#pink haired unnamed boy my beloved

[skaterboisims]

boyz n fits ft a new face

[urhoneycombwitch]

mean mouth

foreword: and if I said Eddie liked when you talked a lil' mean to him. what then. n e ways. just a little exploration of his early-day sub tendencies. I generally write Eddie as older but since this takes place in some nebulous time before s4 u can think whatever u want +18. ‘unnamed freak’ is Jacob. punk band name was not thought of by me but isn’t it great <3

cw: gn!reader w/breasts + V, oral (R receiving), unprotected PiV, soft!dom(ish) R, Eddie subbing from the top 😎, gotta-be-quiet-when-we-fuck trope my beloved

wc: 3.7k

____

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Eddie’s a blur of motion in the little trailer kitchen, knocking against your knees where you’re propped up on the counter (not entirely helpful but, in his words, ‘much-needed eye candy for the chef’), closing cupboards with a bang and talking animatedly over the hiss of onions cooking.

Your boy is loud, always has been, and tonight is no different- he’s crowing and cackling, recounting a particularly genius foible that he’d orchestrated during last night’s campaign, wooden spoon dipping in and out of heated pots over the stove like some crazed frizzy-haired potions master. 

“And then.” He punctuates with a jab of the spoon towards you, a long drip of spaghetti sauce narrowly missing your leg- you flinch and squeak in alarm, but Eddie just grins wildly, eager to get to the punchline. “Red rolls a natural. Fucking. Twenty.” 

“Holy shit!” Your smile is wide, natural and easy for him- Eddie’s excitement is infectious. 

“I know!” Eddie spins back to the stove, plunking the wooden spoon back into the simmering sauce before opening the oven. Heat from the broiler rises in a mouth-watering cloud of herby smell, and Eddie reaches for the metal sheet of garlic bread, still talking. “Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. And then I- shit!”

You don’t put the pieces together until Eddie’s spinning away from the open oven, whole body moving with the force of his hand being shaken in the air- he’d touched the roiling-hot metal with his bare hand.

“Oh, shit, babe-” Sliding from the counter, you nudge the oven door closed with a foot, reaching out to assess the damage- but Eddie’s a whirlwind, jumping up and down, swinging his injured hand around in jerky movements, howling in pain.

It’s kind of freaking you out, ‘cuz you can’t tell if he’s playing up or if he’s actually got a third-degree burn. The voice that comes out of you is commanding, one that you rarely use, firm and louder than his hollering. 

“Eddie, for fuck’s sake- stand up and let me see it.”

That seems to do the trick. Eddie’s eyes snap to you, pausing mid-hop, and you take advantage of his semi-stillness to snatch his wrist and drag him towards the sink. The water runs cool and you turn his palm over in both of yours, breathing a sigh of relief when the pink welt across the bridge of his hand doesn’t have any blisters.

“Under the water,” you instruct, pushing at his silver-link braceleted wrist until he gets the memo, letting the flow from the tap ease the burn.

Eddie hisses through his teeth, and then goes quiet for the first time in ages.

There’s a few moments of this strained silence as you watch his hand carefully, color leaching back into his palm until you notice Eddie’s looking at you sideways.

Your shoulders hunch in a bit, arms crossed over your chest as you take a step back, misinterpreting his look as wounded. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just-”

“Hey, whoa, no-” Eddie’s hand automatically reaches for you, dripping water on the floor until he remembers his injury with a wince and plunges it back under the tap. “You don’t have to apologize for that. At all. Um.”

His left hand, the uninjured one, braces against the linoleum, ringed knuckles creaking as he shifts his stance. He sounds uncomfortable, and you’re about to start apologizing again until he lifts his head, eyes twinkling- “You were so bossy. It was totally hot.”

A shocked laugh burbles out of you, unsure if he’s joking or not- when he shifts his weight again, your gaze flickers down to the zipper of his dark jeans- he’s fully hard. 

“Oh my god.” Split between amusement and mortification, adrenaline from seeing him get hurt fizzing through your veins, you laugh again- this time, sardonic, into your hands, shaking your head. “Jesus christ, Eddie.”

