you. "It is you.."

"You don't sound very pleased," Neteyam pointed out your disappointment and slung his bow over his free shoulder before he placed his hands on his hips. "You must be the other daughter then-"

You scoffed. "The other daughter?" Neteyam watched you walk out of the sleeping sea, seeing how offended you were by his words, and raised his brows in surprise. "You-"

You stomped towards the na'vi hybrid and poked his stiff shoulder, almost pushing his quiver off. "Do not," you warned and exposed your fangs in the process.

"My apologies." Neteyam withdrew his hands and took a step back to show some respect which you snickered at, not fully believing. "I did not mean to be disrespectful," he admitted and bowed to seal the truth.

The silence that fell upon you two was overflowing with tension and one-sided admiration. You were studying his unreadable facial expression while he was devouring your beauty.

His golden eyes traced every single droplet of sea water you had on your turquoise skin. Neteyam also tried to memorize the pattern of your bioluminescent freckles before you managed to turn away.

"Go back," you muttered over your shoulder as you started to walk back into the endless bowl of water, desperately searching for an escape from his curious gaze.

"Wait-" already ankles deep, you turned around with arched brows. Neteyam offered you a sweet smile, "Can you tell me your name?"

"You will know it soon enough, forest boy."

#avatar imagine #neteyam #avatar #neteyam imagine #avatar the way of water #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully

[chaossmagic]

"You don't know how much it means to me that you're doing this."

For a moment, T'Challa didn't reply, though his fingers flexed on the controls of the Quinjet for a split second. Then, "It is nothing."

"But it is. What you're offering - what you're asking to do-" Steve's words caught in his throat, and he looked down at his fidgeting hands in his lap, blood caked under his filthy nails. His entire body throbbed with bruises, but still he only had one thing on his mind.

"I almost caused more hurt to someone who has already been through so much pain. The least I can offer as an apology is a place of refuge and safety, where we have resources that may help your friend's...unique situation," T'Challa explained, turning to Steve with a gentle, sympathetic smile. "If I cannot at least try...I have failed him just as so many others have."

Steve was surprised when his eyes stung suddenly with tears. He snapped his head forward, staring at the vast expanse of blue sky and lush forest, the sun just starting to lower to the horizon on his left, as he tried to frantically blink them back.

It had been a long, tiring, emotional, exhausting few days.

"Ever since I found out Bucky was still alive, all I've ever wanted to do was keep him safe. To repay all the times he did the same for me when we were growing up. Now that I can, now that he doesn't have to fuss over me anymore. And after Hydra..."

He let his thoughts trail off. Steve didn't know why he was telling T'Challa this; he barely knew the man. But since he was taking a huge personal and political risk for them, he figured he owed him some honesty.

T'Challa's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, and Steve saw a brief flash of anger on his otherwise calm and composed face. "I have read a little about what that organization of monsters masquerading as human beings did to your friend. I can assure you, in my country, they will never touch him again."

"That's all I want," Steve said. "That's all I ever wanted to do. It's the only thing I have to do."

Steve turned to the front again, watching the sky as it slowly turned from blue to orange and red, azure bleeding out into tangerines and crimsons. It was the kind of sight he'd have loved to draw, if he were in a different situation, pencil and oil pastels capturing the way the colours changed as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

"We'll cross the border before nightfall," T'Challa informed him, disturbing Steve from his thoughts. "Perhaps you should wake Sergeant Barnes. He may wish to enjoy the view as we reach the entrance to Wakanda. It really is quite extraordinary, as biased as I am in favour of my home country." The king smiled, and Steve found himself smiling back.

As Steve nodded and rose, heading towards the back of the Quinjet to the medical bay, where Bucky remained fast asleep on a hospital-style cot, a thick-knit blanket pulled over him that was decorated with a riotously colourful pattern of lines and shapes, the enormity of the situation dawned on him all at once.

What he'd told T'Challa was true. He'd do anything, go anywhere, to keep Bucky safe.

But the road they were going down was a dangerous one; blinded by his emotions, tired and desperate, it was however the only road he could see in front of him.

Because that's what you did when you loved somebody like he loved Bucky.

You'd do anything you could to save them.

#lorna's writing #stucky #steve x bucky #stucky fic #t'challa #captain america: civil war #marvel #mcu

[sansajonquil]

Ariel is playing with a toy car on the shelf of the shop in scotland, waves of pain washing her head, brushing a strand of white moonlight behind her ear. As we work in the shop, placing items on shelf. She felt a need to heal and empathise halfway through another endless year, as she hears me say, ‘ hi ‘ to her. She has fangs, she being a werewolf, she baring them at me as she is near the window. Thoughts of me were on her mind, as she celebrated Easter with family, she seeing Easter items in the shop ; rabbit ears. She remembered a nice time of us planning stories with a cardinal and a girl. He had seen a wolf crash into him at New York, and sees the human in her. She looks so small, he thinks.

At lunch, we go to a cafe in an outside park. It was within a shopping centre near my university. I say through my disillusioned slur, ‘ hey, Ariel. hope you’ve been doing good, ‘ as I am smoking, my hands tremoring and hair drenched in sweat. As I am eating food, I see she has white in her hair, she saying that her mind had been ruined, and is calming within the spidered spiral, of her beautiful heart beating. I say a little of my time in cage.

I had suffered tremendously at the factory in the tower, of tactile torture. It practiced in lobotomy. Dean the bird angel rescued me, she had white wings landing on the crater of the moon where the tower was. She digging through the coffee beaned crater, to find the tower. As she flew through, she walked on the black floor of the tower room, her wings drawn to her sides, a spiky sun shaped lightbulb sconce dangling precariously on ceiling. She saw me shaking at where I was sat in the cage, in blood and golden piss. I cringe away from her, she saying through her bird beak, ‘ it’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you. ‘

It was a strong iron smell that pervaded her heightened senses, she smelling more strongly as she was an angel ( yet more accustomed to it due to living in southern countryside ). There was a rusted toilet and sink and unledgered shower in the cage, which I use, yet the torture when Cas was here, ominous footsteps clattering to me, made it difficult to remember or see clearly, my ballerina spidering in my mind. So at time of urgency, I hastily grabbed my shower cap to go piss, when I somewhat remember in the pain, otherwise I piss or poo in my underwear, slithering fog. It walked in my world, making horrible sounds. Dean sees the torture I’ve been through, thinking this Caspian I described in unsteady gasps of cawed bird through my wolf mouth, was violent and cruel, yet thinks Cas offering spiders as delicacy through the bars was a kind gesture, crunchy fried legs dipped freshly in the fryer of the diner Famine went to. Orange tangerine sauce on the spiders. She is giving me unconditional love and support, without ultimatum goals of effort.

We are talking in the shore of the sea. I am touching the calm waters, as we sit calmly with each other. She feels a spike of anxiety go through her, blushing through her bones, due to living in country and heaven - of war and peace, pulling her hand away from mine. and if you take my hand, please pull me from the dark and show me hope again. She says in a low growl to me, of possessive nature, continuing on when she said that I was hers, I was her liefje. I hear the growl reverberate in her throat as she touches my chest, kissing the violent wounds from Cas’ torture, and gripping my hands to each side of me with her claws. ‘ No-one will hurt you again. ‘

We went to court where Judge Frizz the Sheep presided. Dean is in the courtroom audience, her wings hidden and dressed in a light green polyester souvenir shirt from the shop. I say to Frizz, speaking helped cut through the fog like champagne petals while still rather shaking like a leaf, ‘ I was held in captivity as a deer in a hunt. Caspian said I was Shiva. ‘ My hands were also bleeding, me scratching myself with my nails of my hands and writing in bloody jagged letters on the wall of the tower, so I don’t go insane. Cas had devil horns scritched on each side of his head - his ears, and white fur coat. He was torturing me psychologically, and with instruments on a tray, piercing through the white and grey fur - sharp screwdriver and math drawing compass, as well as a whip. ‘ Pain is a beautiful thing to feel, ‘ he says. He smiles sardonically, as he sees my blue eyes with black lashes colour red in its white eyeball, I screaming. This is ironic, as his torture is a strange concentration which elicits worms to come wriggling through the soil. Frizz says, looking a bit like a bunny, that he hopes i heal, and wanted me, a sentient human to be free. I had been running from scientists for a long time, i having been an interesting breed of wolf in the snow, thought to be rare or extinct.

Ariel asked me if I didn’t get along well with my mum. As she got along well with hers, a bit confused at why I didn’t. My mum seemed nice to her, albeit a bit wary on who this girl was, i saying she was friend from university. I say, ‘ no, I don’t get along with mum. ‘ Dean had rescued me from the cage, my mind calmer, yet horror still with me in a sense, as I am at home with mum.

As I remember in vicious slants during my living with her, of my time in cage, which made me feel like Eleanor Rigby, I feeling sense of disembowelment, placing my used underwear in hidden sheets in wardrobe, and hoping mum would not find out, as it was pretty deeply buried. As I just try to live life, yet thinking she may torture me like Cas — a feeling of brief ; yet seemed pretty long worried shame in the back of my head.

I am now closer to Ariel once again, from when we talked at university, and she is at my house, after a few months. We hear mum shriek, as she is trying to find out old rotting smell, and puts the pile of underwear on the timber ground ; ghosted drapery fluttering around rocks and sand, exhaling in vanilla lace. She then says, ‘ Why?! ‘ She complains for a while… then says if I have trouble with cleaning myself properly, or bowel issues. Ariel thinks my mum is mean then, as she does this right in front of her, thinking she crude, as I was experiencing waves as best I could, I struggling through and finding some calm in the constant grief attacking me. She doesn’t really say anything when my mum is talking to me, yet when mum goes to work after her rant, she says, ‘ are you okay? ‘ And touching my hand. I nod in sad solemnity.

#personal

[wincore]

sour tangerine | huang renjun

pairing: keyboardist!renjun x songwriter!reader

words: 15.3k

summary:  ‘i gave up on that sort of music,’ he’d said. but not like this. not when you’re there to grab his wrist and drag him into your ridiculous notions about music that make him want to tear all his hair out. huang renjun falls in love with two words that escape your lips, and now he has to pretend his cheeks aren’t caked in a blush as red as donghyuck’s guitar. maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to joining this band of idiots just for an incredibly cute songwriter.

themes: rock band!au, fluff, (mostly existential) angst, comedy-ish

warnings: making out, alcohol, college kids being college kids

song recs: hello sunshine - wetter // how to love - day6 // today - nell // rooftop - n.flying // what can i do - day6 // red - the rose // i loved you - day6 // leave it - n.flying // baby - the rose

a/n: nct dream 00 line rock band. that’s it. who wants to join my renjun cover literally any song by day6 agenda. if you think this is like a kdrama compressed into a fic i am so sorry but you are correct hsdksh also i do not know what it’s like to major in music or make music so... please bear with me.

special thanks to @insomni-writing​ for beta reading this ilysm!! and @cinanamon​ because your support made me actually finish this ily dude <3

With hair dyed blond and a stream of colourful words ready at the tip of his tongue, no one assumes Huang Renjun majors in classical music. Not when he’s threatening Lee Donghyuck by the vending machine, not when he’s pulling an arrogant half-smile by the semester-end results and certainly not when he’s hardly ever seen near an instrument as elegant as the grand piano.

If they heard him play it just once, they’d forget the rest.

He strikes the keys gently, and then all at once in a motion so very unique to him—and you know this, not because you were stalking him, but because you happened to get a very rare ticket to the national level performing arts concert (which you didn’t scam out of someone that time, you swear). Looking pristine in a clean tuxedo and with then dark hair swept to the side, Huang Renjun looked very much like an alien, like the words leaving his mouth and the things he’d do would be so unpredictable. 

You were right. 

Huang Renjun plays the piano like he’s not of this world. 

He plays soft rock tunes even better—which, this time, you know because you were, in fact, stalking him while he spent extra hours in the practice room. From the lazy smile on his face to the way he let himself loose (for once) in a hot pink hoodie he kept trying to cover with his bag all day, you knew he was perfect.

Out of all the miserably planned (and timed) situations you’ve pulled yourself into, this might just hit top 3. 

You’re going to convince Renjun to join your band.

Which is easier said than done, because Renjun is just as stubborn as you are, if not more. You’ve never wanted to smack someone so bad and neither have you ever contemplated the outcome of spontaneous fistfights as much. But as frustrated as he leaves you, you know you need him, or your picture-perfect plan will fall apart before you’ve even started to paint.

The first time you’d nudged him in class, he’d sent you a glare as soon as the question left your lips. You’d fought a pout, the warmth on your cheeks popping like firecrackers. But you’re not easily discouraged, no, not really, not ever. 

The second time, you’d spread your arms in front of him to get him to stop walking off, looking more of a lunatic than a college student (sometimes, what’s the difference?) and Renjun had pursed his lips and furrowed his brows in an expression more than annoyed. 

“Please!” you yelled, catching the attention of fellow students.

Renjun eyed your palms flat against each other, elbows raised in a most comical prayer and announced a “No” just as loudly before briskly walking away.

The third time, you’d sent Donghyuck, your lead guitarist, who you really shouldn’t have expected to perform better than you did. You know they’re friends, so that should have worked better, right? Wrong. Renjun had returned a pouting Donghyuck, complaining nonstop for two whole days afterwards and with a message from Renjun to “in the best of words, fuck off”.

You sigh, glancing at the time on your watch. This is your last time to book him for your ragtag rock band (still unnamed) and you’re going to leave him with no choice. You can do this. 

You tiptoe from one side of the corridor to the other, the large windows drenching you in an uncomfortable amount of sunlight. But you are quiet—you know how to be sneaky and you’d be lying if you said you’re not at least a little bit proud of it. Renjun stays at the senior practice room well into late afternoon and if the door was closed fully, you’d be hearing nothing of it.

The old model of electronic keyboards in the practice room, which made you wonder if electric instruments ever rust, now plays ringing clear. It’s not just the fondness with which your school’s beloved pianist plays it but the added charm of his structure, straightened enough to focus but relaxed just as much.

A few minutes pass by in quiet contemplation, as you run through your plan again. First, approach him with a friendly gesture, offer him your strawberry milk or something. Second, block every exit he might seek once you’ve cornered him. Third, spew that long speech you prepared—a pretty pile of words ought to move him. Right? If all else fails, you’re going to call in Jaemin as your secret weapon. The boy can charm a rock, and you hate to be doing that to anyone (even Renjun), but drastic situations call for drastic measures. You take a sharp breath.

Oh, he’s singing now?

You misstep over the marble flooring and the door creaks open a little too loud.

Shit.

The music stops. You take a good second to swear at yourself, well and full, before breathing in and entering the practice room with as much confidence as you can gather.

“Renjun!” you say, grinning wide and arms stretched as if you’re there to welcome him.

Renjun looks at you, surprise smeared across his face. He quickly picks up his bag, shaking his head at you as he makes his way towards the door.

“You- “

Instead of all your brilliant planning, you resort to pulling a disgruntled Renjun into a lonesome corner before he can leave. It would seem more of a threat than an invitation to join, you’ll admit, but right now, you need Renjun to not glare at you with a scowl so obvious. It’s not that his face makes you nervous, it’s the outcome of today’s attempt. The bright afternoon sun reaches his hair and the left side of his face, a warm hue over eyes that look at you with more than just mild annoyance. He wears a grungy dark jacket over his lightly coloured T-shirt and has the audacity to claim he doesn’t do rock.

“Are you trying to kidnap me or something?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his bag.

You quickly smack the wall so your arm blocks his way, though the impact of it makes you wince.

“Join me,” you say, looking at him, determination across your face though the sentence comes off more cult-ish than you’d want. 

Renjun takes a step back to look up and take a sharp breath.

“I already told you,” he says, raising his voice, “I don’t do that sort of music anymore.”

“Anymore?”

Renjun groans, lips shaped in perfect annoyance. “Just how long are you going to keep this up?”

He tries to escape you but you take a hasty step closer, his back hitting the wall with a thud. It’s not all that fun, getting people to join your band. It’s even less fun when Renjun’s cologne is a tad too minty for your tastes.

“I’ll do anything!” you say, pressing your lips tight as the pleading grows in your eyes.

“Anything?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes!” You jolt up straighter.

“Then leave me alone forever for the rest of my life.”

Renjun crosses his arms and you frown, a sigh lacing your lips till you bring yourself to look him in the eye again. It’s not yet time to pull out Jaemin, you’re not even sure if that will work, but you might just have something else. 

“Lee Chaerim!” you suddenly yell. “You like her, don’t you?”

It’s a long shot but if it works… 

Renjun’s cheeks dust pink and he takes a step back, furrowing his eyebrows at you. Bullseye. You fight a snort before he can catch you. Gods, he’s so obvious.

“Wh-what gave you that idea?” he retorts, pitch shooting higher before he recomposes himself. “She’s a classmate, idiot. And don’t yell her name!”

“Star pianist Lee Chaerim,” you wave your hand about. “Who wouldn’t have a crush on her? I mean you’re a close second though.”

Renjun raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “It’s really not…”

“I’ll score you a date with her!” you declare, grinning like a maniac. “If you join my band.”

Renjun sighs, shoulders sagging. “You’re really not going to drop this, are you?”

“Nope.” You shrug, popping the ‘p’ in a helplessly obnoxious manner. 

Renjun leans back against the wall, head tilting to look you in the eye as the frown grows prominent over his lips.

“And you think scoring me a date will make me want to join your…band?” Renjun snorts.

You shift your eyes awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t really paint you as the Romeo type either but hey, I don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“(name)?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh. That’s actually the sweetest thing I’ve heard from you,” you muse before quickly returning to the subject at hand. “Ah, come on. Just give it a chance, please? 

“I major in classical music.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk crawling over your lips. “And yet you’re more than decent at Queen on the keys.”

Renjun straightens, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “You’re stalking me?!”

“No, I’m scouting you. All the big companies hire people to do that.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Er, it’s called extraordinary.”

“Extraordinarily annoying.”

“Stop arguing with me!” You stomp your foot.

Renjun mimics you in a rather aggressive tone, the tip of his nose almost touching yours. You pull a face, throwing a soft punch at his shoulder to which he responds with a sharp cry and a glare. 

“Fine!” Renjun says, massaging his shoulder. “I’ll give you one week to prove to me this band’s worth my time.”

You feel something akin to surprise before his words register. Worth his time? He's just about as arrogant as you expected. 

“Deal,” you say, shooting him a forced smile.

From the light periwinkle of his T-shirt to the blond strands astray against his forehead, there’s a sort of halo surrounding him. You press your lips together before you can laugh at his supposed angelic qualities, before he somehow starts to look as pretty as your friends describe. 

“Starting today, I’m your lyricist and composer!” you grin, extending your hand towards him.

“I...You…” 

Renjun hesitates before taking your hand in a firm shake, but not before pursing his lips in doubt. Perhaps you could have warned him before grabbing his wrist and so unceremoniously dragging him here. 

“I didn’t even join,” he mutters.

“I’m giving you the full trial!” you defend.

Renjun stays quiet before suddenly clearing his throat. “You can- You can let go of the wall now.”

Your eyes trail to your hand and you immediately retract it with an “ah”. There’s barely any distance between your chests, and you suppose you were successful in cornering him—a little too effectively. Renjun shakes his head, quickly walking past you with no gesture of goodbye.

“You’re going to be disappointed, (name),” he says quietly before leaving.

You blink in confusion at his disappearing figure. 

Whatever. When have you ever paid attention to words of warning? You glance at the back of Renjun’s head from the second floor’s handrail as he rushes down the stairs, albeit a sort of grace to his movement, and sigh. 

Donghyuck owes you twenty. You’re going to be rubbing it in his smug face that you’ve recruited, er, almost recruited the unreachable Huang Renjun. And for a date? He must be far more romantic than you thought. You don’t think you’ll ever understand him.

You take a slow, deep breath reaching all the way to your belly. 

Your plan is working out. It’s going to work out—soon you can be writing songs to a rhythm and melody of your choice, for people who can hear the words and dance to it. The world’s gonna sing along to your songs, to the chorus to your ambitions. 

“Renjun?!”

Between Donghyuck’s agape mouth and Renjun’s defensive stance, you really don’t know who to approach first. This place was apparently the only room in all of Seoul a bunch of college kids could rent out and while all of you dished out a remarkable chunk from your earnings, it was worth every penny. From the ugly orange wallpaper to the stinky couch, you wouldn’t trade a thing in this room, except for maybe Jeno’s withering plant in exchange for a new one. Poor thing’s been dead for as long as you can remember (courtesy of Jaemin).

“(name) actually convinced you?” Donghyuck asks, exaggerated surprise in his voice before he drops it lower. “You can tell me if you were threatened or something, promise I’ll get you out of this.”

Renjun rolls his eyes, a smile making on to his face anyway. “It’s just for a w—mph!”

You slap a hand over Renjun’s mouth, stepping in to grin victoriously at Donghyuck. “See, Hyuck? I told you I’d make it work. Now, pay up.”

“You bet on this?” 

The curtains are drawn shut but the room lights are bright in a strange sort of way, like someone in the sixteenth century discovered electricity early and decided to reinvent candlelight out of it. Late afternoon isn’t as gentle as it is in winter, but you’d rather have patches of sunlight decorating the room instead of the garish yellow lights. The lavender air freshener you sprayed a few minutes ago has already settled in, the previous scent of instant noodles, though delicious, finally gone. You should’ve brought the coffee mix, you think with regret. A productive day needs a productive start, as you’ve always been told. (You might have messed up, but it’s never too late, right?)

You think you should have anticipated a little adjustment trouble after all.

Jeno walks headfirst into the mess—with Renjun choking Donghyuck under his arm while you try to not drop the pile of records from the small coffee table and onto the Dorito dust-covered wooden floor. The recorder is safe, a good few feet away from your mayhem.

“Oh, hey Renjun, didn’t know you’re a part of this,” Jeno says, raising an eyebrow at the boy.

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” Renjun mutters in response, loosing up on Donghyuck.

You narrow your eyes. “Wait, you guys know each other?”

“Yeah, we’re in the same dorm,” Jeno answers, shrugging before he drops his bag onto the couch. 

You gasp. “You could’ve just asked him all this time?!”

“Uh,” Jeno drawls out before coughing forcefully. There’s a slight change of air, and your inability to read situations, for the first time, is a major help.

“Hello, trouble children,” Jaemin announces as he enters, his bag thrown in Jeno’s direction, who seems relieved for the interruption.

“Oh, hi Renjun!” 

“You know him too?” You’re almost offended at this point. 

Jaemin stares blankly in confusion. “Yeah, we’re…all…in the same dorm.”

You throw up your head in exasperation, an annoyed huff leaving your parted lips. “And none of you thought of asking him to join?!”

“We didn’t think he’d ever agree,” Jaemin says, glancing at Renjun discreetly. 

Renjun stays quiet, shrugging before he plops down on the couch. “Anyone wanna tell me what we’re supposed to do today? Apart from killing Donghyuck?”

“It’s not my fault you’re so bad at rock, paper, scissors,” Donghyuck retorts quietly. 

“You cheated!” Renjun sits up straight, glaring.

You raise your palms like the peaceful negotiator you are, and honestly, all they had to do was decide the lead vocal for the new song, which Renjun vehemently rejected. 

Donghyuck gasps. “Renjun isn’t half as innocent as he looks. Watch out (name)—oof.”

Renjun elbows him in the stomach, the resulting expression on Donghyuck making you wonder just how much strength Renjun really has.

“Renjun, Donghyuck. You’re both lead,” you say, finalizing.

“What?!” 

The two of them look at you, one with betrayal and the other with an emotion very close to murder. It wasn’t easy coming to the decision, sure, but for this song, you’ll be needing Renjun a little bit more. Is it treacherous of you to have picked out the song most suited to him? You have your reasons, however. You’re not letting Renjun leave without experiencing the wonders of performing at a local pub, and in general, you’re a little iffy about letting him leave at all. You need the keys and you need a chance. You have something to prove.

“Just this song, Hyuck,” you sigh. “You know we switch up things every time.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “The show's coming Saturday, right?”

You nod when Renjun interrupts.

“Show?!” he blurts.

“We’re performing,” you answer, shrugging. “You know Odd Fruit? In Hongdae?”

Renjun wrinkles his nose, shifting back. “No? Isn’t that a dive bar?”

“Best place for us,” Jaemin grins, resting his elbows against the headrest beside Renjun. “Saturdays are for rock.”

Renjun sighs. “I don’t- I don’t sing rock.”

Jeno raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t peeping or anything but wasn’t that you in the shower? What were you singing again—”

“Okay, okay!” Renjun sits up straight, heaving a sigh, his shoulders moving with it. “I sing Disney songs in the shower, it doesn’t mean anything…”

“We can do that sort of music too.” You grin, tilting your head. “We can do any music!”

“Yeah,” Jeno encourages thoughtfully, “Even idol music!”

“No,” everyone says in unison. 

Jeno mutters something under his breath, sulking as he sinks into the couch and crosses his arms after adjusting his bright red baseball cap.

Renjun shakes his head, recomposing himself. “You want me to perform next Saturday?! That wasn’t in the deal!”

You furrow your brows. “I told you it’s a full trial!”

“That’s over a week!” He throws up his hands in exasperation.

“The trial week ends on Friday and Saturday’s just a bonus,” you reason, crossing your arms. 

You don't break the gaze just in case it determines your stand. It’s probably a full minute of glaring at each other before your humble audience intervenes, Donghyuck bursting into laughter and the other two following. You share a puzzled look with Renjun, looking around for an explanation.

“We’re gonna have a blast this Saturday,” Donghyuck says, wiping a tear from his eye. “I can’t wait.”

“We’ll get to practise,” Jaemin says, resting his palm on Renjun’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re gonna have fun, trust me.”

“I hope so,” Renjun mutters.

That’s all you need to hear.

Renjun isn’t half as disagreeable when he’s focused. His brow line is straight, lips parted gently and eyes almost hazed over as if his fingers over the keys have eyes of their own. 

Renjun is also fantastic at perfecting your notes. You always thought he’d be too prissy to work with you, but he doesn’t seem to care about that anymore. With flushed knuckles and long fingers, part of hands that were meant to play the piano—you’d say Renun lives up to the musical prodigy title. The short demo you’d played for him somehow swirled and twined into music so him and yet still you, rock undertones with light blues. You haven’t met anyone who can play with melody like that, besides Donghyuck.

Rock means hope. Undone to be done.

And maybe, part of you is a little disappointed at how well he handles the pre-performance stress. You would love to see a hint of jitters in him for once. Saturday wastes no time in creeping up and while you wish you could say you feel what your band looks like, you don’t. The pre-performance stress is very, very different for you. 

Let’s say, you’re not too sure about reviving rock music in Seoul. It’s not very popular and still considered underground, but hey, at least it’s easy on the ears and it is honest, if nothing else. And an honest sound wins, right?

You lock eyes with Renjun, before they're ushered to the centre. There's not much to be said. You smile with a determined nod, holding up both of your thumbs to the boys. This will work out. It will.

And at the very least, you're getting two shots of whiskey on the house.

The place is shabby, but not too shabby for a dive bar. There’s a giant mural… thing of what seems to be the hybrid of a peach, apricot and dragonfruit. You’re not too sure, actually. Just as crowded as you expected, the lights glow dim and the smell of musk and lime keep in check the other foul smells that could possibly emanate from the human body. Lovely. Your fingers play against your lips as they stretch into a smile. It’s the perfect place to play your song, but maybe the jitters have a purpose after all.

There are foreign faces around, quite literally, and it makes you nervous. You settle by the bar, your last words of encouragement drifted off further from you to whatever that excuse of a stage is. 

Renjun looks calm as ever. The confidence in him is not what you'd expected, though a bubbling feeling in you suggests it's even better this way.

“You finally got someone on the keys,” a familiar voice calls from behind the countertop.

You turn your head to find Doyoung, arms resting on the table and holding what seems to be a bottle of vodka so tenderly, you’d think it was either his child or an explosive.

“Huang Renjun,” you respond, smiling. “Like the best pianist in our year. Or maybe second best.”

Doyoung laughs. “You kids could be as good as us some day. Need more practice.”

“Hey, old man, it’s not your time anymore,” you say, raising an eyebrow with a cheeky grin. “Maybe you were the best keyboardist back then but…”

You lean in to emphasize as you point at a Renjun furrowing his brows at all the wiring. “That guy’s going to outsing you. It’s the new era now. Etcetera, etcetera.”

“You talk like I’m from a different generation.” Doyoung scoffs, though the corner of his lips twitch. “Still dreaming of making your boyband? Do you guys even have a name?”

You pout. “It’s not a boyband! Okay… technically, it is a boyband. And no, we don’t have a name.”

You sulk for a moment or two at the way Doyoung had called your life’s work a boyband in that uninterested tone. Nothing’s wrong with a boyband. You sigh.

“At least we’re getting free alcohol, eh?” you nudge Doyoung, him being the reason you’re getting to play here anyway. What does a graduated music performance major do in his free time? Bartending, apparently. You haven’t ever really questioned his life choices and you’re not going to start now. Never question your seniors.

“I’m not serving you kids alcohol,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows in disbelief.

“We’re legal,” you argue, crossing your arms.

“Hard to believe.”

You see the smile lines crease on Doyoung’s face and before you can retort, a hum of strings resounds through the place, loud enough for the two of you to catch.

“Sorry,” Donghyuck mouths sheepishly to the two of you, Doyoung responding with an eye roll.

“I didn’t know that demon could get nervous,” he mutters and you laugh at the comedic duo the two of them make. 

Donghyuck clears his throat into the mic and you cringe, but not before holding back your laughter at the terror in his eyes. Right then, the keys are struck, and suddenly, music is into motion.

You absentmindedly hum along, smiling to yourself before it strikes you to monitor the crowd. You gulp, a crease in your brows as you look around with the determination of a child at a pet shop scanning for a puppy to adopt.

You give up after a minute or so, the feeling weighing heavy. Reading facial expressions has never really been your thing, especially under lights that don’t acknowledge the purpose of their existence. (You’re not saying this because you have bad eyesight.) Fun varies. Everyone in this place is in a crowd of their own, and if not a crowd, in a dream. Some nod along, some smile but you, you know the song better than anyone else in this room. It has to be worth something.

You sigh. Your desperation gets a notch crueler each drawing year, and yet, the questions still arise. Do you have to be someone? A smiling face at a dive bar is more than enough to be, you think.

You mouth the lyrics, nodding your head along to the baseline you helped make. You think Doyoung chuckles beside you, something about taking self-love too seriously but you can’t hear him over the sound of the band. 

Bass. Drums. Keys.

Suddenly, in the moment between heartbeats, your eyes meet Renjun’s.

He sings into the mic full of self-assurance, teeth occasionally making an appearance in a chaotic smile. It's always the little things that make the person. Eyes peering down at the keys, barely keeping open at certain parts and yet you think you see a hint of exhilaration in them. 

The riff of the second song starts out loud. This is Donghyuck’s song and this time, it turns heads. You’re not sure in a good way or bad, but it wouldn’t be the first time people have wanted to beat him up in a bar. You snicker to yourself but just then, two guys cheer from the crowd, a red-faced Donghyuck flashing them a grin.

“Ah, Jaehyun and Taeil are here too,” Doyoung notes. You’ve never actually met the two but you’ve heard of them so many times you think you could replace Doyoung as their lead singer. 

The song is called Cheers and for good reason.

Donghyuck smiles into the mic, and with a highly anticipated breath, you realize, Renjun is smiling too. Little by little, the night grows more optimistic and into the palms of your youth. Even in this tiny, crowded place. Even in a room full of people you can’t read.

The song ends in time, but not enough for Donghyuck to actually convince Doyoung to give him drinks. It’s not a Saturday night without their fights, and despite that, the atmosphere is warm with spoken words. You think you catch Renjun beam at Doyoung’s compliment, suppressing your own smile at the two..

Clink, splash, clink.

“You know, for someone as excited about whiskey, I thought you’d be better with liquor,” Renjun says, sighing as his hesitant finger pokes you in the forehead.

Your eyes open so suddenly, Renjun flinches and you ease into a smile. “I’m not that drunk. The next shot, maybe.”

That’s not entirely true because you’re sure the previous one just needs a little more time to settle into your gut. Renjun, on the other hand, seems to be better at dealing with alcohol. The peach hue across his cheeks make you want to pinch them and you’ll give it twenty minutes before you lose control and actually do.

The two songs were only three and a half minutes each but they seemed to stretch long enough for you to be pleased with them. You’re not sure about the rest.

“I almost messed up the beat there,” Jeno mutters, resting his head against the bar table. Jaemin shrugs beside him, taking another shot. The two of them can hold their liquor, at least. Donghyuck cannot.

“Was it that bad?” Donghyuck asks, adjusting the red bomber jacket he was so sure made him look cool. “I don’t think it was bad. I mean, we all do embarrassing things once in a while—”

“Does he not shut up?” Renjun wails before looking at you accusingly. “Don’t end up like that.” 

“I don’t mope, Renjun,” you snap, your finger unsteady as it points at him. “You better remember that about me.”

Renjun rolls his eyes. “And you’re gone too.”

“Tell me,” you say, your lips tugged into a lazy smile, “you enjoyed it, didn’t you? I saw you smiling.”

Even under the wash of blue light, you can see his cheeks tinge with colour. Is Huang Renjun purple now? Not the crystal clear jewel you’d expected, but these hues are so much nicer on him. He doesn’t always have to be under golden spotlight—he can just bask in the mulberry shades of a nearly sketchy club once in a while.

“Renjun,” a loud whine erupts from beside you, Donghyuck immediately wobbling up. “I can’t believe you actually agreed to play with us. C’mere, let me give you a smooch.”

Renjun curls his lips, desperately trying to fight off Donghyuck clinging onto him for life, and you hear a grunt of pain from Renjun in a pitch you didn’t think was humanly possible. You laugh, clutching your stomach and hear a few strained words from Renjun about how no one ever helps him. Who would help him when he’s providing you the funniest event of the weekend?

Jeno is the knight in shining armour tonight, pulling Donghyuck off but not before the boy lands a kiss on Renjun’s neck, in turn getting smacked in the lips a little too hard. Donghyuck places his hand over his mouth, keeling over with eyes shut in pain and Renjun mutters about how he deserved that. He fits in just fine, you think.

“You wanna… not do that?” 

Renjun pulls the shot glass away from you, and you frown at him.

“So tell me,” he says, leaning in a little closer to be heard over the song. “Why did you want me to join your band so desperately you forgot your own dignity? I’m not saying you had any to begin with but…”

“Look, Renjun, I don’t give away embarrassing secrets when I’m drunk,” you warn, poking him right between the ribs. “Even if it’s not embarrassing. Or a secret.”

“Right. You’d do that sober,” he sighs, arms a polite distance from you when you try to stand up.

“Now you tell me—”

“You didn’t even answer me.”

“—did you have fun?”

Renjun pauses, taking a moment or two as he scans your face. The light dances across his features, gentle eyes and parted lips, across the dark jacket over a white shirt that has turned fluorescent under the lighting. You forgot how fun this place got beyond midnight, when they play beats to dance to for a crowd that seeks nothing more than fun.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

Renjun might be trying very hard to stop the smile over his lips but you can see it in his eyes. And perhaps, people are only seen when they are true to themselves.

“Huang Renjun!” you yell all of a sudden, voice still drowned out in the delicate discordance. 

Unfortunately for Renjun, you yell directly into his ear and he responds with a violent recoil, hand flying to his ear involuntarily. He probably cries out too but the music is deafening, something you enjoy rightly so. Or is it the alcohol? Should you have stayed sober for Renjun’s sake? Right now, you don’t even mind the strong minty scent wafting from Renjun—in fact, it’s welcoming, even.

You wobble onto his chest before tentatively pushing yourself away. You curse at yourself. You weren’t supposed to get hammered. How much did you drink? You can’t even bear to look at the bill right now.

“You know what? I’m not having fun right now,” Renjun speaks into your ear and you jump. There’s a hint of a smile on his face. 

You sit back down on the bar stool, pouting at the fuzz blooming inside your head. No more words for tonight. In all honesty, why doesn’t anyone ever let you dance?

“Oh no, you don’t.” Doyoung pulls the bottle of whatever-alcoholic-beverage out of your reach. “Do you even know how expensive that is? You’re going to have to pay.”

You think you sober up a little, sitting straight. “Oh no. I don’t have money. I’m not cleaning the place again.”

A sort of unspoken arrangement passes between Doyoung and Renjun, who you’re sure have never met before. You know Jaemin’s dragged Donghyuck home, the same way you’d drag your pet cat away from the kitchen and Jeno is the only one with a driver’s license and Doyoung’s trust (hence, designated driver). Which leaves the two of you. 

Renjun heaves a sigh, pulling you up by the shoulders. “You’re going home. Or whatever dumpster you came from.”

He proceeds to mutter something about Jeno being late but in the moment, you flash him a grin, walking perfectly away (at least, you think you do) and out into the night. Renjun follows, flustered by your absolute lack of restraint as he somehow manages to stop you from tripping over the sidewalk.

“You didn’t dance,” you complain, looking at him. 

“You didn’t let me,” he retorts. “Look at you. You’re as bad as Donghyuck. Babysitting him is difficult enough.”

You grumble before agreeing. “Okay, fair. Next time, no drinking. Unless it’s free.”

What college student would have the audacity to turn down free drinks? Huang Renjun should not have been this good at holding his liquor. Needlessly, your thoughts are incoherent—not too good for a songwriter, right?

Huang Renjun has a lighter touch than you thought. He has a polite hold over your shoulder, in a way friends do most often, and you might feel like you could have been friends with him forever, but you can never tell what he thinks. Sometimes, Renjun really is extraterrestrial. In the way he talks, in the way he looks at things and in the way you almost believe he’s going to do something unspeakably outrageous someday. 

You feel a certain sprout of warmth in your chest as he sits quietly beside you in the noisy car Jeno loves to drive. Must be the alcohol, of course. Of course.

And sometimes, you come up with words fit for a song. To fall asleep in last night’s clothes and wake up with tomorrow’s dreams—all part of the grand plan, part of the crusades of youth, nothing more and nothing less. That sounds like something you’d love telling your family when you’re old and grey. You laugh to yourself, pulling the covers over your head, not knowing how you even ended up here. 

It smells minty. 

With that one fleeting thought, you doze off in your unwashed bed sheets and faintly lemon-scented pillows, shades of plums and oranges and cherries of the night twisting into midnight black.

Playing at Odd Fruit is now a thing. Your thing. The band’s thing.  

As if you needed any more reasons to stay over at the bandroom, now that Donghyuck and Renjun bickering keeps everyone up all night. You’re not blaming them, of course, when you join in the fun too. The day Renjun’s nostrils stop flaring and his eyebrows don’t furrow into an oddly adorable expression will be the day he’s finally set free from your ‘ill-treatment’.

Tap, scratch, tap.

Donghyuck fiddles with the strings of his guitar, while the rest lay slumped in any clean bit of space they could find, like runners after a marathon. Which is funny, really, considering you were the one running errands and cleaning up the damn place and it’s yet still somehow trashed. You could be having a little more energy, you always could. 

However, the lengthened nights have left you in a state you’re rather afraid to be in. Your eyes don’t grow any more determined when it’s time for end semester tests, you don’t grow any happier at the thought of graduating. There are so many tunes to find, so many words to scribble—just how will you catch up?

Fun is a perfectly valid reason to do things but it’s only so long before the rest of your feelings each grip you by the limbs. 

“We need to do something more,” you say, pacing the room. “Something that’s a little more eye-catching, you know?”

There’s a pause.

“Make Jeno play the drums shirtless,” Donghyuck suggests.

Jeno sighs, still not having figured out how to respond every time a scandalizing proposition escapes the boy’s mouth. At this point, most of you have considered duct taping him over the mouth but it’d never work. Renjun’s tried.

“Why do we even need it?” Renjun asks, eyes on the ceiling as he lies back on the couch.

“To improve!” you say, shoulders hunching.

“I don’t need improving,” he mutters, neck angled to the side in contemplation.

“Yeah, you should see Renjun at the dorms,” Donghyuck snorts. “I don’t think he can get any better.”

Renjun furrows his brows. “What?”

“You play the keys in your sleep, Renjun,” Donghyuck says, almost distastefully. “You keep tapping and tapping against the study desk. How the hell do you not wake yourself up?”

“And you snore,” Renjun mumbles, glaring at him. “How the hell do you not wake yourself up?”

“Guys,” you interrupt. Your lack of sleep throughout the exam season has not left you any better than this. “More important matters at hand.”

“Why are we so stressed anyway?” Renjun sighs.

There’s another pause in the quiet afternoon. You’d think it’s comforting even to have the same fear lingering beneath each of your noses, that same existential grasp ready to pounce—all within the comfort of the same room you share. All those late nights sharing ramen have meaning after all, as do the utter messes all of you make on Friday evenings as the boys try to practise, as does every Saturday night performance and every Sunday afternoon spent trying to watch the same movie on a tiny phone screen.

“How about we each look for inspiration?” Jaemin pipes up, eyes still a little lost.

Everyone turns to him and he straightens ever so slightly. “Me and Jeno can come up with a beat, (name) and Renjun can look for a melody and Donghyuck—”

“Can fuck off?” Renjun suggests helpfully.

Donghyuck pouts, crossing his arms. “Hey I’m—”

“Yeah, maybe Donghyuck can fuck off,” Jaemin says, fighting a smile. You raise an eyebrow, wondering which one of Donghyuck’s antics finally got on Jaemin’s nerves.

“This is harassment,” Donghyuck mutters before sinking into the couch beside Renjun. “Well, good for me! I get a day off—”

“No, you don’t,” Jaemin disproves. “You’re cleaning up this place.” 

Donghyuck lets out a gasp. “All by myself?”

“Well, you trashed the place all by yourself,” Jeno reasons.

You tune out the bickering for a few moments. There are important matters at hand and no one seems to be listening to you. You play with your fingers absentmindedly when the thought arrives that maybe you should declare your secret little project. The song you wrote with Renjun in mind, that is. You should admit that it’s really just a nicer way of saying you wrote a song for him. 

Astounding, isn’t it? This should be the part where you feel your pulse quicken. It’s just a song and the nights spent with him on the keyboards, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes has given you a head full of rhythm and song. It’s just a song.

You’d do anything for a good song.

But first, you need your audio converter fixed. The damn thing’s been generating noise all on its own, when it’s clearly your job.

“I need to go to Yongsan,” you say, picking up your bag. “We can find inspiration along the way, can’t we Renjun?”

“Why do we need to go—”

“Oh, get me some replacement strings for my guitar,” Donghyuck chirps.

“And a new pair of drumsticks,” Jeno says, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. You sigh. He really needs to stop breaking those. Where do drummers get such unparalleled rage on a drum set?

You walk over to the door before turning back and sending a pointed look at Renjun.

“I… have to?” he asks, and the look in his eyes almost makes you pity him. If anything, he’s having it worse than the rest of you are, with balancing the weekly gigs and practising for his piano recitals, though he never studies like the rest. You feel sorry but clearly, not enough.

“Yes,” you reply hurriedly. “Quick, get up, come on, we’re wasting time.”

“Okay, okay! Don’t pull my shirt!”

It’s so easy to get Renjun to do things these days. You bite back a smile as he fixes his collar, features still disgruntled by your (over)enthusiasm. His bag is cuter than you thought for someone who dresses punk (“It’s not punk,” he’d snapped, after re-dyeing his hair yet again.), with three different moomin keychains hanging against a baby blue hue. 

You should know better than to let yourself think about someone so much.

The subway is absolutely lovable when it isn’t rush hour.

Skyscrapers nearly aren’t as looming as they are on rainy days, but you make your way through a still busy city, the heart of it beating like a snare drum with each passing moment.  A little rain cannot stop Seoul. 

Renjun walks beside you explaining how you should really look into this new underground artist you’ve already listened to three times this week because of him. He never seems to understand that you are, in fact, capable of remembering the things he says.

“I wrote a song about you,” you say abruptly.

Very smooth.

Renjun raises an eyebrow. “Like as a gift? A fan song? I’m so flatter—”

“No, stupid,” you interrupt, shifting your eyes upon irrelevant surrounding details. “It’s not about you. I just thought you’d like it.”

You pause.

“Yeah, it’s a little bit about you. A gift for joining. You can sing it to yourself in the shower or something.”

“You know, I feel really offended when you call me stupid.”

You glare at him. His ears are tinged red but right now, you’re a little more than done with his insults. Sure, you make mistakes—like dropping a full open can of soda on your own lap or submitting the wrong assignment to the wrong professor—but at least you’re not cynical Huang Renjun, incapable of making mistakes at all. It would be much more infuriating if you hadn’t seen Renjun drooling in his sleep or vigorously wipe at his nose after having snacks too spicy for his own good. You suppress a retort.

You reach the subway entrance taking slower steps than usual; but time is not a constraint here.

“It’s not a diss track, is it?” Renjun asks, suddenly doubtful. 

You can’t help your laugh (and horrifically, snorts), in turn evoking a smile in Renjun.

“No, it isn’t,” you assure, before grabbing his wrist and skipping down the steps, Renjun’s panicked voice yelling at you to slow down. 

“Can you not do that?” he complains, massaging his wrist at the subway platform.

“You made it through without tripping,” you reason, sticking your tongue out at him.

He reaches out to flick your forehead but you cover it just in time, a grin blooming across both your faces at this childish playfight. The train arrives with an almost soundless screech and you hop on slowly with anticipation in your footsteps.

“So what is it about?” Renjun asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees.

“You,” you respond, nonchalant.

“Very informative.”

The noise of the trains keeps the moment engaged, chuffing throughout as busy as they are.

Renjun lets out a barely audible gasp. “It’s not a- It’s not a love song, is it?”

You laugh, amused.

“Renjun, I knew you were arrogant but not this arrogant,” you tease.

He flushes hotly, and there’s that feeling again—that maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you don’t have anything else to hang on to and music is the only ledge left. 

You wrinkle your nose before shaking yourself off the feeling. Rainy days always do this.

“Besides,” you say, “I’m still going to score you that hot date with star pianist number one, aren’t I?”

“Not number one,” he begins before hesitating. “That’s… not necessary but thanks.”

You punch him swiftly and he responds with an oof, clutching the ball of his shoulder.

“Don’t be shy,” you complain. “That’s not fun.”

“Well, I’m not fun,” he retorts. “I don’t need to be. I like having a working brain.”

You send him an exaggerated hurt look, hand reaching to pull at his cheek before it gets swatted away. Somehow, in this exact moment, you find a new tune and it doesn’t seem to be the end of your search. You contemplate saving it in your voice memos but you figure a noisy subway train is the last place to record. Besides, you don’t want to lose the look in Renjun’s eyes when he’s talking about how impressive the new relocated concert hall is.

“It’s called Not Feeling Spring,” you say when the train doors open to your station.

Renjun raises an eyebrow, somewhat disbelieving, although you’re not sure of what. 

“You’ve definitely packed some insults in there,” he accuses.

You look at him, defeated. “Trust me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Step, step, splash. 

“Ew,” Renjun says, shaking his foot after landing on a particularly damp part of the sidewalk. They really should have evened out the path when laying the pavement. But unfortunately for Renjun, he’s already stepped onto rainwater in bright yellow converse.

It’s not just his shoes that look like daisies could bloom over them either—there’s paint over his denim jacket in pictures you’re aware that Renjun himself painted. A nice little touch, but not a very smart choice for a garment. How unlike him, you think to yourself when you hear him sigh and complain about the weather.