“Can’t help it.” He’s close to whining, hips pressing flush into the cabinet, partly to relieve the ache in his groin and partly to toy with you. “Goddamn. Sound so sexy when you tell me what to do-”

There’s a teatowel hanging from a nearby rack; you snatch it up and whip it at Eddie’s shoulder, playful and irritated as you snap, “Shut up.”

“Oh, yeah, just like that, baby-” Eddie’s fake sultry voice earns him another towel-whip, this time at his neck- he squawks, ducking to avoid another blow while still keeping his hand under the water.

“Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous,” you announce with finality, slinging the towel over your shoulder and turning on your heel. “I’m gonna get the burn cream. Try not to cum or die while I’m gone.”

His bright laughter follows you all the way down the hall.

___

The next time it happens, it’s sort-of on purpose.

Eddie’s glowing with a post-show rush- a local business convention meant Corroded Coffin got to play for a nearly-packed room. Nevermind the fact that their Bruce Springsteen cover was the one bringing in the most applause; Eddie’s always been able to feed off the energy of a crowd, and tonight was a riotous success.

The Hideout is loud but your boy is louder, as per usual. There’s sweat curling the baby hairs at his temples, bright spots of flushed pink in his cheeks from the round of whiskey you’d bought the band as a congrats. 

He’s making a toast to his laughing bandmates, to beautiful you, to any nearby drunk who will listen, proclaiming his lust for life with one boot on the well-worn table in noble pose.

“And to Bev, the best of us-” Eddie tips his half-empty glass towards the nearby bar, shouting over the din of the jukebox and lively chatter, “-may your sharp-tongued wit live on!”

Bev pauses service to flip him off, and Eddie collapses back into the comfort of your arm over the booth’s top, grinning when the band trio of Jeff, Gareth, and Jacob nearly fall out of their chairs with laughter.

It’s always hot to see Eddie in his element, and tonight’s not an exception. He turns to lean into you, looking down the slope of his pretty nose like he knows why you’re staring.

A charming wink precedes, “Come here often?” but his flirting is interrupted when Jeff gets up for another round and bumps the table- whiskey sloshes over the side of Eddie’s cup and coats his hand in stickiness. 

He swears viciously, yanking out his bandanna to wipe at the mess while you laugh over the rim of your own glass at him. “Real smooth, babe. Good thing you killed it on stage, otherwise I might not take you home.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, inhaling for another cheesy line to wow you with when his gaze flicks past you and his face falls. 

Across the table, Jacob mutters, “Oh, shit,” and Gareth glowers.

Following their eyelines, you look over your shoulder to see Nico Hawley, frontrunner of Hawkin’s own punk band (the Scumshots), enter through the front door in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

When you turn back to Eddie, he’s already twisting the damp bandanna around his rings. The usual softness of his doe-brown eyes are now flint-sharp, and with a rush of panic, you remember the last time Eddie and Nico ran into each other; the night had ended with you back at the trailer, holding a cold pack to Eddie’s split lip, which he’d received from engaging in what he referred to as “friendly fisticuffs”.

There was nothing friendly about the way Eddie stood, then, to his full height, dark and imposing with his big mane of hair and leather jacket. The other Corroded boys won’t start any shit themselves, but will absolutely back Eddie up (fearless leader, resident shit-starter, instigator extraordinaire). 

Time’s running out for you to get a handle on the situation, Eddie already moving to slide past you out of the booth when you snag his left jacket sleeve in a tight grip.

The first yank you give stops him in his tracks; the second, more intentional tug gets his face level with yours, Eddie’s hardened stare giving way to confusion as you pull him into your space. 

In that same authoritative tone, you pin Eddie in place with a fistful of leather and command, low, right in his ear to be heard above the bar noise, “Don’t. Sit down and be good.”

At first, you’re not sure it worked, because Eddie’s just staring at you- slightly slack-jawed, pretty pink o mouth as his gaze flickers to your lips, back up to lock in your gaze again.

And then, by some miracle, Eddie obeys. Like a well-trained, marvelously-behaved dog. He’s back in his seat with a jolt to the booth, hand curling around his whiskey again. 

Curls spill and shift around jacketed shoulders as he shoots the rest of the glass, adam’s apple bobbing, other hand slipping to cup your thigh hidden from view. “It’s not worth it,” he announces to the rest of the group, sounding strained, staring at the bottom of his empty glass, knuckles white with force.