“So this is your famous shop?” Renjun asks, eyeing the discoloured walls of the store by the shop.

“You’re doing your thing again,” you reply, face souring.

He looks baffled. “What thing?”

“Your thing. The one where you act all cynical.”

“I’m not cynical.” He crosses his arms.

“Great, you’re even cynical about being cynical.”

Inside is, of course, as warm as ever. The walls are vibrant red, in stark contrast with the exterior and you think you see Renjun’s face grow pinkish. You smile at the man behind the counter, in his late fifties and smile still somehow as bright as yours.

“What’s the problem, dear?” he asks, glancing at your laptop. “You know I can’t help with software issues.”

“I know,” you say, “But I’ve tried every guide on the internet and there’s still unnecessary noise.”

He clicks around your screen for a few seconds.

“Have you tried getting a better mic?”

“Uh.”

Renjun snickers beside you before promptly apologizing at the two pairs of eyes on him. You didn’t bring him here just to embarrass yourself in front of him. Your cheeks flush as you tell the man you’ll come another day with your mic, before heading to the supplements aisle. Renjun follows you quietly, silent laughter yet still etched over his face and he looks away when you glare at him.

“Are you sure you wanna buy the wooden drumsticks?” Renjun asks, picking up the carbon fibre ones instead.

“Jeno loves the wooden ones,” you defend. “And you really think those are within my budget?”

Renjun shrugs, keeping them back in place. 

“Feels like I’m shopping for babies,” he mutters.

There’s a second’s pause before he straightens, a particular discomfort in his being. “Not- Not like my babies or something. I- I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” you say, trying very hard to hold in your laughter. 

“I don’t like that face you’re making.”

“You don’t always have to explain yourself,” you smile before heading to the counter.

The scent of rain makes you nostalgic. You step outside with Renjun and into the sound of rain against pavement. It’s wet and damp, and your hair clings to your skin in that horrific discomfort of humidity, truly one of the worst cruelties of rain. You make a face but an idea strikes you smack across the forehead.

You gasp.

“This can be our stage!” you declare, spreading your arms.

Renjun pulls your arms down. “Don’t block the sidewalk!”

“Sorry.”

You shove your bag onto Renjun, bewildering him even further. The sleeves of the jacket he rolled up, fall into place again as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“This,” you say, waving your arms about, “Should be a stage.”

“Huh?”

Renjun looks unconvinced at your flailing and you sigh. 

“The rain!” you say, trying to sound as enthusiastic as you can. “Isn’t it romantic? You’ve never thought what it would be like playing in the rain?”

“Uh, inconvenient?”

You groan. “Come on! Picture it for a second.”

You give it a moment before showing him what you mean. Renjun bursts into laughter at your air guitar performance, suddenly unaware of the pit-a-pat. 

“It would be nice,” he says, his teeth poking against his lips. He places the bags under the shaded entrance of the store before stepping into the drizzle.

Pitter, patter.

Renjun flashes you a goofy smile, shaking the water out of his hair only for the rain to come in stronger. With raindrops caught on eyelashes, you can only think of the soft, rising melodies that come in movie scenes like these, except it’s a lot more uncomfortable than they show it to be. You smoothen your hair, getting slightly frizzy due to the raindrops. You’ve always wanted to do things out of line and out of regularity and it’s not just because of the price sticker spelling ‘youth’ that clings to your back—but now, is it selfish to just want to stay under the rain? 

In a way it feels just the same as ever; like singing barefoot on an asphalt road, cooling rains and people around, without a care each. You tell Renjun about the time you were stranded by the bus stop under heavy downpour for so long, you decided to walk home with pneumonia a step behind you and he tells you that you’re an idiot. It’s nothing unusual but it makes you smile when he laughs at you. 

The rain slows again before you can start to shiver, chest rising and falling with each breath that fills your lungs. 

“I have a song!” you declare, eyes shining. “A love song. We’ve never done a love song.”

“A love song?” Renjun asks, laughing almost. “You want to write a radio love song? Why?”

“Because, Huang Renjun, there’s not a thing in the world that isn’t made for love.”

Renjun pauses before wrinkling his nose. “Don’t preach me.”

The clap of thunder startles the two of you out of calm. It’s not so much the screams that left your mouths simultaneously as the looks you get from passersby. Renjun looks at you the same time as you look at him, his ears red and eyes nervous.

“Lightning doesn’t- Lightning doesn’t strike in the middle of the city, does it?” Renjun asks, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted, like a hare stranded in the middle of a busy road.

“I don’t know!” You respond, pulling him by the sleeve to the nearest cover. “I don’t want to know.”

Renjun grabs your hand and you realize with a thump in your heart the effect of it. He pulls you to the side, saving your jeans from the fate of getting splashed by muddy water courtesy of an oncoming car.

“Ooh, quick reflex,” you say, despite the clanging of cymbals inside your ribcage.

He shrugs, picking up the bags and shoving yours to your chest.

“Ow?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know why.”

“You know, you’re not as grumpy as I thought you were. You’re still petty, though.”

“Thanks.”

When you’re back to the bandroom, you find Donghyuck snoring on the couch with an even more worn out Jaemin sitting cross legged on the floor and his head against Donghyuck's knee. Jeno looks like he’s in a world of his own, tapping away at his phone in a game he seems to be losing at.

“Why are you guys wet?” Jaemin asks, cracking an eye open. “Had some life-changing experience?”

“Not really.” You shrug. “Why do you guys look dead?”

“I am dead,” Donghyuck mumbles in his sleep to which Jaemin shakes his head.

“He didn’t even do the entire cleaning…”

You hope the skip in your steps isn’t too obvious. You have a song and this time, it feels pure in a way that you haven’t made before.

“I hope you guys came up with a beat,” you call.

“Uh, about that—”

“I have a new song!” you announce bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Your declaration is met with a bunch of smiles. Soon enough, everyone in the room is up and to their positions in a matter of minutes. 

Music isn’t about being eye-catching, considering the eyes have nothing to do with it anyway. You signal Renjun who in turn, clears his throat.

A strum of guitar string. Four notes on the keys. Bass. A beat on the drums.

“One. Two. Ah, one, two, three, four!”

The cafeteria is jam packed at three a.m so it’s a good thing you brought Renjun here an hour early. So, your top secret, full resistance, avant-garde mission? Your new song and the one for Renjun, of course. 

“So this is top secret,” you whisper when he sits down from across you.

“I’m sure it is,” he snickers.

You pass your notebook to him, scribbles neater than usual. (That’s only because you rewrote the song in a new page.) You start your laptop, waiting for the screen to load as Renjun goes over the lines.

“My dreams and I don’t get along,” Renjun reads aloud before furrowing his brows.

Ah, I hate people.

I hate my friends too.

And I love saying that which isn’t true.

“Oh, very funny, (name),” Renjun scorns, crossing his arms. “Is that what you think of me?”

You chuckle to yourself. Maybe it was a little petty, but you love the look on Renjun’s face when he’s annoyed, nerves a second away from being completely fried. Just for fun. This was just for fun. 

Somewhere along, however, you can’t deny the essence of him you’d so hopelessly wanted to capture in the melody, in rhythm and timbre, orchestral almost. It’s each note of the piano he plays to himself late at night in the bandroom, each featherlight hit on the cymbal and the song you hum to yourself on the bus ride to classes every morning.

It’s a love song. 

You break into a sudden coughing fit at the thought, Renjun flinching before offering you his bottle of water. Somehow, the gentle hand on your back trying to ease you gives you yet another reason to support your unwanted epiphany. That’s just ridiculous. It’s something natural between friends, isn’t it? Yet, you’d gag at the idea of writing Donghyuck into a song. 

You calm down and meet Renjun’s eyes, the glint of something familiar making you pause. 

“Water?” he offers, and you straighten.

“I had the stupidest thought,” you say, trying to laugh it off.

You can’t do it. You can’t make light of it with him.

“When do you not?” he says, a soft smile on his face.

You smile awkwardly in response, avoiding his eyes as you rub circles on the soft flesh between your thumb and forefinger. 

It’s quiet, much more than not, distant buzzing of the 3 a.m. university cafeteria crowds drifting through the space between you and him.

“Do you ever- Do you ever think about doing it?” Renjun asks.

You blink before feeling warmth on your cheeks. 

“Doing what, Renjun? That’s a little too private to ask. I mean, I could answer, of c—”

It doesn’t take long for him to burn bright vermillion at the cheeks. 

“I- I didn’t say that,” he defends, stuttering over the words. “I was talking about making music. Do you ever think about it or do you just do it?”

“Oh,” you respond intelligently, the embarrassment making you flush harder. Funny, you used to laugh the loudest at these sorts of mistakes. “I don’t- I don’t know. I think about it after I’ve… made it?”

You scratch the back of your head awkwardly. 

“You… do like it, don’t you?” he asks, something akin to worry in his eyes. 

You hum, smiling. “Of course I like it, Renjun.”

No. The truth is, you don’t even know how it makes you feel. The truth is, you do feel sick listening to your own song over and over again. Have you run far enough? Do you have to be running for this?

You seem scared. Is that what he wanted to tell you? You can’t be that easy to see through, you resist. When he held your hand earlier, could he feel it shake?

You’re so afraid that all of this is for naught that you can’t feel it anymore. You hardly make music for yourself, for no one else to hear. Is that what you wanted? When you wrote Not Feeling Spring, were you searching for something you desperately wanted or something you lost? You’re only twenty and you’re aging.

You snap yourself out of the whirlpool of questions to a drowsy Renjun playing with the bracelet around his wrist, lost in his own circle of thoughts. 

“I wanted to give up on this,” he whispers suddenly. “I wanted to give up on music.”

You hold your breath till he looks at you, a strange sense of vulnerability that makes you want to reach over the table and share some of the warmth your palm offers.

You’ve already drawn the conclusion.

“You’re not alone,” you say, leaning in with the widest grin. 

Renjun rolls his eyes. “Are you saying that to comfort me? It barely has any effect. Thanks, th—”

You shake your head, standing up abruptly and scrambling onto the tabletop. It’s the perfect time to be a little ridiculous. Renjun looks around, alarmed, tugging at you to get down which, unfortunately, draws even more attention. 

“Raise your hand if you’ve ever wanted to give up on music!”

There’s a moment of pause before laughter erupts, followed by a few cheers and almost as many raised hands as you’d expected. Some of them tell you to get back to your date, or focus on completing overdue assignments—friends and friends of friends. They are music students, after all.

Renjun looks around the place, rosy hued in the face, though he isn’t as angry as you thought he’d be.

“I almost never started,” you say, giggling as you resume in your seat. “Giving up came so much later.”

Renjun laughs. You don’t even have to make music out of it.

“I tried to give up the piano,” he admits, still flushed. “But I couldn’t break the habit of playing against my desk. Even then.”

You smile, resting your chin against your palm. “That sounds just like you. Now tell me, when did you discover flumpool?”

Renjun frowns and you feel an uncharacteristic thump in your chest. You want to draw your finger against his cheeks and the space between his brows, against the strained lines—the thought of it much more scandalous than the action itself.

“I didn’t- My parents didn’t- ugh.” He hesitates. “Look, everyone hated my style of music. My parents, the neighbours, their dogs. 

Your eyes soften as you sit up. “I’m sure they didn’t hate it—”

“No, trust me on this one.”

Suddenly the honey tint of his voice is dripping a dangerously low baritone. It doesn’t sound like him and it sends a shiver down your spine, a certain coldness you never thought would seep into you. It is the loneliness of curbed dreams, after all.  

“I thought I should’ve given up on music altogether. Became, what, a doctor? A lawyer?” Renjun sighs. “Whatever I do, it shouldn’t be music, right?”

He heaves a sigh in sync with you. There’s a passing moment in between where you can clearly see the apple of his eye, shining a daunting amber and a warmth you can only feel over coffee tables in university cafeterias at midnight. 

“But you’re here now because this is the closest you can be to music?” you offer, your smile sheepish.

Renjun laughs, your eyebrows furrowing as he tries to stop. “No. No, classical music was the last option on their list—but it was on the list.”

You smile, although it is small and gentle. And—unlike anything you’ve felt since you jumped onto the adulthood train.

“They like it now, though,” he beams, shoulders relaxing as if rid of a burden.“I mean- They said- They said they’re proud of me.”

When someone decides to confide their happiness to you, it is just as precious.

You look up, eyes bright as you finally get to ruffle his hair. “Well, I’m proud of you too!”

Renjun coughs indiscreetly, shaking his head before facing you. “Th-Thanks. It’s… good to hear.”

“Say it back,” you demand, making Renjun laugh.

“I’m… proud of you,” he says with rose-tinted cheeks.

The midnight chatter grows louder when the two of you pause. A symphony of voices through the area, higher pitches and lower, baritones and trebles. You wonder what people talk about most when you are quiet. You have friends—it’s not like you’re alone, per se. But everyone seems to be running, away from something or towards something. Your bones feel heavy for a second as you stir the coffee. Is it selfish to just want to get to know someone? Neither of you moving a muscle, with laughter that isn’t carried away by the wind.

“I didn’t think I’d be good at anything apart from classical,” he says, reluctance in his mouth. “Sorry about all that ruckus I caused when you asked me to join.”

You raise an eyebrow, nose wrinkling at the apology. “Renjun. It sucks when you apologize.”

He groans. “You’re really annoying, you know that? I was being nice.”

“I know,” you say, grinning. “It was all forgiven a long time ago. Can’t believe you had to say it out loud.”

“Oh, pardon me,” he says, voice rising. “I was taking into consideration your below average understanding of social cues.”

“You’re going to get smacked.”

That night, when you leave Renjun at the intersection to your respective dorms, you have yet another unwanted epiphany. He waves you goodbye with a smile, pale blue T-shirt hanging loose on his shoulders and you wave back as ardently as you can against your prominent heartbeat. Huang Renjun has the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen.

Some days, you take the bus together to and from classes. It’s not like the dorms are far but walks are considerably less fun when you’ve barely rubbed the sleep dust out of your eyes and class started ten minutes ago. Besides, you’re not letting the student bus pass go to waste.

Rattle. Rattle. Woosh.

You yawn and it quickly spreads to Renjun beside you. Classes are over and there’s no practice today. You can hear a popular song play through his earphones and tilt your head to look at him, a suppressed smile on your face. Renjun does a double take when he notices you, a little flustered as he quietly offers the other earbud and you put it on with a short word of thanks.

It is a track by one of Seoul’s favourite bands and you’re not going to lie, say you haven’t fallen prey to its charms. A catchy baseline, engaging drums and attractive vocals—you stop yourself. When was the last time you enjoyed a song without deconstructing it piece by piece? You sigh and Renjun shifts beside you, though no words part from his lips.

Absentmindedly, you find your head drawing nearer to his till they bump once and you startle away, only to laugh at each other. Is this another useless epiphany of yours? That Renjun has a lovely laugh—these are getting out of hand.

You look out the window instead, skyscrapers shiny and metallic as always and with little to offer. Unwittingly, a pout climbs onto your face at the prospect of feelings bubbling up right when you’re setting Renjun up on a date. He doesn’t know, of course. It’s meant to be a surprise and somehow, the little voice in your head won’t stop yelling at maximum volume inside your head about how wrong this is. Is it selfish? To an extent—nothing ever is purely selfless and you haven’t lived long enough to question. So why are you even bothering with this whole surprise?

Because you don’t want to think about the feelings. As if they’re things to be thought about. As if you can throw them away into the trash bin like a crumpled piece of paper.

An elderly couple boards the bus, sharing a large shopping bag as they take slow, careful steps over the aisle. Renjun responds almost at the same time you do, getting up so quickly Renjun has to hold on to the strap so as to not trip over you. The couple thanks you and you nod politely, trying not to bring attention to the earphones tangled around your necks.

You take a step closer in an attempt to separate the wires but it only makes you lose balance, Renjun clutching the cloth at your back so you don’t faceplant right into him. The other hand hangs overhead on the strap, grasping so tight his skin has turned red. 

He glances at the old couple once, blood rushing to his cheeks at something and he turns his focus back to you. 

“The- The wires- We should—”

Young love isn’t what this is. How silly. There’s enough of that all around.

“That’s what I was trying,” you interrupt. “Wait.”

You use your hands to pull the bud from your ear, trying to figure out how the loop even coiled this way. Renjun’s hand pushes against your waist at the sudden jerk, your soul almost leaving your body at the unexpected feeling of falling down. You breathe out, cheeks getting warmer. This isn’t quite uncomfortable, though.

When you look up to meet Renjun’s eyes, you feel something faint, a hint of something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“There,” you say, the wires all out of their miserable twining. 

Renjun barely nods, the music still blasting loud and clear through the buds. His hand still holds the strap for balance, and the other still holds you, for reasons private. 

There’s a warm flush over his face when he mumbles about crowded buses and the afternoon heat, eyes averted to every corner but you.

You laugh. Renjun is adorable when he least expects to be. And when you least expect him to be, he’s even terribly attractive. You swear by the way he’s looking at you, if you leaned in a little further, he’d let you kiss him. 

Wait, what?

You sober up quickly, in a moment of clarity you do not wish to have. You’ve never felt the weight of the feelings this intense. Yours isn’t the name he should be calling out so affectionately. Her. Anyone else. You were so sure of it. Huang Renjun’s fleeting interest in romance doesn’t involve you—cannot involve you.

That’s why you’re doing him (and yourself) a favour. Besides, you promised it anyway, didn’t you? 

You gulp. 

When did you start explaining yourself for everything you do?

Step, screech, step.

“Where the fuck are you even  taking me?” Renjun complains from behind you, light on his foot. “You said it’s not too far away.”

“It’s a surprise!” You stop walking to cross your arms.

“I hate it when you say that.”

How would he react? You think he’ll get a little angry, maybe scowl at you or even yell a little. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye longer than two seconds for about a week now. 

“Ta-da!” 

You stretch your arms to point towards the new cafe in town. Renjun looks at you and then the cafe and back again.

“You’re taking me on a coffee date?”

You choke on air, coughing before you can clear your throat and clarify.

“Not- Not me. Remember I promised you a date with—”

“No.”

“Yes! Wait, is that disbelieving no or are you saying you’re not going to go?”

Renjun closes his eyes and sighs, as if dealing with a toddler. “I’m not going. Why didn’t you say anything? I’m not prepared or anything!”

Something takes a tumble and falls inside your chest. You smile at him nevertheless.

“Don’t be shy now. She’s waiting, come on.”

Renjun shifts his weight from foot to foot, but it seems equally uncomfortable on each. He peers intently at you, looking up and down your face before pressing his lips together.

“Have fun,” you wish.

You push Renjun towards the door and he hesitates, some part of you expecting a little more resistance. He shrugs, although he seems to be holding back a smile. This isn’t the time, you tell yourself.

You turn on your heel before you lose your final excuse to be able to say that you are not completely enamored with Huang Renjun.

The afternoon would be more peaceful if it weren’t for Donghyuck and Renjun yelling at each other. This time, you’re not to blame.

“That’s not how you tie a bow tie!” Donghyuck complains, though Renjun won’t let him anywhere near.

“I know you’re trying to get back at me for drawing on your face last Saturday,” Renjun yells back. “But this is the pre-annual concert. You’re not fucking anything up.”

Donghyuck grumbles before settling down. Four music performance majors and yet none of them know how to do a bow tie—if it weren’t for you, Renjun might have ended up with his usual askew one. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, and you’d just rather not look at him too long anyway. 

Formal white shirt, a much debated black bow tie and polished black dress shoes on Renjun aren’t strange to look at—in fact, they quite suit him when, despite its striking colour, his hair is parted neatly to the side. But they’re all so out of place in the bandroom, monochrome against messes, that you start to wonder if you simply think too much about him. That all of his colours and melodies are just there for you to notice.

It’s not true, of course.

But when did you become a cynic? 

“I’m going out,” Donghyuck says, huffing, “Why are they taking so long to buy ramen?”

Oh no. No, no, no. You try to mask your panic. Is one person enough to check up on Jaemin and Jeno? Would it be weird if you left too? Before you can answer those questions, you and Renjun are the only ones left in the room. You stand awkwardly by the couch, Renjun a few feet away, smoothing out the creases on his shirt.

You clear your throat, bringing his attention to you.

Nice going.

“So how was your date?”

You had to ask that, didn’t you?

The voice in your head has never been so loud before. When your question goes unanswered, you look up from the highly interesting floorboards to Renjun trying very hard to fight a snort.

“We talked about the recitals, extra lessons. Joked about you being an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What?”

“Chaerim’s not interested in guys.” Renjun laughs. “I thought you knew!”

There’s a pause.

“Wait, you were serious about setting me up with her?”

You stare a little too intensely at the space between your feet. Why would you choose now of all times to be coy? You keep yourself from swearing out loud.

“I- I didn’t know, okay?”

You feel the heat over your cheeks, the sound of everything other than your own heartbeat drowning out. A few more seconds pass and you worry more. 

“Don’t set me up on dates,” Renjun says, a sigh leaving his lips. “It’ll never work out.”

“What? Why?”

Renjun falters only to cover it up. “I- I… Why do you keep avoiding me?”

You can’t answer that.

“Setting me up on a date, never looking at me when you talk to me—are you going by the book or something?”

You hold your breath. He’s not misunderstanding and it only makes matters worse.

“All that because you don’t want to be in love with me?”

“Renjun, that’s not—”

“So what is it?”

You look up from your restless fingers and regret it almost immediately. The way Renjun looks at you, it damn near breaks your heart. His nose is a pale shade of red, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with undecided words.

“Am I- Am I dreaming everything up? Just tell me you don’t like me. I thought I made myself obvious.”

You can feel your pulse against your eardrums, ready to burst open any second.

“Renjun. It’s not about this,” you say, voice strangely low. “It’s about music—It’s always about music. I can’t risk anything.”

“Risk? What risk? You’re afraid you’re going to stop making music when you’re with me?”

“No—”

“You just want your songs on the Billboard charts? 

“And what if I do? I just want to be heard—”

You can barely breathe at the lack of distance between the two of you. Renjun looks straight into your eyes and you remember why your heart has been hammering in the first place.

“So it isn’t about music.”

You fall silent. It’s not wrong to want to succeed. But it’s never been about that. You were preparing yourself for a race while you repeated your love for it that was never there. Music is not a race and so, it is not the race you love.

“I didn’t want to be rich or famous,” Renjun says, voice lower than usual. “I don’t want to be rich or famous.”

But a musician does not want to be forgotten, does he?

For once, Renjun is fearless and you are not.

“There are worse things,” Renjun says, breath against your cheek and a rapid pulsing in your wrists. You look from his eyes to lips before breathing out slowly, eyelids growing heavy despite yourself.

The sudden bang makes the two of you jump away from each other.

Donghyuck kicks the door open, hands occupied with steaming instant ramen cups and Jeno walks in with the sprite. 

“Jaemin’s paying and we forgot our wallets,” Jeno offers an explanation when you raise an eyebrow.

You clear your throat awkwardly as the two scrutinize you with eyes you’re not yet ready to meet. You know you’ll never hear the end of this and better yet, you can pretend it never happened.

“Aren’t you supposed to get going?” Jeno asks, struggling to balance this month’s entire supply of ramen while Donghyuck holds the top of the pile.

Renjun responds with a soft ‘yeah’, eyes glancing at you once before he grabs his coat.

“I’ll see you for practice then.”

With that, the sounds inside your chest draw to a deafening close.

You’d think Doyoung would perform with his own band at his brother’s wedding.

(“I don’t want to work on the day my brother gets married.”

“I thought you work as a bartender?”

“Oh, dear.”)

You’re not complaining, of course. The longer you spend in the bandroom, the more suffocated you feel. You can’t meet Renjun’s eyes and neither can he meet yours. You rejected him, for fuck’s sake. It cannot get any more awkward than that. Any distraction will do.