Jake sighs, relieved, but Gareth scoffs, tipping the neck of his beer across the table to point, goading Eddie with  “Since when have you been the one to take orders?”

“Shut up,” Eddie shoots back, blood returning and redistributing enough from where it had all rushed south, enough to defend you and himself against his drunk bandmate. “We’re already on Hop’s shit list, asshole, can’t be catching any more charges for stupid fuckin’ bar fights.”

Nico had disappeared into the throng of people at the bar while your group has been arguing- probably for the best that he’s out of eyesight. Unperturbed by Gareth’s comment (he likes you fine, he’s just grumpy from the alcohol and itching for a fight), you sip your drink and give him a shameless wink. 

Underneath the tabletop, Eddie’s palm flattens over your jeans, fingers dipping to toy with the denim seam hugging the fatty plush part of your inner thigh. You shift your hips, subtly, feeling flush with heat and power. Just a couple of words and you have him eating out of your goddamn hand. 

Jeff returns, setting a handful of beers in the middle of the table. “Saw that shitstain Hawley at the bar. What’d I miss here?”

Gareth swoops in with accusatory explanation, seizing another bottle out of Jeff’s hands. “What you missed is Eddie’s balls on a leash-”

“Jealous you don’t have someone at home to tie you up, Emerson?” Eddie’s dig comes swiftly, lips quirked in a smile around the rim of his drink. 

There’s a raucous burst of laughter, Gareth’s curly mop of hair gets ruffled playfully, and everyone eases back into celebration, all while Eddie’s thumb edges closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

___

The next time, though? Totally on purpose.

There’s a sliver of gold from the hallway light spilling under Eddie’s closed door, left on in case Jeff or Gareth needed to use the bathroom during the night. 

And despite the fact that two of his bandmates are passed out on the couch and floor just a short walk away, Eddie’s hands are exploring the length of your body under the sheets like he’s got plans to map you with his tongue. 

“We- ah- can’t.” Your whispering scold is interrupted with a sharp gasp when Eddie nips at your neck. “No fooling around. Not when we have guests.”

His left hand drips over the swell of your breast, squeezing and kneading, your nipples perking to attention (traitors) underneath the bra you haven’t yet had the chance to take off.

Eddie adopts your quiet tone as he speaks between kisses that trail further down your body, not outright ignoring your weak protests but not doing much to combat them, either. “Mmm. Got me so worked up. Been driving me crazy since the bar, y’know that? ‘S cruel, baby, can’t just talk mean and expect me not to act on it.”

“Wasn’t mean,” you counter, hands shifting automatically to wind through the soft locks of hair tickling at your stomach as Eddie continues his path downwards. “Didn’t wanna have to patch up a split lip. Had to make you behave somehow.”

The vibrating groan Eddie gives against the soft skin of your stomach tickles; when you squirm, shushing him again, his hands slide to your hips, pinning you in place. 

Nose to your navel, warm breath fanning across the strip of skin just above the band of your panties, Eddie sounds strung-out already, close to begging. “Please, baby. I’ll be good. Make it so good for you. I’ll be quiet-”

His head snaps up at your sudden gasping laugh, chin perched on your tummy as he scoffs. “What, you don’t think I can keep quiet?”

“Eddie Munson, you couldn’t be quiet to save your life.” Your hands migrate to his cheeks, squishing them together fondly as he grins around your touch, his thumbs working circles at your bare hips. 

“Ye of little faith.” In the dim light of the room, Eddie’s teeth are a flash of white before his mouth dips to press against the wet patch at your underwear.

“Fucking… shit-!” The expletives fly out harshly, only because you weren’t expecting the wet stripe of his tongue against your clothed folds. Head dropping back to the comfort of your pillow, you get one hand in Eddie’s hair again, the other finding its way to twist at the sheets.

You can feel his smile, equal parts smug and sympathetic as he coos saccharine to your inner thigh- “Now, now, angel. Gotta be quiet.”

Not willing to lose the fight, you focus on clamping your mouth shut, eyes closed in concentration- even as Eddie slides your underwear down and off, a quick flash of blue fabric before it’s swallowed by the floor’s darkness. Even as he seals his lips over your clit, sucking hard like he’s been deprived of your taste for too long.

When his tongue breaches your entrance, a soft gasp escapes, one that has your head turning sideways to grab some pillow with your teeth. 

Eddie brings the wetness from your entrance up again, spreading it over your pulsing clit, nerve endings fizzing bright and hot in your stomach from the attention.

On instinct, your right leg kicks out, jolting with the spasm of pleasure- Eddie’s quick, though, taking advantage of the movement to find a new hold at the back of your thigh; rings biting cold, he pushes until you bend for him, your knee now pressed towards your chest.

“Gonna make it so good for you.” Eddie’s mumbling pussy-drunk rambles into your cunt that’s now on display, dragging his nose through the slick that weeps out of you, all for him- “So wet for me, angel. Fuck’s sake. This all for me?”

As if he doesn’t know. The hand that isn’t busy holding you open trails up your thigh, middle finger teasing at your entrance before slipping inside, no resistance thanks to the river of slick that rushes to greet it.

There’s a soft squelching noise as Eddie adds a second, curling them up, stroking against that tender gummy spot that always skyrockets your pulse. 

The noise is almost enough to give you pause; feeling wild and flush with heat, your hand tightens in the crown of Eddie’s hair, eyes popping open as you prop yourself up on an elbow to give a strangled hiss of warning through your teeth.

Eddie senses your unease, pulls his fingers and mouth out and off (a travesty), softening the blow by giving a placating kiss to the top of your mound. “Shhh, sweetheart. S’okay. You hear that?”

Past the noise of nighttime crickets from the nearby cracked window, past the hum of the kitchen, you hear it as Eddie crawls back up- distant, tandem snores from the boys in the living room.

“They sleep like the dead. Like rocks,” Eddie promises, settling his weight into his hands planted on either side of your head, hair creating a curtain around your faces as he leans in. “So we can get our rocks off.”

“That was awful.” You kiss him anyways. He tastes like you, earthy and warm and wet, saliva mixed with your arousal as the kiss turns sloppy.

Eddie rocks his hips forwards, the friction from the fabric of his boxers making you both gasp into each other’s mouths. He’s achingly hard, cock leaking and smearing precum through the cotton; there’s a hurried, manic shift as you both work to strip the last pieces of clothing from yourselves, his boxers and your bra following your underwear from earlier into the dark of the room.

And then Eddie is sliding his cock through the folds of your pussy, slicking up the sizable length as much as he can before the tip nudges at your entrance; Eddie’s arms tremble with effort as yours wrap around his shoulders, soothing with a kiss to his cheek- “Lotta talk about keeping quiet, Munson. That’s all it was? Just talk?”

Now that his mouth isn’t intent on making you fall apart anymore, you’ve got some breathing room to tease. To be the one to work him up. Tucking a curly lock of hair behind his ear, your fingers trace adoringly over his temple before sliding to grip the back of his neck. “Gonna prove me wrong, hotshot?”

With this new proximity, you can see Eddie’s eyes- fixed intently on yours, black pupils nearly eclipsing the soft amber of his irises. He looks slightly feral, sweat sticking his bangs in place, lips parted, spots of pink staining his cheeks. 

As if he doesn’t trust himself to speak, Eddie’s near-silent as he slides himself in to the hilt, jaw dropping as the warmth from your walls encompasses him completely.

The chained guitar pick around his neck tickles between the valley of your breasts. He pants, chest heaving, not daring to move yet; your breath stutters. You can feel him in your throat.

“So big,” you murmur, an honest reaction but one that has Eddie’s brows drawing together, a little whine escaping as his hips jerk forward, reflexive to your words.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” 

Eddie’s voice, strained though it may be, is on its way to regular volume. At the back of his neck, your hand flexes, a warning as he begins to rock steadily into your tight heat. 

“Gotta be good.” Biting back your own groan, you sling your leg over his waist. At this angle, you can press your heel to the dip of his lower back. “Be good and quiet for me and I’ll let you come in my p-”

His hips snap forward, audibly, subsequent wet noise obscene, filling the room. Eddie moans into the curve of your neck before your sentence is even fully formed- “Jesus, baby. Oh my god. Can’t say stuff like that, gonna come too quick-”

His cock fits along the contours of your cunt like you were made for him, ridged tip dragging against that same sensitive spot of your front wall with each pull and thrust.