This might be the first time you’ve been to a wedding on a Thursday night. At the very least, you’re happy about it being an outdoor wedding, the cool night air refreshing you the moment you step into the garden. It’s fairly large and you know Doyoung’s brother is an actor, but it never really struck you how wealthy that meant.

“There’s a chocolate fountain?!” Donghyuck gasps, walking towards it before Jaemin grabs him by the collar.

“Stage. We’re being called.”

Donghyuck massages his neck before he decides to give everyone an unnecessary pep talk.

“Look, Renjun, you better sing like that’s your ex, who you’re still in love with, getting married,” Donghyuck turns to advise a deadpanning Renjun.

“I- what? You should do that yourself.”

You smile at them encouragingly, smacking Donghyuck a little too hard on the back (you need payback for him “borrowing” your lunch on Monday) and stand at the sidelines. Donghyuck’s guitar seems to be the brightest thing in the venue, followed by Renjun’s hair. Unfortunately for Jeno, they couldn’t get the whole drum set in and the puppy dog look on his face when he sees the box-shaped cajón might have affected you some other day. 

They perform as usual, if not more enthusiastic to be in front of a crowd that isn’t drunk or worn out or both. The love songs you wrote came to be useful, after all. The muse of them, however, stands out even now.

This time, your heart skips a beat to meet Renjun’s eyes. And he doesn’t take them off you the entire performance.

The soft vibrato of his voice doesn’t fade easy, the crowd clapping along to the song with encouraging laughter. You move to the drinks table—it’s a good thing the wedding has a no kids rule because there’s alcohol you haven’t heard of at the bar table. Or maybe it isn’t a good thing. You’d love to see the look on Doyoung’s face when some rebellious twelve year-old chugs a shot of vodka. The thought makes you giggle.

You keep your word, even if you were drunk when you’d said it. You didn’t drink at any of the gigs, mostly because Doyoung wouldn’t offer anything for free, but a deal’s a deal. This doesn’t count, does it? 

You take the shot after a few moments of contemplation. You’d ordered it on impulse and whatever dare of whim you have left in you.

Unbeknownst to you, the songs had stopped about five minutes ago, enough time for Renjun and the rest to appear at your side. 

“Doyoung never said there’d be alcohol,” Donghyuck says, not trying very hard to hide the sparkles in his eyes.

Renjun doesn’t say a word, not even at the obvious flush over your cheeks from the drinks.

“I need to go to the washroom,” you say, wobbling as you stand.

“Woah, (name),” Jaemin says, steadying you. “Take someone with you.”

“I’ll go.”

You avoid Renjun’s eyes, even now. Looks like shame isn’t as easy to wash away as it seems.

You can’t hear anything apart from your pulse, a rather disarming thing to have to listen to when it’s for long enough. You walk wordlessly to the building, locating the washroom after a few twists and turns and Renjun waits patiently for you outside.

It’s always bizarre to see yourself in the mirror of a public washroom, especially with alcohol in your system and a flush over your cheeks that you think makes you look cute. You rinse your face and dry it before you exit.

Renjun leans back against the wall, eyes glazed over in thoughts he spills only occasionally. He looks gentle in the fairly lit hallway, under lemon-coloured lights. 

“Renjun,” you call absentmindedly.

He straightens immediately and for the first time in a while, you stare at each other for longer than four seconds.

“I don’t want you to feel awkward around me,” you begin. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean—”

“Cut it out.”

You feel a drop in your heart at the harshness in his tone. Even so, you don’t feel any less drawn to him.

“Don’t be like that,” you say, voice nearing a whine. “You know I’m not any good at this. I… I have so much work to do.”

“Are you so insecure that you can't trust yourself?” he hisses, and somehow the truth of it doesn’t lessen the euphoria of proximity with him.

“You have pretty eyes, Renjun,” you say, but his eyes are not what you’re looking at.

Renjun looks down, sighing out heavily. “Stop this, (name). Don’t play.”

You smile. “This isn’t a drama, you know?”

It really isn’t, but the touch you're craving has been collecting, drip drip drip, and now it’s ready to boil over in a climax befitting any stupid drama. There should be a soundtrack to go with it, right? Renjun’s face so near to yours, lips full and pink, and heartbeat erratic under dim lights. Temptation has never been a sin to you. Then, what are you afraid of?

For a moment, Arctic Monkey’s Snap Out of It loops in your head.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, the last shred of your senses fallen apart.

He falls silent, at a loss for words you don’t want to hear.

You can’t blame the alcohol. It’s not that you wouldn’t do this sober—it’s that you would definitely do this sober, and all would be ruined just like that. So now, while you’re under the thinly veiled excuse of being drunk, you might as well say it.

“I want to kiss you,” you repeat, bolder.

Oh, sudden proximity can make you aware of so many things. For instance, Renjun has changed his cologne, less minty and more citrus. You aren’t even looking at him when you lean closer, pressing your lips softly and yet carelessly against his. You feel returned pressure and for a moment, the wash of numbness.

Renjun pulls you away by the shoulder, eyes wide in panic. 

“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Why are you apologizing? God, I hate you. I could listen to you speaking forever.”

You bury your face in Renjun’s neck and breathe in. He gives in almost too soon, a hand gently resting against the back of your head while his arm wraps around your waist.

“Let’s get you home,” he whispers. 

You feel him shift, the rhythm of his pulse loud in his jugular, and somehow it makes you breathe a sigh of relief. The night fades little by little into the chatter of crowds, to the the hum of a car engine and finally, to the inevitable quiet of your own bedroom.

It’s a Friday. They’re supposed to be nice.

Of course, it would be were it not for a list of things. One: your fading hangover. Two: the vague regret of a drunk kiss. Three: your friends you can’t tell a word to. You might just die of shame before the autumnal existential dread settles in.

“Do you guys have any idea whose number this is?” Donghyuck asks, holding the handkerchief open for the rest of you to see. “I don’t want to be accidentally related to Doyoung hyung.”

The night is bleeding into the evening outside as Jaemin stands up to flip the light switches. You stay curled up at one side of the couch, Renjun by the keys as he tries to figure out a tune and a state of calm that would be perfect if you weren’t falling apart inside. The bandroom always made you feel at ease, but it doesn't seem to be working its charm now.

“You drink too much,” Jaemin states. “You would’ve remembered if you didn’t have an entire bottle of soju.”

“I wasn’t the only one,” he defends, sending you a pointed look. You roll your eyes. Donghyuck never did learn to take the blame.

“Didn’t Renjun and (name) leave early?” Jeno asks innocently. “What were you guys doing for so long by the washroom?”

Renjun presses on several of the keys at a force too hard, the haphazard symphony bringing everyone’s attention to him.

He awkwardly clears his throat. “Home—the dorms, er. We went back. Taeil hyung drove us.”

You don’t know about the atmosphere, but you could definitely cut something with a knife right now. Your eyes shift from person to person, nothing unusual about them except for the two of you.

“Does anyone want to come get ramen? I’m hungry,” Jaemin suggests quietly.

Jeno shrugs, getting up.

“I just had a cup of ramen,” Donghyuck begins before breaking into a smile. “Too much ramen can never hurt.”

“I’ll pass,” you say, ready to fall asleep any moment, if it somehow alleviates the messy scribbles in your head.

“Me too,” Renjun says, back to playing out the tunes softly.

Your fingers tap against the armrest of the couch, occasionally scratching it out of boredom. The atmosphere is still just as thick but you can't say much about it hanging there.

“You’re not sleeping,” Renjun says suddenly, more of a statement than a question. “You look tired.”

“Yeah.” It’s all you can manage. 

“Is your hangover gone?”

You cough when you try to answer, getting more nervous with each passing moment.

Renjun slowly walks towards the coffee table, picking up the bottle of water to offer it to you. You utter a short ‘thanks’ and before he can get back, you tug at his sleeve. Your breathing is sharp but you don’t react much when he sits beside you, legs outstretched in front of him.

“Your roots are showing,” you note, hand involuntarily reaching out before you stop yourself.

Renjun sighs. “What’s wrong? You don’t- You don’t have to—”

He clears his throat.

“—You don’t have to pretend around me.”

There’s a rustle of cloth as he shifts to turn to you, eyes concerned when they look over.

“I’m just...sad,” you admit, the feeling weighing down when you do. “What, you never have days like these?”

Everyone does, don’t they? The truth is, sometimes you get a little sick listening to your songs. If you don’t hate it at least once, is it worth it at all?

The monthly breakdowns have taken a hard turn now that you don’t have much to do. No exams, no more weekly gigs due to Odd Fruit’s renovation and most importantly, hardly any inspiration. You don’t know how to do things unless you’re on the run. It’s so stupid.

You speak of dreams and yet, yours feel void.

“I do. A lot, some weeks.”

Renjun hesitates. You know he’s dying to talk about last night, he’s never been the sort to let feelings rot inside his stomach. But how do you tell him that despite knowing life’s full of ups and downs, no one’s bothered to explain to you which is which? You’ve never lived life with clarity. 

Sometimes life hands you tangerines instead of lemons. Sometimes they’re still as sour.

You look back at Renjun, heart churning with feelings you don’t understand. From wide eyes to his full lips, there’s a way you can’t help but stare. It wasn’t the alcohol—you still want to kiss him. Maybe you should start with an apology, maybe those are meant to be said out loud sometimes.

“I’m sorry I… I ‘m sorry I kissed you,” you say, finally. “Without warning.”

You wonder how you turned into this. Head over heels for something that might not even be real. 

“I’m not mad,” he mumbles, “Just don’t go around kissing strangers.”

You let out a short laugh, rubbing your arm. It’s not like you to explain yourself but for him, you’d spill every single thought that crosses your head. Does he know that? You’d never let him but now—you can’t say you mind.

Quiet.

“I- I may not always know what I’m doing, Renjun,” you start. “I want things and I don’t know how to get them. Sometimes I don’t even know what I truly want.”

There’s a short pause when Renjun draws nearer.

“You want to make music,” he says with certainty, gaze trailing over your eyes, then nose, then lips. “You want to have fun…”

Your heartbeat quickens despite everything.

“...And right now, you want to kiss me.”

It’s partly the confidence, and partly the fact that his lips are less than three inches from yours, that you close the gap without hesitation. 

It’s different—of course, it’s different this time. There’s no goddamn alcohol and the amount of clarity you can taste with your mouths pressed together is more than you’ve ever had. All the sounds in the world fall silent, replaced by the rhythm of your lips moving against his. Renjun’s hair is soft and he hums when you run your fingers through them, not song enough but still full of melody.

You pull apart after a few minutes, breathing heavily before you push your lips against him again, rising to keep your leg on either side of him. For a moment, there’s a sinking feeling and then a soaring one, and it evens out to the mellow drumming of your heart against your chest as Renjun holds your waist with the same delicate desire as ever. 

The second time you pull apart, Renjun breaks into the widest smile you’ve ever seen on him. You can’t help but reciprocate, burying your head against his shoulder.

“I think you should get off me.”

You pull back, frowning severely. 

“Oh, that’s very romantic,” you huff, eyebrows furrowed as you move to sit beside him, crossing your arms. 

“Hey.”

You look at him and he takes your hand in his, thumb rubbing over the back. Somehow, the gesture calms a part of you down, a part that hasn’t been calm for a very long time. You smile without realizing, leaning in for another kiss when the door slams open.

You yelp, clutching Renjun’s hand harder with just about the same force he does. 

“Jeno.”

You turn around to see Jaemin glaring at Jeno on his knee, Donghyuck fallen over his leg and both of their faces scrunched in pain. Jaemin shoots the two of you an embarrassed smile, scratching the back of his head.

“Did you guys know this room isn’t all that soundproof? I can’t believe the neighbours didn’t complain.”

The tip of Renjun’s ears flare red, and he points an accusing finger at the three of them.

“You were spying on us!”

Jaemin clears his throat but Donghyuck snorts before he can say anything.

“You’re still holding hands, lover boy.”

The statement flusters Renjun further but he doesn’t let go.

“Look, did the two of you think we’re stupid?” Donghyuck continues. “God, we thought your pining romance would, like, break up our band or something.”

You flush deeper, averting your eyes. 

“You cry at romantic comedies,” Renjun provokes.

Donghyuck stutters something incomprehensive before crossing his arms indignantly.

“We’re glad you’re dating now!” Jaemin butts in. “Ah, I can’t wait for all the love songs. The two of you do great on those!”

Renjun turns a brighter shade of red. You’re not going to be the one to tell Jaemin that he’s not helping at all but you sigh instead, resting your forehead against Renjun’s shoulder. 

“Ugh,” Donghyuck makes a gagging sound. “Does this mean you’re going to be all heart eyes in here? Right in front of my innocent eyes?” 

He shuts up when he receives four glares all at once, the air turning dry.

“I’m guessing you guys didn’t buy any ramen,” Renjun says, sighing.

“Shall we go?” you ask, looking at him.

He nods, smiling at you.

“You guys don’t mind us crashing your date, do you?” Jaemin says, wrapping an arm each around the two of you.

“I’m not complaining.” You shrug.

“I heard there’s a new flavour. Tastes like crap apparently,” Renjun says.

There’s collective laughter and Renjun beams, walking over to the door with you in tow. Every once in a while, you don’t mind peeling off the layers of a tangerine, especially since winter is near. 

You were right, Renjun did change his perfume to something more citrus-y. It’s the little things that build up in simplicity and it’s the little things that give everything flavour, from songs to journeys. 

Crackle. Shrrk. Rustle. 

“Dream,” you say, the noodles slipping through the chopsticks. 

The others look at you quizzically, as if you’d suggested the most ridiculous thing ever.

“That’s the name. Our band!” 

Under the convenience store lights, it somehow makes sense—and that’s one of the only moments of clarity you need.

#nct dream scenarios #nct renjun #cznnet #neowritingsnet #renjun x reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream imagines #renjun fluff #nct dream fluff #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct dream #moonwrites #anyway hope you guys have fun this is way longer than i intended for it to be i am mad #and i know i only recommended songs from idol bands but it's always good to check out the krock scene lol!! #rock band!au #tw:alcohol #so this wont show up on tags heart been broke so many times </3

[spinbitchzu]

citrus kisses

Darling, you don’t need to say what you mean, ‘cause your kisses taste like tangerines. Aka: cole’s love language is tart and sweet and reminds Kai of things he thought he’d lost. 

hey uhhh so. I don’t write ninjago fic often but apparently when i do, it’s about the inherent romanticism of peeling an orange and also action-oriented love languages. anyway you know the drill. lavashipping, a bit over 2k words. unbeta’d bc we die like men. 

The oranges that grew in Ignacia grew in huge groves.

It’s one of Kai’s only memories with his whole family: walking between his parents in the long aisles stretching between the lines of trees, Nya’s tiny, chubby hand clasped carefully in his own as she toddled along beside him. The smell of oranges was everywhere, and that day they picked enough to last them for weeks and weeks. 

He can still recall his dad’s hands braced around his ribs as he hoisted Kai up to pick a Valencia orange bigger than his head from a high branch, eyes squinting against the bright sun on his face. He’d felt such pride that day, as he carried his treasure around for all to see.

He remembers summers of frothy fresh-squeezed orange juice in the morning, afternoons of fragrant orange cake, and evenings of carefully-partitioned segments that exploded juice on his tongue. His mom used to make ambrosia for Saturday morning breakfast, the orange slices piled high with coconut shavings and thick, fluffy whipped cream. She’d scold him when he peeled the oranges himself; his forceful little thumbs always dug too far into the flesh and sent the juice squirting everywhere. Instead, she clucked her tongue and peeled it for him with easy, deft movements while he sucked the stickiness off his fingers.

Those days—patchworks of hot nights and sunshine through the kitchen windows and the smell of citrus on his mother as she leaned in to kiss him goodnight—they’re days Kai can hardly remember the older he gets. 

After his parents disappeared, no one took Kai and Nya to the Valencia groves; no one whipped the cream for ambrosia; no one lifted him to the highest branches for the best oranges. He simply had to wait until he was tall enough to reach them himself.

He doesn’t think about those memories very often, and Nya was so young, he doubts she remembers it at all. It’s not like he ever gets a summer off to return home either, so instead he lets the memory fade until it’s almost entirely forgotten. He locks it in the part of his brain that he’s sectioned off because it’s too painful to keep clinging to when things were that good. It’s okay. 

The past tastes like oranges and coconut cream, and Kai has left it behind.

...

Kai forgets why they’re making a stop over Ignacia, but it just so happens that the nearest rural area place for them to moor is over the Valencia groves he had nearly forgotten about. 

He stands at the front of the ship, leaning over the railing with his chin propped up on his pillowed arms to study the trees extending in every direction, the dark leaves bejewelled with not-quite-ripe January oranges. The sun overhead is more of a pale, cold disk, and Nya is somewhere below-deck, but it makes him melancholy anyway.

Footsteps approach from behind him—heavy but soft: Cole. He leans over the railing beside Kai, bracing his forearms against the wood as he surveys the landscape. “Hey. Whatcha doin’ out here, stranger?”

“Just lookin’,” he murmurs back. He hums to himself. “Did you know I used to come to this grove with my family as a kid?”

“I didn’t even know you liked oranges,” Cole replies, giving him a sideways glance. He smiles when Kai glances back, dark eyes crinkling. “Do you want to go down now? I’m sure we could grab a few and no one would miss ‘em.”

“Nah, that’s alright,” Kai says with half a grin. “They’re not ripe. And I don’t like oranges that much anyway. Too hard to peel. They just made me think about—things I hadn’t let myself think about for a while.”

“What kind of things?” Cole asks, nudging him with an elbow.

The touch grounds him and he’s grateful for it. He shrugs in a way that’s neither here nor there. “Just things. Home, I guess. My life? Before all the...ninja stuff.”

“Is that a good thing?” Cole tilts his head. In this light, his eyes turn from obsidian to sunlight through whiskey as he waits for an answer.

Kai makes a contemplative noise. “I don’t know. Hurts less than I expected, after everything. It’s bittersweet.” He sighs then, shoulders falling with the motion. “It really is making me miss oranges, though. I don’t know why I lied before—I really do like them.”

He looks back at the groves below and misses the look Cole gives him—measured and curious.

“What about you, do you like oranges?”

“Some. The sweet ones.”

“You’d like these ones, then,” Kai tells him, cheeks rising as he smiles. “The oranges from Ignacia are the biggest, sweetest ones around. They’re good just by themselves, but my mom made a mean ambrosia with them.”

“I bet Zane could replicate the recipe if you told him what it was,” Cole replies.

Kai just shrugs. “Maybe so. He’s sharp like that.”

They fall silent. Kai can physically feel Cole worrying about him and his rare bout of melancholy, so he squares his shoulders and musters up a grin. “Hey, Cole, you—,”

“You don’t have to,” is what Cole interrupts him with, paired with a weighted look that settles around him like a blanket. “I don’t mind the quiet. You’re allowed to, Kai.”

All the feigned bravado drains out of him. Kai stares at him for a second and wonders when Cole got so good at gauging his moods. There’s so many words unspoken inbetween what he says and that earnest, draping look in his eyes and Kai kind of aches with it.

“Okay,” he says instead, shoulders slowly falling. His chin dips to rest on his crossed forearms again and he leans into it when Cole slips as arm around him. “Okay.”

The nippy January wind dances around them, stirring their hair and whipping at their gis, but Kai tips his head against Cole’s shoulder and feels warm down to his toes.

...

“Holy crap, what the hell did you do?” Kai can’t help asking a week later, as Lloyd and Zane walk into the kitchen carrying groceries.

“There was a sale on tangerines at the grocery store,” Zane answers primly, setting his paper bag on the counter. “I thought it prudent to take advantage of it.”

“We have like a hundred pounds of these things,” Lloyd adds, setting his own bag down. “We’re going to be eating tangerines until we get old and grey.”

“Zane, man, you know I love a sale as much as the next guy, but this is a little overboard,” Cole says as he comes in, two more bags of tangerines hoisted on his shoulders. Kai does not stare, thank you very much, as much as he’s been finding it kind of hard to avoid when it comes to Cole and lifting things recently.

“Proper intake of vitamin C is important in preventing scurvy,” Zane replies, though he’s blinking the way he does when he’s getting embarrassed. “It’s a common illness in sailors.”

“Does that still apply  if the ship can fly?” Lloyd wonders.

“Or if we’re in the twenty-first century?” Kai adds wryly, eyebrows high.

“I’m sure we’ll find some way to finish them all,” Cole pipes up. “Don’t worry about it, Zane.”

“I was not.” Zane turns away to put away the rest of the groceries while Kai and Cole exchange an amused look. As he bustles back and forth, Kai grabs a tangerine from the bag behind him and turns it over in his hands, studying the way the light catches on the dimpled rind.

“Hey,” Kai says quietly, leaning across the kitchen counter. “Did you do this?”

Cole just shrugs with a crooked grin. “I didn’t do anything. You know Zane and sales. Can’t resist ‘em.”

“You did,” Kai deduces, eyeing his teammate’s reddening ears. He feels his expression soften. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe I wanted to,” Cole says in response. He reaches over Kai, coming very, very close, until their noses are close enough to brush. His eyes are very dark and very close and Kai would very much like to kiss him right now.

“Um, uh,” Kai says, very eloquently.

“Not in the kitchen, please,” Zane calls from the pantry, because he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body (or any bones, to be fair to him).

Cole just grins and pulls back, displaying the tangerine he’d grabbed from behind Kai with a flourish. “I’m heading to the training deck. See you around, Hot Stuff.”

“R-right,” he mumbles (like an idiot), fighting the heat settled in his cheeks. He watches Cole go and feels distinctly like an opportunity has sailed over his head.

...

Cole smells like oranges these days.

Kai only notices because that isn’t his normal smell, which is much more organic soaps and something earthy and fresh. It’s a smell that clings to the hoodies Kai keeps pilfering from his closet—comforting in its familiarity. 

The abrupt invasion of tangy citrus makes him do a double take the first time he smells it. And then he reaches into the pocket of the hoodie and finds a tangerine. It’s store bought, with a little sticker on the side, and it’s not exactly a strange sight for any reason, but it sort of confounds him.

“Hey,” he says, walking into the kitchen, the object of confusion held gingerly in his hand. “Is this a tangerine?”

Cole looks up from where he’s making a sandwich and raises an eyebrow. “Is that my hoodie?”

“I asked first,” Kai replies quickly, before he has time to pink up.

“I mean, yeah, five points for powers of deduction,” Cole says cheekily. “Congratulations, it’s a tangerine. We gotta finish them somehow, don’t we?”

“I—yeah,” Kai says absently. Cole holds out a hand for it and he tosses it over wordlessly, before he even thinks too much about it.

“You said they’re hard to peel, right?” Cole asks, digging his nails into the rind. He peels it in the shape of a flower and then splits the orange in half with his thumbs to hold out to Kai. “Here.”

Kai looks down at the segment being offered to him in an open palm and then back at Cole with his earnest, crinkly-eyed smile, and feels something stutter fatally in his chest.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, as his heart cracks open to let sunshine stream all in, filling his ribcage with warmth.

He bites into the fruit and feels his mouth fill with juice and thinks about how his mother used to peel oranges when he was too clumsy to and then about how Cole leaves tangerines in the pockets of the hoodies he knows Kai will steal and peels them for him in the shape of a flower, even though it turns his nails all yellow. He thinks of it so hard he forgets to make a face that doesn’t show about seven years of adoration on it and when he looks back at Cole, he’s already looking back with realization blazing across his expression.

“Kai?” he asks, voice wavering as his throat bobs with his nervous gulp.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and then grabs Cole by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, soft and open-mouthed, across the kitchen island. He’s so filled up with sweet oranges and sunlight and the heat of Cole’s skin that he forgets to even be afraid of this, as much as it’s frightened him in his fantasies. He stops being afraid of it altogether when Cole sighs into his mouth and cards a hand through his hair.