Eddie’s forehead thunks into yours as he rolls it back and forth, mindlessly. All the tease has melted out of his voice: it’s been replaced with a lust-filled rasp, rock-salt and deep. 

Your voice, however, is all tease, still hushed but laced with mischief despite your mounting pleasure. “Yeah? Gonna come in my pussy?”

It’s almost not fair and you almost feel bad, seeing the way Eddie fights to make his gasp silent as the channels of your cunt clench in answer to his fucked-out expression. With his next thrust, Eddie loses the battle- a hoarse, blissful moan much too loud spills over and out into the quiet room. 

Moving quick, your hand slips from the back of Eddie’s neck to his mouth, palm flat over the plush of his lips.. The commanding tone comes easy this time (with practice, you’ll surely be a natural).

“Eddie. Be. Quiet.”

Usually, Eddie’s got stamina enough to prioritize your pleasure, making sure you’re taken care of at least twice before he even thinks of himself. Tonight, though, he’s already been straining in his jeans for hours, unbearably turned on from your earlier sharp words, pushing the limits of desperation.

Your words, once again, do the trick. Eddie’s cock pulses, and he comes hard, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your hand, chorus of whimpers successfully dampened. His dark brows knit together, eyes pinched shut, nostrils flaring with each stilted breath.

He’s so fucking hot when he comes, hair a riot around stormcloud eyes that open to take you in. Even prettier when he’s coming down, leaning into your hand for support before you take it away, guiding and encouraging him to lay down.

Eddie collapses, carefully enough that it doesn’t jostle you, but still with his full weight. The crown of his head radiates heat against your chin. 

His arms wrap solidly around your middle as he whispers (he’s learning) in croaky fragments, “Jesus fucking H. I think you just broke my brain. Smashed it into a million little pieces. Never come so hard in my life. I’m in love with you.”

The laugh you give him is quiet but golden, the rise and fall of your chest causing his head to bounce a bit (but Eddie could die happy between your breasts so he doesn’t mind). “See? It’s worth it to listen to me, sometimes.”

“You’re so smart. Gonna do whatever you say, forever and ever. Cart-blank.” And then he’s pushing up onto his elbows, keeping his face level with your left breast so he can suck your nipple into his mouth, gently worrying his teeth over the peaked bud.

Previously tangled in the sheets, your hand flies up to grab his shoulder, nails digging in. “Fuck. Fuck, Eddie. That’s good. And- ah- it’s ‘carte blanche’.” 

He leaves the comfort of your breast with a sigh. “Whatever you say, princess. Gonna let me fuck you some more? Your turn to be the loud one.”

[starry-night-rose]

“A little birdie told me you needed some romance help, lucky for you, I’m like an expert at this~”

Character Playlist / Character Inspirations

Name: Aimée Agape Amore

Nicknames: Anemone (Floyd), Mademoiselle Marieuse (Rook), Normie (Idia) My Friend (Ortho)

V/A: Hina Suguta (Japanese) Rachel McAdams (English)

!Twisted from Aphrodite from Hercules!

Age: 18

Birthday: February 14th

Horoscope: Aquarius

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/her

Height: 165 cm (or 5’5)

Hair Color: Light Blonde with Pink Tips

Eye Color: Light Blue

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Homeland: Kingdom of Heros

Family: Unnamed Father, Unnamed Mother, Unnamed younger sister, Several Unnamed Aunts and Uncles, Several Unnamed Cousins

Dominant Hand: Right

Dormitory: Ignihyde

School Year: 3rd Year

Class: 3-B (No.10)

Best Class(es): Magic Analysis, Potions

Worst Class- Physical Education

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Favorite Food(s): Dark Chocolate, Apples, Raspberries