When they finally draw back, Cole’s pupils are blown huge and dark and he’s looking distinctly Kissed with a capital K. Kai would very much like to continue that endeavor.

“You taste like oranges,” Cole chuckles as he tugs Kai around the island to pull him closer.

You taste like home, he wants to say, but then Cole leans over him to cup his jaw and kiss him breathless, and Kai decides to let it go unspoken. There are more important things to attend to.

…

In the early summer, Cole and Kai negotiate with the others for a three-day vacation in early June. They drive in a rented car to the Valencia grove outside Ignacia and pick enough oranges to last the ship for weeks. Cole boosts him on his shoulders to help him reach the huge oranges at the tree tops and they laugh the whole time, chasing each other through the orchard and trading citrus kisses. Kai wonders if it’s possible to burst with happiness.

“I’m sick of eating oranges,” Lloyd complains when they come home bearing the (literal) fruits of their labor, newly sun-tanned and smiling.  

“Really?” Kai tilts his head, considering. “Seems to me like I can never get enough of ‘em.”

“Was that some sort of romantic metaphor?” Lloyd asks with a wrinkled nose. “Gross.”

Cole laughs from where he’s watching and sidles up from behind to rest his big hands on Kai’s hips. 

“Yeah,” Kai says affectionately. “Gross.”

“Not in the kitchen,” Zane calls from the next room, but Kai just leans back against Cole and closes his eyes to drink in the moment.

It’s worth it, he decides. All the fighting. All the losing. All the danger. It’s worth it to eat oranges in the kitchen with people he loves.

“What are you thinking about?” Cole teases, his voice rumbling low in his chest against Kai’s back.

“Nothing,” he says with a smile, opening his eyes. “I just love oranges.”

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago kai #ninjago cole #lavashipping #ninjago lava #my writing #I can't believe I actually finished something for this fandom #holy shit #anyway!!! please look!!!!! please look at it!!! #I hope you like it :)) #ft. cameos by #ninjago zane #ninjago lloyd

[fortune-fool02]

dio rejects humanity and becomes fish

"Dio, no!" Jonathan cried, reaching out in vain at his adoptive brother.

Dio cackled wickedly, as he clutched the Coral Mask in one hand, its spikes extending menacingly as it was exposed to a vial of ocean water that Dio had swiped from Jonathan's study room. At his feet, George, Jonathan's father, lay unconscious, having been wounded by Dio to gain the final ingredient-- a smear of human blood.

"I reject my humanity, JoJo!" he shrieked with a sinister grin. "I become MERMAID!"

At once, spiked tentacle-like tendrils emerged from the mask and clamped onto Dio's face. A bright, shining glow began to envelop him as a swirling mist formed a whirlwind of chaos within the mansion's lobby.

"Jonathan, get down!" Speedwagon cried, tackling Jonathan to the floor. Behind them, a frightful transformation began to take place, as Dio began to morph, his clothes all tearing off to reveal his bare, transfiguring body. Golden scales began forming onto his skin, his ears lengthened into pointed fins. His teeth sharpened like those of a shark's and four pairs of gills opened up on each side of his neck. Last to morph were his legs, fusing together into a long, scaly tail tipped with a fan-shaped fin, and now unable to stand, Dio fell to the floor with a thud as the light faded away.

Both Jonathan and Speedwagon gingerly looked up in horror at what Dio had become, as the mask dropped from his face and tumbled to the floor with a hollow clank.

Dio, lying prone on the floor, slowly stirred and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "At last...at LAST!" he laughed maniacally, testing out the flexibility of his new tail. "At last I can feel the POWER OF THE OCEAN coursing through me!"

"W-what have you done?!" Jonathan cried in disbelief. 

"The power of the ocean has transcended my mortal limits!" Dio snarled, though Jonathan noticed he was beginning to wheeze and gasp. "I have...ascended...from a mere...human....to an unstoppable...force of...the sea!"

"But Dio," Jonathan reasoned, "you're....you're not in the sea."

Dio, now panting heavily, seemed to be suddenly struck with a realization, as his eyes widened with terrified regret.

"W-water..." he moaned, clutching his neck in a panic before collapsing onto the ground, his gills flapping vainly for the water that wasn't there.

"Dio? Dio, no!" Jonathan cried, running to his side.

"Leave him be, Jonathan!" snapped Speedwagon. "Let the bastard fish dry out and die, he deserved it!"

Jonathan glared back sternly at his companion. "He may have been cruel and wicked, and now a mythical sea creature, but he's still like a brother to me!" He grabbed the faintly struggling, gasping Dio by his tail, feeling the drying flakiness of his dehydrated scales, and began to drag him toward the back door.

"Speedwagon!" Jonathan groaned. "Take care of my dad for me and make sure he's okay! I have to get Dio into the water!"

Speedwagon nodded thoughtfully as he rushed to George's side. The old man was unconscious but alive, with the stab wound in his flank, inflicted by Dio, still bleeding profusely. "What are you all standing around for?" he yelled at the authorities who entered the room. "Get this man a carriage to the hospital right away!" he yelled, applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.

Meanwhile Jonathan, dragging the now convulsively-gasping Dio by his tail, was slowly but surely making his way to the fountain in front of the Joestar mansion: the only source of water close enough for him to reach in time before Dio suffocated to death. With one final, heaving grunt, he lifted up the twitching merman and dropped him into the fountain with a splash.

For a few moments Jonathan watched the dark water with bated breath. Then suddenly, from under the murky water, a pair of glowing orange eyes suddenly glared up at him, before giving out a bubbling sigh of exhausted relief, before closing back down again.

---------------

"How's Dad doing?" Jonathan asked Speedwagon, as he arrived to the Joestar mansion in a carriage the following morning.

"He'll have to stay at the hospital for weeks, maybe months," sighed Speedwagon sadly, "but the good news is that he'll live. We're not sure when he'll wake up, but he's stable and in better health."

"That's good to hear," Jonathan replied, thankfully. "I'll try to visit him as soon as I can, but for now...I've got another problem to worry about for the moment."

Speedwagon's face wrinkled in disgust as he became aware of a fishy smell emanating from a bucket that Jonathan carried in one hand.

"Dear heavens, JoJo!" he complained. "What is that dreadful smell?"

"Just some left-over mackerel from our pantry's ice box," Jonathan replied. "I've got to keep him well-fed so he won't...try to EAT anybody."

"Who...?" Speedwagon relied, confused, as his eyes trailed up toward the fountain, where a familiar, blond figure lay in the shallow, running water.

"Here, Dio, I brought you breakfast," Jonathan crooned gently to the merman.

Dio glared hatefully up at him, with brilliant, tangerine eyes, pupils slitted like a cat's. "I am not a pet, JoJo! How dare you treat me like some lowly wretched beast?" he snarled.

"Oh, Dio," Jonathan sighed mournfully. "You did this to yourself. You were arrogant and foolish and it's just brought grief to us all. But no matter how much of a spiteful imbecile you have been...you are no less a brother in my eyes. And I know I'm a better person than to just leave you to die."

He fished out a mackerel from the bucket and uneasily held it out to Dio, who seized it suddenly and without warning, causing both Jonathan and Speedwagon to stumble back in fright.

Gripping his meal in his clawed, webbed hands, Dio messily devoured the fish, tearing into it savagely as his razor-sharp teeth shredded apart fins, bones, scales and all. Speedwagon felt sickened at the sight.

"Disgusting," he groaned. "He was vile before he became a mermaid but he's even worse now!"

"It's a shame, really," Jonathan added with a dry laugh. "Dad always used to praise him for his table manners."

As Dio finished off the last remnants of the fish, Jonathan and Speedwagon got their first good look at Dio's newfound piscine form in the yellow light of early morning. His entire body was covered in small, fine, golden scales, save for his face, throat, belly and chest, which retained the color and texture of Dio's original skin. A large, transluscent dorsal fin emerged from the middle of his back, the same see-through shade of yellow as the smaller fins that emerged from his ears, his elbows and what used to be his hips. His tail, tipped in a bright golden tail fin, was longer than Dio's legs used to be, coiling snakily around the circular fountain with the fluke dangling limply over the edge.

Still retaining his mop of messy blond hair and sharpm handsome facial features, Dio was both terrifying and yet strangely beautiful, Jonathan thought. Just like many of the sea creatures he studied in his marine researches: a gorgeous, elegant exterior concealing the heart and soul of a ruthless, predatory killer, one that was best admired with distance and precaution.

His golden scales glimmered beautifully in the sunlight, but Dio didn't seem to appreciate the glare one bit. He shrank away from the light, shading his eyes from the glare as he wriggled about in the water until he was safely in the fountain's shadow.

"He doesn't seem to like the light," Jonathan noted observantly. "His eyes must have become adapted for the dark depths of the sea, I shall have to get him some shade from the sun if he's to stay here."

"So, what are we going to do with him now?" Speedwagon asked Jonathan concernedly. "Are you going to take him to the ocean and leave him there? The sooner we're rid of him the better!" 

"We may be rid of him if we do just that, but he'll be someone else's problem." Jonathan warned. "He's vicious and powerful and he's sure to use his newfound abilities to hurt others, and it would be our fault for turning him loose."

"You don't suppose we could...dry him up and sell him to the museum?" Speedwagon snarkily suggested.

Jonathan shot Speedwagon a horrified glare. "No, no, we're not going to kill him! He's perfectly harmless if we keep him confined in the fountain. This should keep him out of trouble and I can keep a close eye on him."

Meanwhile, Dio had been listening to the whole discussion: furious that they were contemplating on selling him like some common fish. Angrily, he planted his scaly hands onto the fountain's edge and raised his body up as high as he could. "I CAN HEAR YOU TWO SCHEMING!" he cried out at the two. "How DARE you treat me like this!"

Jonathan shook his head disappointedly and approached the merman, who crouched back into the fountain's shadow hissing like a threatened snake. "Dio, I don't want to do this any more than you. But it's my responsibility to keep others safe from you, and you safe from yourself. You turned yourself into this, Dio, and now I know no way to change you back."

"Damn you, JoJo..." Dio whimpered, his voice beginning to break. "So I'm going to have lo spend the rest of my life, however long that may be, kept prisoner in this stupid fountain like some kind of trained seal at a circus? As your own personal pet mermaid, huh, JoJo?" He splashed his tail in frustration and let out a loud, inhuman, mournful wail, and Jonathan felt a hint of pity, even for someone like him.

"This was your choice, Dio," Jonathan scolded, sternly but comfortingly. "There's nothing more you and I can do about the situation, but have to get used to it."

He offered Dio another mackerel. "Here you go, Dio. Eat up and stop being miserable, we'll try to find out a way to make this work out."

Dio recluctantly reached out to take the fish from Jonathan, before sinking back down into the water, bubbling indignantly about his plight.

Jonathan turned to Speedwagon as Dio ate sulkingly. "Speedwagon? This may be a bit of a favor to ask from you..." he asked awkwardly.

"Sure thing, anything that you request," Speedwagon replied.

"You see, I'm going to have to watch over my father at the hospital for a while. And I'm going to have to have someone to watch over Dio for a while to make sure he doesn't get into trouble. I know he can't breathe without water for long and can't leave the fountain for long, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Could you...merman-sit for me while I check on my Dad?"

Speedwagon nodded uneasily, and hesitantly glanced toward the fountain, where Dio, taking his time as he slowly ate his mackerel, made eye contact with Speedwagon and gave a hostile snarl.

"Dear me," sighed Speedwagon in exasperation. "Today is going to be a very, very long day."

--------------

***

This.... This was absolutely incredible to read! I love every second of it! Thank you so much for taking the time to write this, anon! It's absolutely amazing!

#merman dio #merman au #submission

[kyberphilosopher]

Kalon

“So long as you’re with me, I know I’ll never have to do anything alone.” 

Word Count: 2091

Pronunciation: KAL-en. (n.)...  the ideal of physical and moral beauty especially as conceived by the philosophers... beauty that is more than skin deep.

Rey really wanted to pound her fist against the ship in her frustration. 

The Millennium Falcon had accomplished so much throughout its existence- it was the infamous ship that had made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs! It had outrun Imperial starships. Not the local bulk cruisers, of course, but the big Corellian ships. Sleek and uniquely shaped, she was fast enough for anyone. 

But Rey thought she knew better. Of course, she appreciated the ship for what it was already. Anything that someone put so much effort into working with and creating was something that she could get behind. However, the thought popped into her mind that maybe there was a way to make it better. 

Just a little rewiring! Maybe a new paint job? Nothing too extreme, of course. The girl would never want to change the entire essence of something with so much value- sentimental or otherwise. Rey preferred keeping the vessel of both her friends memories and her own the same. Safe and secure. 

But this task was proving to be a tad more difficult than anticipated. 

It spiraled quickly enough. A little bit of rewiring turned into having to replace certain bits, which turned itself into having to fix an oil leak. How the Falcon hadn’t exploded into thousands of little shards was beyond Rey, by this point. It continuously seemed that with every adjustment she made [or attempted to make] morphed into a new problem that might’ve not even been worth it. It didn’t help much that that Poe Dameron guy would make a face or a snide comment as he watched her work. He had even made offers to help Rey, which she slapped aside each time. 

You watched as the girl finally slammed her palms against the side of the thing. With grit teeth and a bit of a huff, a few strands of brown locks fell down as she took a step back. Rey always was a bit of an emotional person, and sometimes her anger and frustration got hard to ignore. 

You shift against the wall you lean on, eyes glued to her. Rey looks incredibly pretty, however flushed with irritation. She’s been at it all day, and the exertion is rising in time with the setting sun. The sky, once a brilliant, bright blue, has faded into pastel shades of tangerine and raspberry and lemon. It’s warm today, adding to the thin layer of sweat spreading across her shoulders and palms. You were curious to see how her hazel eyes would make themselves appear in the light, but she was turned away from you. 

“Girls gonna be the death of us,” Poe grumbled as he walked passed you, shaking his head and jabbing his thumb. His expression was one of a ‘can you believe her?’. 

You crane your head over your shoulder to watch the man march away and into the hangar. You’d be willing to bet that he’s going to complain to General Organa, who will say some sassy words of wisdom in response. 

When you turn your head back, Rey has her hands on the sides of her hips. She looks the Falcon up and down, her white robes billowing slightly in the summer like wind. You’re not sure what she’s going to do next, but you’ve observed her enough to know she’s not exactly a quitter. 

Your relationship with the Jedi was a bit of a strange one. It wasn’t bad by any means. You weren’t quite... “friends”, but you weren’t really acquaintances either. It was more like the outer circle of friendship, where things are soft and warm but still somewhat mysterious. Rey didn’t come to you for things like she would Finn or Leia, and you didn’t talk to her nearly as often as Poe or Tallie. But you watched her sometimes out of appreciation and security, wondering if she was aware how beautiful she looked in the light of the sun. 

It takes a lot of bravery to talk to someone you admire, whether you know them well or not. People would be jealous of all the guts it took for you to push yourself from leaning by the entrance, and starting towards the girl. 

“Need help?” you question politely. Rey jumps and turns to you, startled but not upset. “Sorry.”

Rey looks at you for only a second before turning back to the ship. Her brown eyes rake up and down, looking at the exposed wires and vents and all the bits she’d happened to destroy. “No, no. I don’t think so,” Rey decides to say with a sigh. 

“You sure?” you say, turning to look at the structure ahead of you as well. “I mean, not to brag, but I think I know a lot about YT Leight Freighters.”

This draws a flash of a smile from her. She feels the stress and annoyance of working at the ship all day sinking away slowly with the light bit of humor. She looks down at her feet before squinting her eyes in the sunlight. “Can you toss me that Hydrospanner?” she says, pointing to the ground by your feet. 

You bend down and pick it up right away from the cluster of tools, tossing it to her. As she catches it sloppily and turns it over in her palms, she scoffs in that way that people do to show a kind form of surprise. “Finn can never do that right.”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly. “Find a tool?”

Rey looks up at you, smiling. “You’d be surprised.”

You grin softly at each other in the light, the Falcon casting dim shadows across the place but not diminishing the warmth that you felt. The nervousness in your stomach was ever present, and you were somewhat afraid of saying something wrong with her. 

“So are you going to make any adjustments to the inside?” you ask, peeling your eyes from hers and admiring the bulk of the famous ship. You can see all the little divots and scratches embedded in the metal, each one telling a story. You can see why she would’ve wanted to keep reparations to a minimum. 

Rey strains as she goes to tighten a screw on her tip-toes. Her brow furrows and a bead of sweat appears on the right. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet, at least.” 

You nod in understanding. “Always wanted to be a pilot,” you muttered, half to yourself. 

Rey squinted over at you, detaching her tool from the bolt and watching your expression change to one of awe. Everything you guys said to each other had always been polite and small, only urgent once or twice. You knew each other, knew of each other, but not in the way that she knew others. It wasn’t quite as intimate or personal as her relationship with others, but Rey liked your presence fine enough. It shocked the pit of her tummy to hear you say something that sounded so personal. 

“Well, aren’t you?” she questioned. 

You scoffed a little dryly, and Rey knew you were about to sell yourself short. “Piloting an X-Wing isn’t much of the same as piloting a Falcon.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Rey said kindly. She watched you turn to her with the glint of joy in your eyes, dissecting her words. “Pass me that towel?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. Again, you picked a rag smeared with dirt and grime from the ground and passed it to her. “Are you going to be here all day?”

Rey rung the towel around her sweaty hands, attempting to soothe the perspiration into the skin instead of wiping it away. She had been, in all honesty. She liked working with her hands, especially when it was on something as grand and legendary as the Millennium Falcon. It reminded her of something she knew was real and tangible, no matter how many bad memories her hands tied to her old life. 

“No,” she said, even though it hurt a bit to say. 

You bit your lip for a second, giving time for her lie to sink in before speaking again. “I meant do you want me to stay all day?”

Rey looks over at you again, her head moving fast. Her big, doe eyes are looking at you like you’ve said the kindest thing in the world, trying to detect if you mean it. You do. 

“Yeah,” she says, hoarse but with smile. She nods her head vigorously, strands of hair bouncing up and down. “Yeah.”

You stayed with her for the next hour or so, standing out against the setting sun and the distant view of fern green trees. Rey payed attention to every one of your polite words, each one an offering. She offered what she could back as she weaved and fumbled. 

You got to see her hands in action, and you were surprised you hadn’t appreciated them before. To be fair, this interaction was probably the closest you’d been to her. But Rey’s fingers were slim and strong and nimble, and they twisted wires like braids. The metal panels of the ship seemed to bend to her will. You knew she was worth all the time you’d spent observing her beauty. 

“Do you think any of this will actually mean anything?” you asked at the end of the day. The sky had turned purple and orange by now, with the sun disappearing beyond the horizon. Most of the soldiers and pilots and workers outside had turned in for the night, and Rey’s palms had begun pink and rough from the work. 

You lean your head back against the ship, which is a little uncomfortable, but fatigue has somewhat dulled your senses by now. Your locks matted in the back as it pressed against the metal. You had a knot tying itself up in your lower back, while Rey had one forming in her upper. “What do you mean?” she questioned, shutting a panel for the time being. 

“Just... the Rebellion,” you admitted. Your eyes flitted around. Rey could see the reflection of the rising moon in your pupils, even from the side. “The Resistance. What if it doesn’t actually do anything.”

Rey admired your profile, appreciating the look of your skin. She could see the exact shape of your jaw, the chapped nature of your lips and the length of your lashes. Sweat had begun to form against your skin from the humidity of the system, but it didn’t look stinky or unwelcome. 

She doesn’t know much about you still, but she likes your presence now. Against the noise of the galaxy, your conversation is quiet and soft, and not nearly as abrasive and demanding as others around her. Rey closes her lips. Her eyes soften more and more, melting into the soothing aura of your presence. 

“It’ll mean something,” she says, nodding her head like a promise. 

You turn your head to look at Rey, meeting her hazel eyes. “Yeah,” you say in turn. “It’ll mean something.” Though you’re not talking about the Resistance now. 

You’re talking about Rey, who you’ve found incredibly beautiful since the moment you saw her. Strong and fierce, she had a fire that reminded you of all the things in life you loved. And maybe one day, you could tell her that. But for the moment, all you can do is exchange a genuine smile with her, the light of everything else in the world fading away until her and the Millennium Falcon are the only things that remain. 

“Would you ever want to...”

You turn back to Rey as you walk, watching her wipe her hands across her pants like its a smock. Dirt and oil smears across them, but you know she doesn’t mind. The girl has already had enough experiences to become accustomed to a little dirt. 

“Yeah?” you ask, the moon rising higher into the lavender canvas above. 

Rey feels nervous, and she’s inwardly cursing at herself for not being able to stop her voice from slipping out. “If you’d ever like to fly the Falcon with me,” she explains. “I just mean...”

You look down, then back up between the girl and the large, infamous ship. “Thank you, Rey.” 

You’d agree the next day, on the condition that it meant something. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I don’t like the sequels very much, but somebody wanted Rey and I delivered. I like writing for girl characters, to be honest. A lot of the sequel characters are a bit difficult to do because I don’t think a lot of them have to much of like... personalities? But I tried to stay true to what I think Rey might say. I’d appreciate feedback if i was alright with her character though! it’s important that I keep them in character

Taglist: @omg-we-really-doo​ @kit-jpg​ @chokemeanakin​ @anakinswhore​ @fanficsforheartandsoul​ @haztory​

#rey x reader #rey #star wars rey #star wars rey x reader #rey imagines #f x f #fem reader #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #star wars imagines #rey imagine #rey skywalker x reader #rey palpatine x reader #star wars fluff #rey fluff #rey skywalker fluff #rey palpatine fluff #star wars sequels

[dracoignisworld]

A little white (wine) lie

As Jon entered the shop, he caught sight of a small, silver-haired woman carefully studying a bottle of Merlot. Whilst she twisted and turned the wine between her hands, he casually walked up behind her, pretended to read the label, and drawled:

“Oh, that one - that’s an excellent one.”

A pair of violet eyes gazed back at him curiously. “Is that so?” she replied, smacking her apricot lips with a pop. “And what can you tell me about it?”

That it’s red, Jon thought though he retained a brilliant smile as he lied: “Whatever you want to know.”

Corked was perfectly placed in between two student accommodations. The owners knew how to make the best of their situation; though barely more than a narrow room, they’d managed to cover every wallspace with shelves stocked full of £5 bottles of chardonnay and prosecco, tinned gin and tonic, local ale sold by the litre, and, naturally, a barrel full of tequila.

Like the students, Jon had dragged his arse out of bed that Tuesday afternoon for some bargain booze. Having spent the last three years freelancing, he considered himself a bit of a connoisseur when it came to cheap alcohol - mostly because it was all he could afford. All the more reason he found his smile faltering a little when the woman popped the bottle back on the shelf and he noticed the price displayed below.

Who the fuck pays fifty-eight pounds for wine? Jon thought before sneaking another peek at the woman and, with a resigned sigh, realising: Someone like her.

Whoever she was, she was stunning; her hair was brightly silver and tied back into several elaborate braids which cascaded down her narrow shoulders like streams of water. Her small body was wrapped in a pale pink dress, the pleated hemline teasing just above her knees which were perfectly tanned from the sun. Yet it was the intense colour of her eyes which kept drawing Jon’s gaze back to her face.

Like a lavender field, Jon thought, and he felt an immediate urge to write it down in case he was to forget. At once, he sensed it was something he could use for his work. Some day, at least.

“Do you know a lot about wine?” the woman asked and cocked her head. Her braids slipped to her right shoulder, the movement causing the many golden beads in her locks to glimmer.

Jon licked his lips and sensed how dry they were. “I know something,” he said with confidence.

“I like a man who knows something,” she replied, but before Jon could tell whether she was mocking him or not, she continued: “I’m Daenerys.” She offered him her hand. Her nails were delicately manicured. Pale tangerine gel. Of course.

Jon shook it with his own rough hand, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palm was. “I’m Jon,” he said.

“Well, Jon,” Daenerys spoke, “perhaps you can help me. I am looking for a wine that will go well with my dinner.”

“Merlot goes well with everything,” Jon said.

“Maybe if it doesn’t have a lot of acidity, I am inclined to agree,” Daenerys said, and Jon found himself wondering:

Is wine acidic? - but he couldn’t linger on the thought because she spoke with cool haste:

“However, I am planning on serving a salmon dish, and I’m sure you’d agree that a full-bodied white wine would be more appropriate in this instance.”

“Of course,” Jon said without thinking, feeling a tad flushed. He pushed his fingertips into the collar of his shirt to let in some air. Despite the aircon whirring above them, he sensed the shop was heating up. Perhaps I’m finally feeling the sun, he decided.

Daenerys rested her hands on her lower back as she slowly walked alongside the back-shelf, her eyes scanning the many bottles on display. Jon found himself mimicking her posture as he too strolled alongside the wines, his eyes desperately searching for something he could recognise. Everything seemed to melt into one. From a distance, he could scarcely make out the small flag signalling ‘country of origin’.

“Now, I haven’t decided on how I’m going to prepare the salmon, and I know this will definitely have an impact on my choice.”

“Definitely,” Jon repeated.

“I thought of making glazed salmon, which naturally makes me keen on a dry Riesling.”

“Naturally,” Jon said. He was starting to feel like a parrot.

Daenerys was undeterred. “But,” she said, turning on her heels in the same and almost colliding with Jon on her way back toward the beginning of the shelf. She sent him a small apologetic smile as she brushed past him, the soft skin of her bare arms brushing to his knuckles and making him shiver. “But, I do also like a simple, plain salmon, because I enjoy a white Burgundy.”

Jon touched his knuckles where a warm feeling had started to spread and muttered: “Who doesn’t,” as it was the only reply he could come up with.

Daenerys turned on her heels again, and Jon paused as he waited for her to walk past him once more, sharing names of wines he’d never known to exist. But she remained standing, cocking her head to the other side as she said: “So, what do you suggest?”

Jon slowly dragged his tongue around his mouth, trying to wetten it, but he found himself completely parched. He wasn’t sure why, but the way she was looking at him made his heart skip a beat. He felt like he was back in school, and the teacher had just called on him, and he didn’t know the answer though he desperately wanted to impress. So he did the only thing he could - he avoided the question.

“Do you live around here?” he asked, and he felt smug when she blinked. He could tell he caught her off-guard.

“I do,” Daenerys replied. She narrowed her eyes as if she was trying to read him. “I moved back recently.”

“Where from?”

“I was living in Spain for a bit,” she said.

“Studying?” Jon asked. He popped his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he waited for her reply, but if he’d felt relief at moving away from the subject of wine, that sensation was soon squashed as she hummed:

“You ask a lot of questions and say little.” Daenerys’ eyes twinkled as she twirled a braided lock around her hand and rested her other arm over her waist. “Your turn - do you live around here, Jon?”

Jon liked the way his name sounded on her lips. She spoke it in the same way she referred to the wines - with confidence, as if she already knew everything it entailed. “I live down the road,” he said.

“Student?”

“Those discounts are sadly long gone,” he replied with a wry smile. “No, I graduated a while back. Been freelancing since.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“My turn,” Jon deflected the question, and he enjoyed the pout that shaped on her lips. “Did you study in Spain?”

“I visited family, mostly. Ate and drank,” she said this with a light laugh, “what else would you do in Spain! Lived life, really.”

“Must do well for yourself to just travel,” Jon pointed out.

“Must do well for yourself,” Daenerys retorted, “being a freelancer and knowing so much about wine.” This time, he could definitely sense the mocking in her tone, so he stuck his nose up a little and said:

“You asked me what I’d suggest.”

“I did,” she agreed and raised her brows. “Have you decided?”

“I suggest eating out and letting the waiter choose the wine pairing. In that way, if it’s right, you feel smug, and if it’s wrong, you can blame it on bad service.”

Daenerys let go of a short laugh before covering her mouth. Her violet eyes sparkled. “You’re such a bad liar,” she spoke through her fingers, but even her hand could not hide her large smile. “You know nothing about wine, do you?”

“I’m actually a blogger,” Jon said with a slight blush to his cheeks. Before she could say else, he quickly clarified: “Not like a popular read-my-essay-to-see-my-stew-recipe kind of blogger. I blog for companies.”

Daenerys lowered her hand and looked amused. “What kind of companies?”

“Any that pay me,” he shrugged. “Right now, I’m helping a florist get off their feet, so I’m reading all about wedding bouquets. It is the season for marriage after all,” he said and gestured toward the windows at front. Outside, the sun shone sharply. Heat seemed to rise off the asphalt in waves. “I’m also doing some work for an IT start-up, and some hand-soap seller.”

“And it pays well?”

“Let me put it this way - I don’t normally shop here,” he gestured at the shelving unit beside them where the cheapest bottle he could spot was priced at thirty-five, “but there,” he pointed toward a barrel at front. It was full of plastic-flasks with store-branded whiskey.

Daenerys tapped her manicured nails to her lips as she looked the way he’d gestured. Her face was folded in thought, and Jon took the pause to take in the plump shape of her lips, her rounded chin, her slim neck.

When she looked back, he hurriedly looked down at his sneakers. “Well, anyway,” he said, “sorry for barging in on your shopping.”

“You said I must do well for myself,” Daenerys spoke, seemingly not hearing him, “and it’s true. I actually own a business.”

Jon stopped himself from gawking. “Oh,” he said, trying to remain cool, “that’s nice.”

“I used to do it on the side, but I want to really focus my attention on it and make it something great. That’s why I moved back from Spain. I need to be more involved.” As she spoke, her eyes narrowed and her fingers dragged from her lips to rest beneath her chin in thought. “I could actually need some help on the media front.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Jon said again, though her words were slowly dawning on him.

“You know, I think you’re right,” she said at once.

Jon blinked. “About what?”

“The whole wine-pairing thing. Asking the waiter and all that? Not a bad idea.”

Jon chuckled: “It was a joke.” Still, when he met her gaze, he found her staring back at him mischievously.

“Would you like dinner? Purely business, of course. Then we can see if you’d be any help for me.”

Jon felt his ears redden. Is she asking me out? he wondered as he stared back at her, gleaming eyes and all. He popped his fingers back into the collar of his shirt. “Just business?” he said, before stuttering: “I mean, sure. Of course. Just business. Is all.”

“Is all,” Daenerys agreed. She grabbed a bottle off the shelf, to Jon seemingly at random, and handed it to him. “Take this,” she said as he eyed the label, “it’s a beautiful wine from Chile. Taste it, and then meet me outside this shop tonight and let me know what food will go well with it.”

“That’s nice,” Jon said, looking at the price out of the corners of his eyes. Fucking sixty-five pounds! “But I can’t afford it.”

“My gift,” Daenerys said and gestured for him to follow. They slowly walked through the room toward the till at the front. “To help you understand my business.”

“Right - what is it, anyway?” Jon asked, but he felt the words die on his lips. Because instead of waiting with him by the till, she slipped behind it, typed something into the laptop, and then handed him a receipt which stated the name of the wine and the final price of £0.

“This,” she said with a brilliant smile as she gestured around the shop.

Jon felt his heart drop. “You own the shop?” he mumbled and watched as Daenerys leaned in over the counter with a smirk. He felt his face go completely red. “Did I just-”

“-mansplain wine to me? Sure tried,” Daenerys laughed. She reached out, her fingertips brushing a curly black lock out of his face.

Jon looked down as he murmured: “Sorry.”

“Eight o’clock tonight okay?” Daenerys asked and, when Jon nodded, she sent him a customer-service smile and chirped: “Thanks for shopping at Corked!”

As soon as Jon had bowed out of the shop and back into the sunshine, his fingers grasped tightly around the bottle of wine, he walked with steady steps across the road, straight into the bookshop across from Corked, and requested: “Any and all books you have on wine, please.” It was going to be a long afternoon.

#jonerys #jonerys fanfic #writing #writings #just a small silly thing #trying to get back into writing again

[shingansoul]

We Can Figure it Out After

Summary:  Law has spent every day of the last 13 years thinking and plotting his action for that day in Dressrosa. Now that's it come and gone with the unexpected result of his surviving, how is a man without a purpose supposed to look forward? Luffy thinks he can help.

read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374645

Time felt like it had slowed or no longer flowed with the rest of the world that morning. The sun was warm, and gentle as it shined down upon the deck of the Barto Club's prized vessel. Everyone was either still awake, just rising, or pre-occupied with maintaining the ship and keeping to themsleves elsewhere on the ships main and lower decks.

Law ever running from sleep and his own mind had taken to dozing tentatively in the small tangerine grove towards the rear of the ship, leaning up against one of the trees from his place sat on the grass portion of the deck. He had been there since early morn before the sun dared break past the horizon, hoping to remain unseen until he was sure he could pull off a mask of bored calm around the other crews. It seemed though unseen, sight wasn't the only sense that could lead anyone to him.

"Oi! Torao!"

Law flinched slightly at the call, knowing he couldn't feign sleep to avoid the other's unwanted company or attention. However he knew, not after Dressrosa and all he'd seen and done, could he say no to Luffy. So with a forced sigh, far too dramatic to fool the observant type, he looked up to the smaller captain and gave him a weak and tired glare as the other approached him.

"Mugiwara-ya."

"What're you doing all the way over here? Breakfast is soon!" Luffy spoke as if missing the meal in question were of a truly disastrous consequence, though the comment only earned him an eye roll from the surgeon. Pouting at the older man, Luffy sat himself cross legged in front of Law, hands gripping his knees as he tilted his head and met the surgeon's gaze; a not so subtle inquiry.

Law looked away, offering a weak excuse. "I...couldn't sleep." As Luffy's gaze never wavered, Law seemed to find tracing the spots on the thighs of his jeans to be quite the fascinating task. At the least, it was certainly the safer option than meet those wide dark eyes.

Luffy, noticing the obviously vague explanation, seemed to come to a decision. He spun himself around, still sitting but now with his back to Law before he scootched backwards until his back was pressed against the other's chest. Law jumped a bit, not expecting the sudden close contact or movement though he stiffly remained seated with his knees bent putting his thighs on either side of the other captain.

"Wha-"

He was cut off promptly, but with a soft tone. "You don't have to talk about it, okay?"

Law still stiff, chewed on his lip and stared at the grass to his side. Taking his silence either as an answer in itself or like a signal, the younger man reached back and grabbed one of the tattooed hands of the elder captain. Law did not resist, but his body moved and reacted in sharp movements, too on edge from the unpredictable situation he was faced with.

Luffy huffed, puffing his cheeks a little in frustration yet he forced his small amount of patience into his gentle tugging of the hand in his grip and waited, pulling the owner of it forward slightly against him more with Law's arm over and against his shoulder. When the other finally gave in and did so, Luffy set about to tracing the tattoos before him.

He started with Law's forearm, his fingers warm against the cooler skin of the other, tracing the spiked ring bordering the central shape of the tattoo. Law through all this was reeling, wound taught like one giant ball of nerves screaming to get up and away, yet he simply sat there instead. Over time in the quiet between them, Law let his arm and eventually his posture relax bit by bit as the other repeatedly traced and rubbed at the designs on his flesh until he was far enough forward to rest his chin on the other's shoulder where his upper arm once rested.

"Does this help?" Luffy prompted, having moved to the simpler designs on the back of Law's hands. Law simply hummed in response, trying to simply focus on the sensation of the others touch and for once not getting stuck too deep within his own thoughts.

In his thoughts was where his toughest battles were after all. The reminders in an array of voices telling him he was a waste of life, that he didn't deserve to be alive, to have the good things around him now. That he was a failure and that everyone was disappointed in him, ashamed of him: his parents, Lami, his crew...Cora-san. The voices of those who loved him mocked him, beat him to the ground and he believed every word of it most days. After all, he was simply a boy on borrowed time in exchange for the life of someone so much more than he'd ever be.

What was the point anymore anyways? He didn't even take down Doflamingo himself, he didn't deserve to celebrate, to have survived Dressrosa. He should have died, hell he had planned on dying for years there and he wanted it, to be free of this constant burden of moving forward and doing, planning, caring so much by not caring, hurting...His mission had been completed, and now with a life he didn't expect to keep, he had to keep going. What was the plan now?

"Well, just...do whatever you want. That's what I've been doing and look how far I got."

Law's eyes widened and he flinched, an audible gasp softly passing his lips as he realized his thoughts had slipped past him while he was unguarded.

"I..." Law trailed off meekly, unsure how to respond. How could he? Luffy stilled a moment and Law quickly went rigid in kind, taking the others pause as a sign he was leaving or dissatisfied. That was fine, Law decided, clearly lying to himself. His insecurities and demons were his to bear, of course a man of conviction and radiance like Luffy wouldn't understand or have the patience for someone who was unwilling to follow suite.

However he was soon proved oh so wrong when Luffy released his arm just to pull his other one forward too. Luffy swiveled his own arms above Law's, effectively loosely placing tattooed arms around his midsection. Law was still, eyes widened slightly in awe of the gesture.

With a satisfied chuckle and a grin to match, luffy then reached up and removed his signature strawhat only to plop it gently atop Law's head. Law's shoulders stiffened and rose at the gesture, his mind racing at what was going on his teeth firmly clamped down on his lip not letting himself break further than he had already.

That venture was short lived however, as Luffy softly patted Law's uninjured bicep and said, "It's okay if you don't know what you want yet. I'm not too good at math so i don't really get exactly how long it was, but you spent a real long time thinkin' about that 'mingo guy huh?"

It was silent for a few moments, Luffy left hanging yet he didn't make to move or speak further. Then, like a dam reluctantly, finally, falling apart the tears came like the metaphorical waters - rushing all at once now freed. Law buried his face into the rubber man's shoulder, first simply crying and soon devolving into sobbing and wailing into the red clothes he hid his face in. His arms tightened around Luffy's waist, now outright hugging the smaller captain to himself.

Law felt so much, yet nothing at all right now and it seemed he couldn't care any longer about the pride and distance he'd spent building up for so long, he didn't care anymore. He was elated and upset, he was hurting yet he wanted to celebrate. He was full of so many thoughts and feelings, from his past and his regrets, to the terrible things his mind forced down his throat from all the years of fear and rage burning within him. It all and so much more hit him, and Luffy spoke it all into existence and broke down his walls.

Law wanted to scream out to the heavens how much it was, too much for him. Everything was too much and so overwhelming, he had gone through so much on Dressrosa and the pain of it plus everything before had reared its head. And now he had a life to live, free of Doflamingo and with knowledge from a marine of all places that Cora-san had truly loved him and wanted him to be happy. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

How could he face so readily the simple truth he refused to let himself deserve for 13 long years? How was he supposed to live, what was he to do with that life he had finally truly gained? What was he supposed to do now, his purpose was done and though his life was guaranteed to be shorter than the average man's, he had a decade or two minimum to go should he not be killed or off himself like the miserable fool he was.

All this and so many other thoughts circled in Law's head and who knows, maybe he said all of it or none of it or something else entirely, he didn't know or care anymore. He just kept crying, as if he could expel everything out of him and replace it all with the warmth radiating out of the smaller man in his grip. It took a moment before Law remembered he had Luffy tightly in his arms sat in his lap more or less, but when Law tried to suddenly stop himself (to no avail) and pull away, Luffy was quick to put a hand on the back of Law's neck, holding his face against the crook of his neck.

"It's okay, you're allowed to do whatever you need or want now Torao. If you're upset? Be upset, that's fine. And when you don't wanna be upset anymore or don't have anymore in you to be upset about, we can both figure out together what you wanna do after that."

A wet gasp followed by deep sniffling was followed by an almost unintelligible question of, "What if it takes years before I'm not upset anymore?"

Luffy hummed softly in thought for a moment before replying simply, "then we'll figure it out after however many years it takes." He said it like it was so simple, and knowing him he thought it was exactly that simple. It was enough to elicit a tired chuckle followed by a small cough out of the surgeon, his outburst slowing by this point.

While Law had not loosened his grip, Luffy took to humming to himself idly, returning to tracing the tattoos on Law's arms and hands again. Starting this time by tracing the lettering along his fingers. As the older man's sobs turned to soft hiccups and sniffled, he moved his face to the side resting his cheek on Luffy's shoulder and facing out to the side. He let his still wet eyes close as he listened to and felt the other in front of him. In their little hidden place within the tangerine grove, he decided that when he was truly ready to face himself, he'd have to take Luffy up on his offer of help figuring out what to do next.

Luffy in a short amount of time had certainly lived a lot of life after all, how crazy could it get following in his footsteps or at his side?

#one piece #trafalgar law #monkey d. luffy #lawlu #fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #fanfic #one shot #also on ao3 #ao3

[excuseme-youpretty]

Pairing: Kim Namjoon / Reader

Side Pairings: None

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 3,748

Warnings: Brief allusions to sex, but nothing too graphic.

Notes: This oneshot was requested by anonymous. They wanted adorable fluffy Namjoon spending a rare day off with his partner. I hope, wherever you are, that you liked it and I’m sorry for the delay ♥ I’ve had a virus that’s been kicking my ass.

Make your own requests: HERE

As you fold your body up on the axis of your hip, rotating in a clean arc to reach across the mattress toward Namjoon's designated patch, you are fully expecting to feel the cool compress of abandonment rippling along your sheets. 

It's always the same, the harsh bite of cold satin which has somehow preserved your boyfriend's silhouette and the residual cling of his cologne; leaving you a little disappointed but nevertheless eager to progress your day until his inevitable return.

Only on this morning it is not a reminiscent frost that you feel, but rather an unmistakable warmth and the soft, shallow breaths which can only belong to one man.

Namjoon wakes you organically, with lips of spun sugar and the barely-there pull of his teeth leaving a curl of calligraphy along the underside of your jaw. He tastes of peppermint and sunrise, pulling you from the remnants of your sleep with a soft exhale of your name.

"Good morning, Princess." He sighs, nuzzling a deliberately soft semi-circle just beneath your ear. "Or should I say 'good afternoon'?'"

The hot midsummer sun bleeds through your aerated curtains like tangerine paint dripping from a saturated canvas. You can hear songbirds twittering enthusiastically just outside your window and the elated laughter of children participating in a rowdy all-bets-off game of kickball in the park across the street. 

Everything is go go go. Nonstop motion. Somehow, the world ticks on in spite of your unorthodox absence.

The crab-shaped clock on the wall indicates that you have missed breakfast. You are close to missing lunch, too.

And you couldn't be more delighted. 

Because with Namjoon, days off are as rare as a rainstorm in the middle of the Sahara; a much-deserved rejuvenation.

"What time is it?" You whisper, your words  coming out all slurred and sleep-blanched. 

Namjoon presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose. "Well, let's see… I accrued three missed calls and four text messages before finally deciding to just turn off my phone."

"Ah, so the children are missing your effervescent presence then?"

"It would appear so. As long as we can get through the day without Yoongi-hyung committing mass Fratricide, I'll consider it a victory."

You can't help but to giggle at the notion as unprompted visuals of an unamused Yoongi wrestling with a quartet of multicolor leashes, each one connected to the torso of a hyperactive dongsaeng, and Seokjin's disapproving pursed lips, overwhelm your senses. 

"And in the meantime? You have a whole twenty-four hours before things return to normal. How do you want to spend it?"

Namjoon answers your question with the brush of his lips against your own. He takes his time claiming your mouth, his lips startlingly hot in contrast to his sweet and minty tongue.

Namjoon's fingers weave slanted tendrils down over the bare flesh of your pelvis as soon as you part, summoning a film of goosebumps to the surface of your sun-soaked skin. 

You shudder helplessly as you ride out the residual sensation of such an earth-moving kiss. 

"Mmm… Well, I hope you're happy, Mister. That kiss just wasted a good five minutes of free time."

Your boyfriend's teeth pull a fluorescent pinstripe across his bottom lip, seemingly lighting his way as he begins his slow descent down your exposed stomach and between your thighs as they give without much instruction.

"If you call kissing you until you're weak a 'waste of time' then you're really gonna hate this next part, Princess."

The tip of his nose skims past your naval, crafting a pathway for himself in the stipple of airbrushed freckles which blossom on your skin. And yet, you are quick to catch the nape of his neck with your fingers, maintaining a barely-there hold of his hair to prevent him from creeping any lower.

"Hold up there, Handsome. How about we nail two birds with one stone? There's a hot, soapy untimed shower with your name on it. And I'd be more than willing to help you scrub any… hard to reach places~"

Namjoon tilts his head back inside your loose grasp, the pads of your fingertips pushing through his silvery-blonde strands to rest almost tauntingly against his scalp. He purses his lips in thought.

"Well, I'd be a fool to refuse such a titillating offer." He presses a large open-mouthed kiss to the underside of your naval. "And I'm no fool."

You are plucked from the barely-there drape of your duvet before you can reasonably react, Namjoon's arms imprisoning your midsection and hefting you skyward before carrying you into the cool porcelain of your bathroom.

-

The water which had cascaded down from your shower faucet was luxuriously light, a sprinkling of powdered sugar across your sleep-eased muscles. And yet the petting was nothing short of heavy. 

Namjoon had taken his time working sweet-smelling suds into your skin until you gleamed with sparkling iridescence; scents of lavender and violet mingling with the sharp musk of your boyfriend's shampoo. 

He had kissed you until your lips ached, buttering you up with an overdose of affection even as you stepped out of the shower and into the baked afternoon sunlight.

After a brief rendezvous in your closet, one which had taken longer than necessary to navigate thanks to Namjoon's wandering hands and greedy lips, you both finally settled on outfits which would compliment such a rare day off. 

He now sits across from you, grinning from ear to ear as he indulges himself in a

verifiable cloud of scrambled eggs and generously buttered toast; the first home-cooked meal he has had the pleasure of tasting in far too long. Even Seokjin's schedule has become so saturated that he can no longer find the time to finesse his way around their dormitory kitchen. 

Who would have thought a group of seven growing boys could survive on a consistent diet of frequented takeaway restaurants and prepackaged vending machine snacks?

He always looks so beautiful like this, dressed in nothing but a pair of faded jeans and a simple t-shirt. His hair, still damp from your shared shower and lacking any product, hangs limply around his handsome face in a fashion not too dissimilar from the signature whistle necklace draped across his chest. 

"I swear, babe, this is amazing." Namjoon croons, using a napkin to stipple away the loose crumbs which have gathered in the crevice of his ever-present smile. "What's your secret?"

Pushing your fingertips through the damp sheen of his hair, you take a seat beside him and indulge in a long, contemplative sip of your orange juice.

"A whole lot of love for my boyfriend and an unreasonably long night's sleep."

Namjoon's grin is so vast that his eyes momentarily disappear into little crescents. 

"That's fair."

He wraps an arm securely around your shoulders, tucking you into his hip where he feeds you small prisms of toast and watches as the amaranth horizon dances across your cheekbones.

You feel the cold, wet compress of a soft puppy nose brushing against your calf when RapMon darts wildly between your ankles. He yips musically, vibrating with an overdose of unexpected energy as though he himself had also indulged in a deliciously long slumber and was now reaping the rewards of his pent-up energy. 

Namjoon can't help but to laugh, the sound reverberating in tandem with the small bell looped onto Moni's technicolored collar. 

"I think our Puppy is ready to hit the road. Don't you, Princess?"

"It would certainly appear so."

You watch as Namjoon cross-hatches his thumb across an array of emails on the screen of his business cell phone, organising them into their designated folders, before he opts to switch off the device all together.