Least Favorite Food(s): Oranges, Mint

Hobbies: Poker, Shopping, Nail Art

Dislikes: Unromantic People, Rules

Talent(s): Matchmaking, Modeling, Gambling

Sexuality: Pansexual

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Personality: Aimée initially comes off as a bubbly airhead with minimal intelligence, inside lies a cunning and crafty individual. Aimée knows exactly how to read a person just from a single interaction. From the moment you tell her just a single piece of information about your love life, Aimée has already formulated a five page list of possible suitors and solutions in her mind. Why does Aimée keep up this ditzy persona? Because it’s entertaining of course! Aimée loves the feeling she gets when she fools someone with this persona of hers! Although her true personality comes off as cold and icy, Aimée just wants the people she loves to be with someone that loves them in return and she would do anything for that to happen. Aimée’s true personality still does retain bits of her bubbly air headed persona but that only comes out when she’s with her beloved friends! At the end of the day, Aimée just wants to be loved for her true self as not for how she looks or how she acts! She wants to be loved for herself and only herself.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Backstory: Aimée comes from a rich and powerful family from the Kingdom of Heros. Her family has connections to both Jupiter Corp and STYX so as she was growing up, she went to many business dinners with her family. There she met a boy around her age with bright flaming blue hair. Despite both of them having a mutual distaste for the other, they oddly became good friends but unfortunately had to part ways later on. When Aimée was older, she got into a toxic relationship with a boy. Aimée did not love the boy but stayed with him because she felt as though he had no one else to turn to. Finally fed up with the relationship, Aimée called it quits and despite the begging and pleading of the boy, she refused to keep in contact. Much later on, Aimée was accepted into NRC and was sorted into Ignihyde much to her chagrin.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Trivia!

Everyone including Aimée herself has no idea why she’s in Ignihyde

Aimée loves buying perfumes and makeup from a certain fairy in Diasomnia

Aimée adores birds especially doves

Aimée typically works behind the scenes during Film Club which has lead her to being called “The Tech Queen”

Aimée has been asked out at least 8 times on her first day of school but has turned down each and every one of them

Aimée adores wearing jewelry as she loves the jingle noise of it all!

She got the A necklace that she always wears from a special someone from her past

Due to her past relationship, Aimée does matchmaking so others don’t have to suffer the same type of relationship she had

[ecliptsukki]

his delinquent phase ❧ kaoru sakurayashiki // cherry blossom

navigation | music

➣ genre: fluff

➣ warnings: adam’s existence 

➣ request: can i request a one shot where you’re cherrys s/o and like childhood best friends with joe and cherry and adam and you’re gushing over cherrys old bad boy look with piercings and everuthing and cherry one day goes to S with his piercings and hair the same way as before just to see you fawn over him skjfks

➣ a/n: this took me three times to type up because the first two times i did it, tumblr thought it would be funny to delete it. i’m not sure if i love how this came out, but it’s still better than my original plan. hopefully this was correct to what the anon requested. enjoy!

ps: i’m also going to be going on a trip for four days tomorrow, so i’m not sure if i’ll be able to post. i’ll definitely try to start working on my other requests!

You had known Joe, Cherry, and Adam ever since the four of you were in high school. Out of the three, you had met Joe, first, not soon before you met Cherry.

You were walking down the eventful streets of Okinawa, admiring the sights and getting accustomed with the area. You had moved to the city not too long ago and already were growing attached to the place. In your defense, the city was your perfect and desired location to live in. 

A gentle breeze blew through your hair, rustling the leaves of the green trees. You sighed at the feeling of the cool breeze tickling your warm skin. Not long after that breeze had gone, another, harsher breeze blew past you. You flinched at the abnormally sharp wind, snapping your head to the side, in its direction. You were met with honey red eyes and short, green locks, swaying. 

The male slips past you, stopping abruptly.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled, embarrassed, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You were in awe, seeing what the boy was standing on, and on alert because you had always been taught to be cautious around strangers, especially when you were walking alone. 

“Um, no. I’m alright, just shocked,” you shrugged, replying quietly.

Another harsh, but gentler than before, wind blows past you, revealing a pink-haired male. He had three piercings on his ear and one on his lip. Half of the boy’s face was hidden by his long bangs, allowing your focus to lock on his golden eye.

“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps at his green-haired friend. “Sorry about him,” he apologizes, giving you a polite smile.

All the sirens were going off in your head.

He has so many piercings! Is he a delinquent? Are both of them delinquents? If they are, I can’t fight them off on my own. What do I do?

“I’m Kaoru,” the bubblegum-haired male suddenly said, “This is Kojiro.”

Kojiro nodded at you, an embarrassed blush still grazing his cheeks. 

“Hey, aren’t you the new kid?” Kaoru asked, finding your puzzlingly familiar.

“Oh, that’s why I felt like I’ve met you before,” Kojiro spoke up, nodding his head when he realized who you were.