Following his lead, you gather up the empty breakfast plates and place them in the sink; deciding rather quickly that all dishwashing tasks are a problem for a future you. You take a bottle of chilled water from the fridge and grab Moni's collapsible bowl as well as his monogrammed leash, clipping it in place upon his collar and earning some gentle puppy-dog kisses in response.

You run your fingers through Moni's soft fur, giving special attention to his pointed ears and muzzle. Placing an affectionate kiss to his snout, you rise to your feet once more and turn towards your boyfriend.

Namjoon rattles his house-keys with a grin.

"Ready to get some sunshine?"

"With you? Always!"

-

The scarlet-hot skyline reflects prettily upon the shimmering silver swingset where you perch, your toes dangling mere millimetres above the dew-slicked grass. Scents of fresh pine and spring flowers permeate the air, as well as the sugary sweetness of cotton candy being spun into cute little beehives by a nearby vendor. 

At the centre of the park, a small group of children are having a competition to see who can blow the largest bubble. Like confetti, the air is full of shiny little bubbles as they rise up to the sky. And darting after them with an open mouth and comically wagging tongue is a soap-spritzed Moni. 

The children shriek with laughter, running around in circles with Moni bouncing merrily behind them. 

Namjoon's fingertips brush over your shoulders as he pushes you gently on the swing. He traces plump cartoon hearts over the nape of your neck, erecting a small film of goosebumps with every stroke. 

"It's such a gorgeous day out." He muses, turning his head to place an unexpected kiss against your forehead.

"Yeah, we really lucked out. Summer sunshine allll day."

"I'd take thunderstorms and heavy rain in a heartbeat as long as I get to spend the day with you, baby."

Ever a poet, Namjoon's words leave your insides tingling akin to sticky sherbet and fizzing pop rocks.  

"Dork~" You chastise in a soft voice full of mirth. 

You can feel his infatuated grin press into the back of your neck, his fingertips twirling around the stray strands of hair which ribbon over your noon-warmed cheeks.

"Only on my days off."

When Namjoon's digits begin to sway across your collarbones, you concertina them gently between your fingertips. You bring his hand to your lips, kissing across his skin with an audible smack. The pad of his thumb skims over your cheekbone as though he were an artist buffing paint across a canvas.

"You're so beautiful, Princess." He muses.

His words take on an illustrative quality; as though he were scribbling his infatuation across clean journal pages. And yet, before you can respond, he's dipping down just out of view to clasp a fistful of lawn.

"What're you doing, Joonie?"

"Just wait and see - It's a surprise."

Behind you, you can feel Namjoon's fingers work with fast needle-sharp precision. The rounded edge of his nail pierces through stem after stem as he braids several dainty daisies together into a makeshift crown. 

"Now, what is it that every princess needs, baby?"

"Her Prince Charming? Or Prince Destroys-Everything-He-Touches, whatever works."

"This is true." Wiping away the residual pollen on the leg of his pants, Namjoon takes a step closer toward you. He carefully places the crown on top of your head. "But she also needs her very own tiara!"

Grinning maniacally, you bring a hand up toward your head to stroke over the small stack of downy-soft petals which frame your forehead. 

"You're so cute, you know that?" You shriek, gasping when Namjoon presses a stream of rapid open-mouthed kisses against your glowing cheek. 

"Yeah, it's a special gift of mine. Come here, gorgeous."

With his hand outstretched in front of you, Namjoon holds his phone poised on both of your grinning faces. He snaps picture after picture, selca after selca, honing in on the kaleidoscopic shimmer of your eyes and the iridescent glow of lip balm which has transferred from your lips onto Namjoon's.

You stay like that for what feels like an eternity; dissolving into a world where your boyfriend's palms leave semi-permanent prints upon your hips from how tightly he embraces you and his laughter resonates deep within the crevices of your soul. 

Namjoon's cellphone feels positively heavy with the weight of all the memories you have captured together. From the soft and tender lip-locks, to the poorly performed rendition of Magic Shop, to the footage you filmed of a hyperactive Moni playfully chasing a butterfly through a cluster of dandelions. 

You have squeezed an entire month's worth of desperately craved affection into a single afternoon. 

-

It is only once the air begins to develop the faintest tickle of frost that you finally decide to depart from the park.

Namjoon's jacket falls around your shoulders like a cloak of denim. His cologne overwhelms your senses, scents of crisp waters and juniper berry, and at your feet walks a very tired but exceptionally happy puppy.

After briefly stopping by your favourite local bookstore to purchase some light reading material, as well as picking up an order of strawberry croissants and freshly brewed coffee from the quaint little patisserie where you and Namjoon had your first date, you finally arrive home. 

You unclasp Moni's leash, prompting him to scurry enthusiastically over toward his pet bed for a well-deserved nap, and retreat back to your own bedroom in order to slip out of your dress and into something more comfortable. 

Namjoon's old sweatpants drape around your hips like an elasticated hula-hoop, just barely held in place by fraying cord and sheer willpower. The sweater you have liberated from the back of your closet was once a Christmas staple before the gaudy crimson bows fell off, leaving a simple doe in its place. There are pinhole sized holes all over the elbow and sleeve, as well as a fraying hem, and yet you always find your greatest comfort when dressed in those faded and pilling fibres.

Once you have changed into your lounge wear, you return back to your living room to find Namjoon staring purse-lipped at the carpet beneath his toes. He has his business cell phone tucked in against his ear.

"So there's no major emergency then, Guk? Because this is supposed to be my day off."

You can just barely make out the airbrushed whistle of Jeongguk's voice tittering apologetically on the other end of the phone. 

"Yes, she's here." Namjoon glances up at you, smiling fondly as you throw yourself down on a nearby couch. "We're about to settle in for the evening actually, so - I… yep, okay. I'll tell her. Mhm. I will. You too, Kookie. Aight, bye."

"That sounded like fun~" You tease, wedging your spine backwards into a mismatched eruption of multicolored pillows. "Are all six members present and accounted for?"

"So far. JK sends his regards."

Rubbing away the small pearls of tension which had accumulated in his temples during the duration of his phone call, Namjoon places his cellphone down on the coffee table. He passes over your coffee order as well as a beautiful ooey-gooey strawberry croissant and folds his large limbs over the criss-cross of your own.

His lips are a scarlet compress of sugar-syrup kisses against your cheek as he presses small puffs of laminated pastry into your open mouth. 

"Now, what are we watching, Princess?"

-

It is surprisingly easy to dissolve into a rarely-negotiated routine with your billion dollar boyfriend. 

With old Friends reruns playing quietly in the background, interrupted only by the occasional snore from Moni as he navigates his way through a puppy dreamland, and the balanced warmth of Namjoon's large fingertips weaving aimless patterns across your scalp, your afternoon bleeds well into the evening before Namjoon's ravenous stomach alerts you to the passage of time.

Your fingertips have been fragranced by the scent of persistently thumbed pages, and you have just reached the point in your novel where the fair maiden must choose between the handsome but tender farm-hand or the rugged but passionate business executive.

You spare a glance toward your own leading man. With his deep-set dimples and a smile which could thaw the Arctic, you conclude that you have your own fairytale ending right in front of your very eyes.

"Hey, seeing as I'm in such a good mood, why don't we start on dinner? We can attempt that spaghetti recipe again!"

You can't help but to tut at the notion. "You mean the spaghetti recipe which nearly burned our entire kitchen down?"

"That was an accident. It could've happened to anyone!"

"You tried to cook the pasta without any water, Namjoon-ah."

"In my defence, I followed the instructions carefully. 'Cook the noodles in a pan.' I did that."

"Oh, they were cooked alright." 

You giggle in response to Namjoon's petulant pout, smothering the blush of his bottom lip in a brief but affectionate kiss. 

"How about instead of turning our kitchen into a living charcoal exhibit we order takeout from that Italian place you love?"

Namjoon's stomach rumbles with ravenous hunger as though in response to your proposal and you can't help but to laugh as you reach for the phone, having already committed your boyfriend's usual order to memory.

-

It is less than an hour later, once your stomachs have been sufficiently plied by copious quantities of rich, herby sauces and ribbons of silken (and most definitely not cremated) pasta, that Namjoon is curling back into your hip with a well-worn notebook in hand. 

You have both settled on a film for the evening, opting to delve headfirst into the technicolor vibrancy of San Fransokyo with Moni settled comfortably upon your lap and the fuzziest blanket imaginable draped around your shoulders. 

Namjoon's breath is deliciously warm where it unfurls across your throat, dripping like molten honey into your collarbones and stippling a light film of goosebumps across your skin. You can't help but to shudder as his lips find your temple, your cheek, flowing freely across the ridge of your jawline until he finally settles against the upturned curl of your lips.

"I love you so much, Princess." He sighs, inundated with adoration for his girl. 

"Not as much as I love you."

As the movie plays quietly in the background Namjoon's fingertips are ever-moving. The light scrape of his pen nib darting across clean paper provides a percussive soundtrack  to Baymax's bumbling antics, the edge of his palm stained by faded charcoal ink from touching the page before his words have sufficiently dried.

Out of the corner of your eye you can just barely make out the curl of Namjoon's haphazardly jotted Hangul, piecing together the sentences he has written in your honor.

'...Your eyes are a sunrise which blanch my skin and leave me burning all night long.'

'... Your smile, sweeter than candy, paints syrup in my veins with every glance.'

'... When you say you love me I can feel it resonate skin-deep, stacking promises like petals in my ribcage.'

Namjoon's lyrics are picturesque and beautiful. Even without the accompaniment of instruments and production you can practically feel a cococonphy of emotional ARMYs singing along passionately to each word; as though wearing your boyfriend's carefully scribed poetry like a badge of honor.

To be the inspiration behind so many awe-inspiring songs, whose lyrics act like a beacon of hope for many individuals scattered throughout the universe, well… it's quite the undertaking. 

Fortunately, Namjoon makes it all worth it. He's handsome and expressive and capable of leading an entire ARMY into a head space of pure gold. 

And as he pulls your body a fraction closer to his own, the tip of his nose nestling against your pulse point to emboss an asymmetric heart on your honeydew skin, you realise you couldn't possibly love him any more.

-

As the credits for Big Hero 6 begin to roll across your television screen, stark and loud and full of celebratory fanfare, Namjoon is quick to locate the television remote underneath his saturated notebook pages in order to hit mute. 

Beside him your eyelids have fallen to a close, lips parted to release several soft snores which fall in almost perfect tandem with Moni's fitful exhales. Your lashes flutter delicately, poured like strips of raven lace across your cheekbones, and your fingers curl instinctively in your lap as you clutch onto whatever adorable projection your mind has chosen to supply.

Placing his notebook and pen aside, Namjoon is careful to shoo RapMon away from your lap so that he does not disturb you. He half-attempts to fold the blanket which had cocooned your shoulders, opting instead to toss it onto the nearby recliner out of harm's way.

Your body is feather-light when he lifts you into his embrace. He is careful to rest your cheek against his chest, hooking your legs over his forearm to make it easier to transport you to the safe haven of your bed. 

After navigating your hallway with a surprising degree of sufficiency, having knocked over little more than a plastic vase containing decorative pebbles and perhaps skewing a photo frame or three, Namjoon carefully places you upon your bed. 

Your mattress seems to eagerly welcome the barely-there compress of your body, your satin sheets lapping up against your limbs like terracotta waves frothing upon the shore.

Once he has dimmed the lights, Namjoon places his cellphone down onto his bedside table and connects his charging cable once he is certain that he has reinstated his god-forsaken alarm.

He kicks off his jeans, opting to remain in his t-shirt and boxers for tonight, and carefully removes his whistle necklace so that he can slide comfortably in bed beside you.

Your perfume lingers upon the collar of his shirt, fragrant and floral and enhanced considerably by the catalyst of Seoul's delicious summertime air. And on his lips burns the faintest smother of the strawberry lip balm you so generously applied after your post-dinner teeth cleaning; the very same lip balm that Namjoon had been so eager to kiss off of you.

In your sleep, you turn comfortably onto your side, bowing your spine backwards until you reach the solidity of your boyfriend's elongated torso. Namjoon is quick to bracket his calf around your ankles, pressing a stream of steady kisses down your jugular and over the swell of your clavicle.

"Sweet dreams, my Princess." He sighs softly. Contentedly. 

His lashes soon begin to droop as though laden with lead, influenced in no small part by an entire day's worth of carefree relaxation and indulging without consequence. 

No meetings. 

No leadership.

No band mates. 

Just his beautiful dog, his beautiful girlfriend and a beautiful twenty four hours.

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan boys #bts ff #bts drabble #bts fanfiction #bts fluff #kim namjoon #rap monster #rm #namjoon #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you #kim namjoon x y/n #bts request #bts imagines #bts drabbles #peanootzramano #bts writer

[taz-writes]

nymia excerpt: the dog

I’ve been bouncing this scene around for a month or so, and finally finished it. Big TW for animal death on this one. :( (EDIT: fixed formatting on desktop)

—

They found the dog in the early evening after their history class. It was late winter, and the sun had already dipped low towards the horizon, bathing the island in weary purplish light. A few red clouds clung to the far rim of the sky, tempting a snowfall, and the air was cold and clear and smelled of firewood.

“I heard whimpering in the woods,” Mint was saying, as he led the trio down a narrow garden path. “Something’s out there, it needs help.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a bird?” Tangerine asked.

“Are you saying I don’t know birds?” Mint replied. “I know so many birds! I know all of the birds, and it wasn’t a bird.” They reached the edge of the garden, where the rosebushes grew tall and strong in summer, but in the dead months of winter it was easy for Mint to pull a few spiny vines aside and make an opening. “Come on.”

They climbed through the gap: first Tangerine, whose hair snagged on the thorns, and then Mint, and Red silently trailing behind them. He’d been quiet so far, only out of habit, but Tangerine offered him a nervous smile of reassurance when their eyes briefly met.

“Keep quiet,” whispered Mint as he led them to the woods. “I don’t want to scare it away.”

“We shouldn’t be out here,” Red murmured. “The Anharen said—”

“He won’t catch us,” Tangerine said. “And it’s not like he could do anything if he did. He can’t just replace us. It’ll be fine.” She smiled at him again, and he looked at the ground.

The path here was narrow, dipping over little knolls and around great rocks, beneath heavy-needled pine trees that hid them from sight. Mint led the way, dancing ever-so-gracefully around anthills and beetles and the dormant sprouts of plants. Red padded behind him and Tangerine and took in the forest: the way the waning light cast dappled shadows on the leaf-litter, the little brown birds flitting between barren shrubs, the shapes of a hundred kinds of mushrooms pushing up from under the ground.

They all heard the whimpering, this time.

Mint, with all the silence deep focus can muster, waved them over a little hill towards a hollow at the bottom of a tree. In the shadows, there lay a little dog, curled up and whining softly. Its breathing was ragged, and its ribs showed through the patchy fur on its sides.

“Ohhh,” Tangerine said quietly, moving towards the dog with careful footsteps.

“Shh!” Mint crept forward, and reached out a cautious hand towards the huddled animal. It looked up at him, its eyes wide and glassy, but did not flee. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly. “We’re here to help you.”

With careful coaxing, the little dog stood on shaking legs and stumbled into Mint’s arms. Even this small movement was slow and painful. When it reached him, Mint stroked its fur with a gentle touch that didn’t suit his big soft body, and Tangerine leaned over to watch. Red hung by the edge of the hollow, afraid to go too close.

“He’s hungry,” Mint said. Tangerine dug through her pockets and offered it a ratty-looking piece of jerky. The dog snatched it with desperate speed.

“Can you fix him?” Tangerine asked.

“I will.”

Mint closed his eyes, and called down the magic. It fell upon him in shivers of green. The woods refracted around the edges of him, a little brighter and warmer through the film of power, and Mint brought his hands together to bring it into focus. The magic wobbled.

“Are you sure about this?” Red asked. He could see the pieces falling together before him. It didn’t feel right.

“I’m fixing it!” Mint insisted. “I learned the spells, I know how…” The magic flickered, and juttered, churning into a filmy mist around Mint’s shaky hands as he pulled it in and shaped it. “Just… focus… and find the hurt… I said, find the hurt…”

“We should get the teachers,” Red said. “We, um, if we tell them we found it in the garden, they can help—”

“No!” Mint doubled down, resting his hands against the dog’s ribcage.

“What’re you doing?” Tangerine asked, leaning in to watch. Green magic coursed through the dog’s veins from Mint’s hands, shining in the folds of its body. Its fur grew, ever so slightly, but the way its flesh rippled as Mint worked didn’t match the structure of the bones beneath.

“I’m healing,” Mint said. “Just wait, it’ll work.”

“I, um, Mint—”

“You what? You didn’t have to come!” Mint snapped.

“—I don’t think it’s helping,” Red stammered. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you know about healing? Back off, I’ve almost got it.” And Red did back off, but his nerves jangled. The dog whimpered again. He fought the instinct to reach out, memories of skeletons and operating tables and watching the medics work flooding out of the back of his mind.

“Mint?” Tangerine asked. Mint drew down another surge of magic. The dog shuddered.

“He’s messing me up!” Mint let go, pointing at Red, who flinched. “He’s doing something. You’re doing something!”

“I’m, I’m not, I don’t, it’s not—” Red stammered helplessly, backing further away. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Red?” Tangerine had joined Mint in the retreat. She was slower, steadier, but she had the same look in her eyes. “Red, you’re…”

He looked down. Faint scarlet light pooled in his fingertips. He balled up his fists.

“I didn’t do anything,” he repeated, swallowing hard. Mint snatched the dog up from the ground, ignoring its weak yelp of shock, and squeezed it in an emerald vice.

And Red’s own color poured over his eyes.

“Mint, you have to stop,” Red said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Oh gods,” Tangerine murmured, her eyes fixed on the dog. “Mint?”

“You have to stop,” Red said. “Please.”

Mint clutched the dog tighter. Its legs kicked numbly against the air, its joints too stiff, its flesh swollen and distorted with strange pulsing lumps as the green coursed ever faster through its body. Mint didn’t seem to hear the whimpers anymore.

“You need to stop!” Mint insisted. “I’ve got it, I know how to fix it, you’re just messing it up! I’m the green paladin, I can do this, if you just stop it with that horrid death magic—”

“Mint, let go, you’re hurting it!” Tangerine gasped. “You’re hurting him!”

“I can’t, I’m the healer, I’m making it better!”

“Let go!” Tangerine rushed forward and tried to pull the dog out of Mint’s grip, but when she touched him, her skin rippled all the way up her arm, and she jumped back as if she’d been shocked. “Mint!”

“Please,” Red repeated. “Please.”

“It’s your fault!” Mint shouted. In the sinking light, his eyes glimmered with desperate tears and single-minded focus.

Red’s voice wouldn’t work. He still saw the dog’s ribs, around the awful growth, and his own ribs felt like grasping hands around his chest. He had to, couldn’t, didn’t—he lurched towards Mint. Mint flinched.

“Mint, stop!” Tangerine said. As Red staggered forward, she ducked behind Mint, trapping him between them.

“I have to fix it!” he said. “I have to, it’s my job…”

“Maybe you can’t!”

Mint went silent. Red was breathing hard, the tension in his lungs snapping back around him. He made it to the center, almost in arm’s reach of the other boy. They met eyes.

“You don’t know what I can do,” Mint said slowly, when it took too long for Red to catch his breath. The green gave him a terrible bright aura. Red had almost forced the scarlet out of his fingertips. With the sunset at his back, the red magic was fully eclipsed in emerald.

“You have to let go,” Red said. “You tried enough. We all know you tried. You’re hurting him.”

“I can fix it.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to keep trying.”

Red stepped forward, and took the dog out of Mint’s grasp. He had to fight not to notice the tears. Mint didn’t stop him.

“I have to,” he repeated. His arms fell numb by his side.

Red carried the dog back into the hollow, and knelt down, resting him gently in the fallen leaves. The poor creature was hardly recognizable, swollen as it was with whatever strange thing Mint’s magic had done.

“Is he going to be okay?” He felt Tangerine behind him before he saw her. She sat next to him, and gently stroked the dog’s forehead. It shuddered.

“I…” He swallowed, and shook his head. “...I don’t think it was something Green could heal.”

“What do we do? We’ve gotta get the teachers, right? Maybe they can help?”

She went quiet, and they looked down at the little dog. Its breathing was labored. It struggled to turn its head to look at them.

Red reached out a hand and stroked the dog’s ears, and Red-the-archetype showed him the only answers.

“I have to…”

“Don’t,” Mint said before Red could finish. “You can’t. It’s gonna get better.”

“But it won’t.” Tangerine’s little intake of breath was barely audible, but Red continued on. “It… it’s not something Green can fix. He might… might live a few months, like this. Maybe a year. It’ll hurt.” Red paused, his face sinking. “I think it already does.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Mint—” Red started.

“I won’t let you! It’s cruel, it’s cruel and awful!”

“...There’s really no way to fix him?” Tangerine asked. “You’re really sure?”

“He was already dying,” Red said softly. “I think… I think before we ever came here. He’s been… too hungry, too long… too alone… and, and I’ve seen what green magic does. When you do too much.”

“No,” Mint said. The dog whimpered. It pulled itself to its feet, looking past Red and Tangerine to the place where Mint stood on top of the rise. Red followed its gaze. Mint’s back was turned. “No. You can’t.” He wouldn’t look.

The dog collapsed when it tried to go to him.

Tangerine beckoned it back with a soft click of her tongue, and scratched its ears when it managed to stumble to her lap. And Red reached out and held it. Tangerine watched him for a long moment. He swallowed, and tried to even his mind.

What he did was simple. He kept breathing.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured. “You did good.”

And the red came to him, soft in his fingertips, and the dog curled up to sleep as he pet it slowly until it went still.

He wrapped it in his cape, and tucked it in the hollow at the bottom of the tree. Tangerine stacked a couple stones beside it.

Mint wouldn’t look at him, and they walked back to the school in silence.

#nymia #nymia excerpt #yes i DID make myself cry over a fictional dog that i knew was doomed from before i started writing #but i like this little flashback scene a lot for what it lets me show about the characters #i think i did a pretty good job with characterization here #the main point of this scene is to serve as a joint between unwritten later scenes #to emphasize this relationship between talxin/red and darrus/mint #(and the presence of tangerine as a witness) #darrus is immature #he was when he was 13 and he still is when he’s 21 #and talxin is too used to this kind of thing #this also lets me demonstrate why Green Is Scary and Red Is Soft without going on a long worldbuilding rant about it #ofc green can be soft and red can be scary #but that’s what you expect from them #it’s not that simple #talxin #darrus

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TWENTY-SEVEN

The following morning dawned bright, the north-eastern sky washed in bold strokes of magenta and tangerine, the hush of indigo just beginning to dissipate when [Y/F/N] and Misha climbed into their Uber.

The ride to the airport was silent, the only sound the steady hum of the driver's tires as he weaved between lanes of traffic. Over the last several months with Misha and his family, settling into companionable silence had been an easy transition - the need for constant dialogue no longer necessary. Instead when his fingers laced with yours, his thumb tracing small circles across your knuckles, you merely smiled to yourself and squeezed his hand.

Having gotten your bags checked and through TSA in record time, the two of you stopped at a small, independent coffee stand at the entrance to your terminal. Pulling a wrought-iron chair out from one of the tables clustered around the drink bar, you stepped up on the foot rest, sliding back in the seat to wait for Misha.

Sliding a quad-shot iced Americano across the table into your waiting grip, Misha grinned while shaking his head.

“You’re going to have to pee so much on the plane…you know that right?” “You get the aisle seat this time – no more crawling over my lap every ten minutes to run to the bathroom.”

Staring at him over the rim of the glass, you just narrowed your eyes. Under the table, your hand reached over and squeezed his thigh while your lips brushed against his ear, “you just don’t like me crawling over you cause you’re not allowed to touch me on the plane.”

Misha’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath held in an attempt to not react to your touch. The two of you finished your drinks in relative silence after that, making for your gate when the announcement echoed through the small space that boarding had begun.

Settled in your seats, the blanket that had awaited you in your cabin draped over your lap, you leaned forward to fish around in the canvas messenger bag at your feet - pulling a pair of headphones from the overstuffed pockets and sliding the speakers over your ears.

Leaning back in the recliner, you closed your eyes, fully intent on napping for the three-hour flight. As expected, Misha reached over and gently grabbed your wrist. The veins beneath his thin skin singing with tension. All-in-all, he'd gotten better with flying, his grip not so tight and his heart rate not so fast with each successive trip the two of you had taken together. But nerves still coursed through his body and the small comfort of your presence was enough to keep him visibly relaxed.

Once the jet had leveled out above the clouds, Misha withdrew his hand and settled back with a mug of hot tea that had been delivered almost immediately; the navy linen napkin draped over his tray table a stark contrast to the white stoneware.

Several hours later, the brisk air had you pulling the collar of your jacket closer. Although you were in California, the fall morning had been chilly. Rubbing your hands together, you loaded the last of the bags into the car that had been sent to collect you from the airport. Dozing for the twenty-minute drive, as soon as you'd checked into your room and Misha had gone off to check in with the convention organizers, you crawled atop the crimson duvet spread over your mattress and pulled several pillows towards your body, falling asleep easily on the plush bedding.

You awoke to the shift of the mattress, Misha's arms wrapping around your body as his weight settled in behind yours. The deep timbre of his voice against your skin had you instinctively scooting closer, pulling his arms tighter around your body.

"You alright [Y/F/N]?"

Concern laced his voice; several fingers brushing hair back from your forehead.

"Yes? Why wouldn't I be?" Turning to face the man draped over you, it was a struggle to situate yourself to where you could make eye contact with him.

"Hmm, let's see...you've been sleeping almost non-stop since we got on the plane, which was...almost eight hours ago. You haven't really eaten - which, let's face it...is ra-OW!"

Misha chuckled, rubbing his arm where you'd playfully punched him.

"What?! Its true." Laughing at your scowl, he held his hands out in front of him, hurrying to add that he too, enjoyed eating.

"And, I think you might have a fever - you're awfully warm."

His face turned stoic once more as he finished ticking off reasons to be concerned on his fingers.

Struggling to sit up, you finally managed to pull yourself into an upright position, leaning back against the headboard with pillows stacked behind you.

"Maybe I wouldn't be so warm if I didn't have a full-grown man-child draped all over me." "And I don't know why I'm so tired, apparently I just need to catch up on sleep."

Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you'd just stood from the mattress when a wave of nausea strong enough to keep you seated shot through you. Taking a deep breath, you planted your hands next to your body and closed your eyes. After a second, you tried again, the nausea still eating at your insides, even though it had subsided significantly.

"Definitely need food though, my stomach is trying to eat itself as we speak."

A wry smile slid into place as you went in search of the room service menu. Thumbing through the pages, nothing sounded remotely appetizing amongst the typical offerings of overpriced burgers and pasta dishes.

Tossing the binder back on the end-table, you turned to see Misha on the phone. The deep, booming laughter on the other end could only be one person.

Raising your eyebrows in interest, you were surprised when your boss silently asked if you felt up to going to dinner. Rarely did the opportunity to see your friends arise, and quickly you agreed, hurrying to pull a brush through your hair and wash the sleep from your face.

Thirty-five minutes later, the two of you were crowded into the back of a dark local tavern, the only real source of light a sputtering candle beneath a cloche of smoke-tinted glass. The waitress, a busty red-head with large blue eyes, had come by several minutes prior with drinks from the themed menu sitting jauntily in displays shaped like stars.

You were eyeballing the cosmic looking liquid swirling in your glass when a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, hauling you off your feet with ease. Drink all but forgotten, an undignified squeal spilled from your lips as you were spun around before being dropped unceremoniously back at the table. Shaking off the new spike of nausea rolling through your stomach, you turned to face Jared – wrapping your arms around his waist in excitement.

“Jared! It’s great to see you – I didn’t know you and Gen were in town.” Taking a moment to glance around his lanky frame, you could see his wife pushing her way back from the bar, two drinks in hand.

Handing a glass to her husband, she set her drink down and pulled both you and Misha into a warm embrace.

“We decided to come in a couple days early for the convention, needed some adult time away from the boys.”

Gen’s bubbly laughter showed no hint of being a mother to two rambunctious miniature versions of Jared and you complimented her on how well put-together she was.

“It’s all an illusion babe, it really does take a village. We’re blessed to have the tremendous support network that we do.”

With a warm smile, she waved her hand with a laugh before continuing; “But enough about home, I’m starving and..” -Gen pointed to your glass- “whatever that is, sign me the hell up!”

*****

Vibrant music blaring from her phone had Y/F/N’s eyes cracking open. The glaring sun immediately had her squeezing them shut. Rolling over to stretch, she was hit once again with a violent wave of nausea.

“Great, a hangover - you’d think I’d know better than to drink that much by now.”

Her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth, she reached across the bed to the nightstand in search of water; the contents of her stomach threatening to remind her what she’d eaten the night before.

Deciding to move slower, you gingerly raised yourself into a sitting position - several deep breaths keeping the sick at bay, for now at least.  The telltale beeping of your room door alerted you to Misha’s presence on the other side. Pushing the hair back from your face, you sat up a little straighter - the same slow, deep breaths steadying you as you slid from the bed to meet him.

“Morning love.” Mishas’ deep voice was laced with exhaustion, a paper cup of coffee clutched in his right hand was offered to you as he sipped from the one in his left.

Although you had no intentions of drinking the steaming liquid, you still accepted the paper cup, if only to keep the inevitable questions at bay.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice that anything was amiss. Burying his face in Twitter, you turned and disappeared into the bathroom, setting your coffee on the nearby dresser before closing the door with a soft click.

Twisting the faucets to the shower, you ran the water as hot as you dared, dropping your pajama pants and tank top to the floor before stepping inside. Leaning back against the cool tile, you slid to the floor; torrents of water roaring from the showerhead. You still felt sick to your stomach and though you were suddenly ravenous, you were almost afraid to eat.

Busy with your inner monologue, you were startled when Misha opened the glass doors, his lascivious grin quickly faltering as he took in your position.

"[Y/F/N], are you sure you're okay?"

Reaching a hand out to cup your cheek, his brows knit together in worry, cobalt eyes scanning your features for any hint of what was wrong. With a wry smile, you braced your hands on the wall, lifting yourself into a standing position and advancing on Misha.

"I'm good, just forgot what a hangover feels like. Guessing I kinda deserve it if my memories of last night are any indication."

A twitch at the corner of his mouth made you realize he was trying hard to not laugh at your plight.

"Well why don't you just hang back here for awhile? I've got to get to my meet and greet, but I'll come check on you in an hour or so - okay?"

Misha reached out towards you, cupping your cheek with one wide palm. Pressing his lips to your forehead, he smiled warmly before leading you back to the large pile of blankets awaiting in the bedroom. Once beneath the covers, he fished in his pocket and removed a small foil packet, pressing his thumbs into the thin material and removing two aqua-colored gel caps.

"Here. Take these and try to rest. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lifting himself from the edge of the mattress, Misha looked back and gave a faint smile before leaving the room. When the sound of the door shutting enveloped you in complete silence, you turned to your side and curled up into a ball, willing the knots in your stomach to subside.

*****

Thirty-five seconds on the elevator had Misha on his way to begin his adventure meet and greet. Remembering how Creation had tried to keep him contained to a room all those years ago was a fond memory. So now, instead, they'd decided to capitalize on his wandering and offer two different fan experiences. At least he had a chance to get some fresh air this way. Misha wasn't one to spend much time in one spot.

Sitting amongst a circle of fifteen eager bodies, Misha sipped at the tea clutched in both hands. Although the warm sun of California had provided a cloudless sky, it was still December and there was a chill in the air. For the most part, conversation flowed easily between the small group; Misha recognizing several of the individuals.

Across from his seat, three unfamiliar faces were hunched over their phones, curious eyes flicking up to meet Misha’s before resuming their scrolling. Usually, most people paid attention when they spent the kind of money it cost to have coffee with him – but occasionally he was surprised. The age of technology had claimed more people than even he’d thought possible, which was saying a lot with how much time Misha spent on his phone.

Spending time discussing the finer points of hybrid animal creation for Gish with the others circled around him, he couldn’t help but pick up on the whispered conversation of the group sitting off by themselves.

“Poor Vicky, who does this chick think she is? Everyone knows he’s married.”

“Ugh, she’s not even that pretty… I can’t believe Misha would do that to his wife. What an asshole.”

The last sentence caught Misha’s attention, but this time when he looked up at the small group, they simply stared at him, disgust evident in their features. Unsure on whether to correct them, laugh it off or just outright ignore their rude statements, he was only mildly surprised when he found that his legs had decided for him. Looming over the younger girls, the man raised an eyebrow in question.

“Something you’d like to share with the class ladies?”

The unimpressed look on his face gave them pause, but only for a moment.

The other twelve people, having watched Misha approach the others, all clustered around him to see what was happening.

“Yeah, who’s the slut draped all over you in this picture?”

The young woman sitting between her friends looked to be about seventeen, maybe a bit older. With as crass as Misha could be, even he was taken aback by her use of language.

The woman held out an iPhone. Bedecked in magenta and pink Swarovski crystals; a small flower charm dangled from the top. Misha knew what the picture would be before he even saw the tweet. Someone had posted a picture on the social media platform of him with [Y/F/N] at the airport, several colorfully worded hashtags accompanying the image. As photos went, it wasn’t scandalous in the slightest – he was shown laughing at something [Y/F/N] was whispering in his ear, her fingers resting against his chest.

Leaning back, Misha smirked. The girls sitting before him wore smug looks on their faces, convinced they were somehow embarrassing the man in front of them.

“Oh, that’s [Y/F/N] – my girlfriend.” “May I?”

Reaching a hand out for the device, which was promptly handed over, he turned to the rest of the crowd, a giant smile on his face as he showed them the picture. Tossing the phone back to its owner, he turned from the small group and began to walk with the others back to the hotel. It was nearly time for his panel and he wanted to pop in on [Y/F/N] to make sure she was okay before heading down. Collecting phones from each of the participants, Misha stopped to take pictures with everyone. When he once again was handed the glittering pink phone from earlier, he leaned into the young woman, snapping a generic picture. Holding her hand out for her phone, Misha was just about to hand it back when he peered closer at the image.

“Hmm, this isn’t terribly in focus, is it?”

Deleting the picture, he handed the girl her phone and turned to the next person.

“Wait! I want a re-do…”

Reaching out for Misha’s shoulder, she was intercepted by his handler who simply raised an eyebrow at the girl before turning and falling in line with Misha’s footsteps.

Having finished with taking pictures, the group dispersed. Although Misha had known it would only be a matter of time before people found out, he wished it had taken a little longer. The pictures had somehow been tagged with [Y/F/N]’s Twitter handle, so she was bound to know by now too. Misha was used to things like this happening, his private life rarely staying private. While he was fine with the exposure, he had to wonder how well [Y/F/N] was handling the attention.

Turns out, [Y/F/N] wasn’t handling it at all. Misha had opened the door to her room to find an empty, yet thoroughly mussed bed; the duvet in a heap on the ground. The top sheet was a twisted mass of ivory cotton and it looked as if [Y/F/N] had nested in the pillows, arranged as they were in a semi-circle amidst the middle of everything else.

Guessing she was in the bathroom, Misha approached the door. Curling his fingers, the man rapped quietly against the wood, waiting for a reply from within. When none came, he knocked a second time before lowering his hand to test the doorknob. The nickel-plated handle turned in his palm as he pushed the door inwards. Or, tried to, rather. Glancing through the small crack he’d succeeded in opening, he called out to the woman cradling her forehead as she slumped against the frame.

“[Y/F/N], can I come in?” The pitiful groan he received in response had him crouching on the floor in an attempt to get her to move from her place on the cool tile.

“I’m okay Mish..” Her words were slow and thick, a groan of unease permeating the small space as she moved to the other wall.

Upon getting into the bathroom, Misha’s expression changed to one of concern as he took in [Y/F/N]’s appearance. Helping her to her feet, he brushed hair back from her face, the skin damp with sweat.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this isn’t a hangover, [Y/F/N].” “Food poisoning, maybe – but definitely not a hangover.”

“Let’s get you back in bed, it’s bound to be more comfortable than the sheet of ceramic tile you’re sitting on now.”

Propping the pillows up behind her once she’d crawled back onto the mattress, Misha left the room – only to come back moments later with a bucket of ice chips from the machine down the hall.

“I said I was fine, Misha.” “You should go, you’re going to be late as it is.”

Even sick, [Y/F/N] was reminding him of his schedule. Not that Misha paid any attention.

“They can wait for thirty seconds. Hell, by now people have gotten used to me being late.” The last was said with a grin and a wink as the man gathered things from around the room to make you more comfortable.

When the remote control, your phone, a bottle of anti-nausea medication and the book you’d been reading on the flight over had all been stacked neatly on the bedside table, only then did Misha step back.

“Funny how thirty seconds has turned into ten minutes.”

Grumbling under your breath, you were secretly flattered by all the attention. Misha was always hands-on and never failed to tell you how much he cared for you. Times like these, when it was evident in his actions though? That’s when you felt the luckiest. The most loved. It was an odd feeling, because, aside from family – you’d never had anyone in your life who put this kind of simple effort into making sure you were happy.

With a soft smile, Misha framed your lap with his arms – leaning in to place a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” “Please call me if you need anything. Okay?” “Anything at all.”

By the time he’d actually gotten downstairs and to the panel room, he could hear Rich straining to buy time. Apparently twenty minutes of impromptu stalling was tapping him off all his material. Sneaking between the heavy curtains, Misha lifted a finger to his lips - successfully silencing the excitable crowd.

“He’s...right behind me...isn’t he?” A lopsided grin spread across Rich’s face as he turned, gripping Misha’s shoulder.

“Fine people of California, I present to you, a man who knows not what a schedule is, nor cares for the nuances of sticking to that schedule - Misha Collins!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

#WildeFiction #Misha x Reader #Supernatural Fanfiction #SPN x RPF

[onepiecefeatstuff]

Only one | Sanami week 2019

Nami loved sunbathing, but even more than that, she loved standing in the shade of her tangerine trees. They were big enough to shelter her when the sun was too high and her skin started to turn slightly red, and their smell always brought her home. Home. Home was a strange word for her, like to many of her crewmates. Their hometowns, where they grew up, had shaped them in more ways than they could imagine. Without their pasts, they never would have gotten where they were now. The lucky ones, like herself, had someone waiting for them, someone to call family. Yet somehow, the Thousand Sunny felt like home too, and the Mugiwaras, her family. This duality of the term came together in form of tangerines to her: the connection between Cocoyashi village and the ever-changing home that floated.

Sanji always wondered what Nami was thinking when she squeezed her eyes and went to find shade and a peace of mind beneath those tangerine trees. He knew how important they were to her, and he figured she told them secrets she never spoke out loud. He sometimes thought he was putting too much thought into it, but the look on her face whenever he surprised her was enough reassurement that he was right. That was no moment of exhaustion from the sun, of a break from the sunlight. It was a moment of reflection, of self-discovery, of nostalgia. He would put his hands, his precious instruments of cooking, on fire on the spot to prove it.

He never thought of tangerines as much before he knew her. As a cook, he needed to work with every possible ingredient out there in the world, so he knew a thing or two about those citrus fruits and how to make the most of them, but they were never a fruit that especially stood out for him. And then, his world became tangerine orange.

Well, if he was being honest, it was not an instant change. It was progressive, and he was in the middle of it before he knew it had begun. He started to wonder why those trees were so important to her, why she was so attached to them, and how could he ever fit into that picture frame he had in his mind of her sitting beneath those trees.

That morning, her orange locks shone especially bright in the sunlight, and he found himself even a bit disappointed when she turned to the tangerine trees. He had spent more time than he would admit staring at her while she was casually talking with Ussopp and Franky about her clima-tact, laughing and rolling her eyes equally. So when she declared the conversation over and squeezed her eyes and clenched her jaw, he knew that was it for the day. Making his way to the kitchen, however, he turned back to the trees.

Maybe she needed help. Maybe she needed a snack. Maybe…

They were just dumb excuses that made him walk to her and ask if she needed anything at all. He spoke a little too rushedly, but she didn’t notice the anxiousness in his voice. Instead, she looked startled.

“Do you?” she said.

The question took him by surprise. Did he? He really felt like he needed to know what hide behind those fruited trees, but he didn’t know how to ask before seeming stupid or incredibly creepy. And he did not want her to think he was any of those things.

“You always seem to stare at me while I’m here. You think I don’t notice, but I do.” She said, her characteristic devious smile appearing in the corner of her lips. “I’m an incredible observer.”

He couldn’t deny that, or anything to that matter, so he just nodded.

“Take a sit.” She offered him, making way “I come here when I need a break from everyone. They’re just so exasperating. Plus, I get to eat.”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that.” He didn’t know where that answer came from, but she laughed so he supposed he didn’t do it so bad.

“I was not implying… Your cooking is amazing! You have to know that by now!” she gently pushed him “But one of these is just enough to take away all of my worries.”

“If I had known they had such curative effects I would have tried them by now.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would let you.”

There she was, fierce and defying eyes and all. She had the same face she made when someone tried to underrate her strength. She might not be the strongest of the crew, but she had some tricks under her sleeve. Sanji had seen her in action before, but he never had such a close look at her defiant expression. He had to contain the urge of screaming how beautiful she was in that very moment.

“I get it” he said instead “It’s not just an object, it’s a symbol.”

“It’s not an object, it’s a fruit.” She pointed out, making Sanji feel stupid. “But I guess you’re right. It’s not any fruit, it’s not any tree. It’s the one that binds me to home.”

“You’re lucky you have one.”

He didn’t want to sound so blue about it, but his voice got lower with every syllable. He had his memories of the Baratie, and even a few instruments (and some of his old suits, which he could wear more often), yet nothing felt quite like what she had with tangerines.

Nami must had felt that slight change in his mood, because she took one with her hands and offered it to him. “Do you want one?”

“You… never shared them with anyone before.” Sanji stated the obvious.

“I never saw anyone that needed it more than I did.” She shook her arms. “Take one. But only one.”

So turns out I’m ill. Nothing big, just a cold. But still. Will I be able to finish these on time? Stay tuned.

#sanami week #sannami week #sanji #nami #op fanfiction

[bethestaryouareradio]

Looking out!

“The heart is like a garden. What seeds will you plant there?” Buddha

The first vista I witness every morning as I traipse downstairs in my pink fluffy slippers to grab a cup of java invigorates my day. Outside my stairwell window,  a tall crimson camellia tree sways in the breeze flanked by a shimmering evergreen flowering pear. Rounding the corner, I look to my right. Through the hand-made stained-glass arch, winter and spring co-mingle. The bright cerise flowers of the peach tree frame the hillside carpeted by sprouting ranunculus, anemones, and hundreds of daffodils in a myriad of colors and textures: yellow on yellow, white and yellow, peach and white, white with white, orange and yellow. Frilly, singles, doubles, clusters…all with throats singing to the sky. Bare branches of pistache trees hug the redwoods. Butter-hued Meyer lemons hang like well-placed ornaments. I never fail to be awed by the majesty and beauty regardless of the season.

Looking out to my colorful panoramas was carefully planned many years ago when I planted the first seeds and bulbs. Bringing the outdoors in has always been a priority for me. For over two decades I practiced interior design as a professional member of the American Society of Interior Designers. I believe that our landscape is an extension of our homes and as such must reflect our moods, tastes, personalities, and preferential palettes. For me, color is an essential element to my happiness. When I look through a window, I want to see my internal penchants reflected by nature. Looking out is looking in.

With less than three weeks to go before the vernal equinox, this is an auspicious time to contemplate how we want to orient our window views for the future. When you look out your windows, what do you want to see? Do you want flowering or fruiting trees? Do you want a monochromatic design? Are you like me and want to luxuriate in color? Are bulbs the surprise you anticipate yearly, or do you prefer planting annuals and perennials?

My garden is abloom with pear, peach, and plum trees. Orange, tangerine, tangelo, lemon, and lime trees are filled with ripening fruit. Daffodils blanket the landscape, tulips are beginning to pop, columbine, wild strawberry, and vinca minor are flush with flowers. I couldn’t finish pruning all my rose bushes because so many were still budding. Nature orchestrates a steady stream of amazement.

Although the nights are still cool, the days are warming allowing the soil temperatures to rise. Weeds are rapidly sprouting, and the ground can be worked in preparation for seeding and planting. Read garden catalogs or books for ideas on how to design spaces that will offer you years of enjoyment.  I’m preparing beds in full sun where I’ll scatter seeds of Lauren’s dark grape poppies. Poppies can handle frost and bloom best when started in early spring. These seedlings will emerge within fourteen days. The flowers will boast four-to-five inch chalice-shaped flowers in a showy port wine hue and they will self-sow for future enjoyment. 

Another favorite perennial plant that I’m adding to my garden is the Lenten rose or hellebore. These plants which feature chartreuse, white, pink, and purple flowers with evergreen foliage are hummingbird friendly, deer-resistant, and water-wise. They thrive in part sun to full shade and are hardy to minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit. 

What will you plant in your spring garden as you look out?

Cynthia Brian’s March Gardening Guide

 RESTORE your mental and physical health by planting a beautiful vista outside your windows.

 FILTER your indoor air with houseplants. According to NASA, 87 percent of volatile organic compounds are removed by live plants naturally. Now that is nothing to sneeze over!

 RETHINK the design of your landscape to coincide with your interior spaces.

 PULL weeds as they sprout.

 PERUSE garden catalogs to plan a 2021 victory garden of healthy vegetables and herbs.

 FERTILIZE lawns.

 SCATTER slug and snail bait.

 REACH horticultural heights with a selection of flowering trees and shrubs. 

 SUPPORT the Moraga Garden Club’s project, Moraga for Monarchs by helping to install a Monarch Butterfly Habitat and Education Garden at Rancho Laguna Park. Visit www.moragagardenclub.com.

 FORCE branches of crabapple, quince, forsythia, and redbud by placing your tree prunings in a bucket of water in a dark place until the buds swell. Move the branches to a beautiful vase filled with warm water and enjoy the show. Change the water daily and add a few drops of bleach to ward off bacteria.

 TRIM dead foliage from your ornamental grasses using sharp hedge clippers.

 PICK up camellias blossoms that have fallen to the ground. Decaying blooms harbor petal blight.

 AERATE your lawn. The soil is compacted from winter rains and foot traffic.  Leave the plugs to add nutrients back into the grass.

 SPRINKLE poppy seeds as spring approaches. 

Happy Gardening. Happy Growing!

More Photos: https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1501/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Looking-out.html

Cynthia Brian, The Goddess Gardener, is available for hire to help you prepare for your spring garden. Raised in the vineyards of Napa County, Cynthia is a New York Times best-selling author, actor, radio personality, speaker, media and writing coach as well as the Founder and Executive Director of Be the Star You Are!® 501 c3. Tune into Cynthia’s StarStyle® Radio Broadcast at www.StarStyleRadio.com.

Buy copies of her best-selling books, including, Chicken Soup for the Gardener’s Soul, Growing with the Goddess Gardener, and Be the Star You Are! Millennials to Boomers at www.cynthiabrian.com/online-store. Receive a FREE inspirational music DVD.

Hire Cynthia for writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures.

[email protected]

www.GoddessGardener.com

#loookingout,#windows,#daffodils,#roses,#pruning,# nature,#gardening,#renewal, #cynthiabrian, #starstyle, #goddessGardener, #growingwiththegoddessgardener,