Awkwardly, you shyly respond, “Sorry, I can’t seem to remember seeing you guys at school. Are you in my class?”

Until dusk, the three of you talked, getting to know the each of you better. You were also able to befriend the boys you were so afraid of, becoming your first two friends in the city.

You met Adam in the dark of night, beside Cherry and Joe.

They had brought you along, one night, wanting to skate with you. You already knew the basics of skating, nothing more, nothing less. Therefore, as your closest, and only, friends, they wanted to get further acquainted with you in something they loved. 

“Who’s the sweet cheeks?” His hoodie-covered eyes left an eerie pressure on you, causing goosebumps to emerge from your skin.

“This is our close friend, Y/N L/N,” Cherry spoke up.

“She goes to school with us, and we wanted to bring her skating. Mind her tagging along?” Joe asks his hooded friend.

“Not at all, just as long as she can keep up,” he spoke in a cocky tone.

The pretentious attitude the unnamed face had was irking you in the wrong way. He seemed too mysterious for your liking. A third of the boy’s face was hidden in the shadow of his hoodie, leaving you only able to see the blue tips of his hair and his structured nose. 

He must’ve noticed your timid stare because he looks at you, under his hood, “Call me Adam.”

 Cherry and Joe look at you expectingly.

“Just call me sweet cheeks, for now,” you reply, distantly, not ready to let your guard down just yet.

You hear your two friends sigh, chuckling to each other.

“Don’t worry, she’ll warm up to you, soon,” Cherry told Adam, “We know firsthand how she is with meeting new people.”

You blush, remembering your first encounter with the pair.

Thinking back, you still regret letting your walls down and accepting Adam as a friend. Not a day goes by that Adam doesn’t linger in your mind, as much as you’d hate to admit. 

You despise that man with a passion. From your first interaction, you should’ve known that there was something off about the blue-haired male, but pondering on these frustrations now wouldn’t change anything. As much as you’d like to curse the man for hurting your friends’ and your feelings, you knew you had to move on.

You sat on the soft mattress of your shared bed, scrolling through old pictures stored on your phone. You saw pictures taken by Kaoru when you guys went on dates. Majority of the photos were candid, seeing as he always had told you that you were the “most photogenic woman” he had ever met.

You remember the day he had told you that. You also remember your laughed reply.

“Then you’ve got the whole world to explore, my love.”

Although, honestly, you thought Kaoru was quite the photogenic one himself. His gorgeous, sorted, pink hair matched with his golden eyes and perfect face never looked bad, not even at the crack of dawn or in the late of night. 

Speaking of which, you scrolled upon a photograph of Kaoru sitting all pretty with his piercings on display. Those piercings brought back many memories, humorous and lustful.

Ironically, the thing that brought you fear before now brings you yearning.

Honestly, once you had befriended Kaoru and came to trust him, the piercings no longer frightened you but instead, fascinated you. Those metal hoops further increased your attraction to the ponytailed man, leading you to the relationship you were in now.

Obviously, Kojiro played a big role in setting the two of you up together because both of you were completely oblivious to the other’s feelings. It got to the point that Adam almost had to step in and wack some sense into the both of you.

Anyways, ever since Kaoru had started working in the calligraphy business, he removed his piercings to maintain a professional image. You detested the idea, but you also knew that it was the best for his business. 

Now that you were looking back at photos of Kaoru as a teenager, you began to crave seeing him in those metal rings once more. You missed the “bad boy” look your boyfriend used to have, not that you didn’t appreciate how he looked now. It’s just that there’s a different vibe to his current and past aesthetics.

As you stalked through more pictures of teenage Kaoru, you were unaware of the very man you were thinking about watching you. He noticed the longing and craving in your gaze. Then, he caught a glimpse of what was being projected on your screen: it was him but in his teenage years. 

Suddenly, everything clicked for Kaoru, and he had the perfect plan in mind.

Something was off. Usually your boyfriend would insist on bringing you to “S” himself but not today. If anything, he was urging you to go with Kojiro.

“He’s been your friend for the same amount of time as I. You should take this time to your advantage and catch up,” was Kaoru’s excuse.

First of all, catch up on what? It’s not like you haven’t talked to Kojiro in months. Actually, you talked to him a day ago, at “S.” Secondly, what’s up with the sudden lenience and weak excuses?

Joe, who was also in on the plan, tried to help his friend out, making a feeble attempt to lure you with free food.

“I can get free food from you whenever I want,” you replied, squinting suspiciously at your friend.

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.” That pulled a raised brow from you and a regret-filled face from the muscular man.

Though you weren’t fully convinced that nothing was off, you still left with Joe, caving into their terrible attempts of covering up whatever they were hiding from you.

You had arrived at “S” with Joe for about ten minutes now, but there was still no sightings of your beloved, Cherry. Joe caught glimpse of your searching eyes and reassured you that he would be coming, be it later than usual.

Reki, Langa, and Miya had made their way over to you, sparking up a conversation with you, making you forget about the missing presence of a specific male. 

Miya was explaining the new training regiment and diet he was to use in order to advance his strength, leading you to worry for the small teenager. If he didn’t eat enough, it could become fatal to him. You didn’t understand why a child was being treated so harshly by his managers, forcing him to eat barely anything and train long hours of the day. 

You were concernedly asking Miya if he was feeling alright and offered him an energy bar you carried around in case of emergencies, which he gratefully accepted, when you heard the cheers of fangirls behind you. Knowing they weren’t meant for Joe, you turned around to meet the golden eyes you’d fallen in love with.

This time, there was something different. His face wasn’t hidden by his mask. You could see the pale skin of his cheeks and the pink of his lips. Besides the absence of the black cloth, you noticed metallic rings decorating your boyfriend’s lip and ears. Also, his hair wasn’t whipping behind him, as per usual, but laid low, drifting in the wind.

For a hot moment, you had thought you had finally lost it, but when you blinked your eyes, looking at Miya then back to Cherry, you realized you were still sane and your boyfriend still looked like he aged back into his high school days.

“Is that Cherry?” Miya asked from beside you.

You nodded, speechless.

You heard someone let out a loud laugh beside you, “Since when did he have piercings?”

Ignoring the redhead’s outburst, you were mesmerized by the Cherry you had been obsessing over a couple days ago. It felt like one extravagant dream that you didn’t want to wake up from. In your defense, as he stepped of his skateboard, coming to embrace you, he looked straight out of a fantasy. His skin was practically glowing, and his hair gently floated perfectly onto his shoulders.

“Hello, darling,” he spoke in a sultry voice, placing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you in his muscular arms.

“K-Kao—” you quickly realize your soon-to-be mistake and fix it, “Cherry.”

His eyes shrink as he laughs, endearingly, admiring the flustered and confused look you were portraying.

“Is this why you and Joe were being so weird earlier today?” You asked, cheek pressed against his slim, toned chest.

“Indeed, my love. What do you think? Definitely brings back some memories of the old days,” he lifts your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“I love it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” you smile brightly, eyes lustrous. Pushing yourself up on your toes, you whisper into his ear, “You also look really hot.” You quickly pull away, turning a vibrant red.

“I think you broke her,” Joe told his friend, placing a heavy hand on the pink-nette’s shoulder.

After the supposed one occurrence surprise, you began to avidly ask him to wear his piercings, loving how attractive and domineering he looked in them. If he denied, you would ask him to, at least, tie his hair in the relaxed half up half down hairdo. He didn’t mind the different hairstyle as much as he did the piercings so it became a normal look for him. The only times he would willingly put on his piercings were when he was going to “S” or when the two of you were safe in the comfort of your own home, for research purposes.

[qslovebot]

The Girlfriend: Spencer Reid

Summary: Spencer's girlfriend shows up to his work one day nine months pregnant

Pairing: Spencer x unnamed woman self insert?

Warnings/Includes: mentions of sex, pregnancy, mentions of breeding kink.

A/N: I was bored, so I wrote this. I don't actually know what it is. Emily Prentiss fanfic out soon.

The BAU knew Spencer Reid had a girlfriend. They were introduced at an event and everyone took their turn shaking her hand and joking around with her. She was quickly beloved by the whole team.

She discussed dressing goth in high school with Emily, conversed with JJ about the thrills of papercuts, talked about Twilight with Penelope, Derek teased her about dating Spencer and she retaliated by making fun of the time he thought he had slept with one of his coworkers simply based on the fact the woman knew his name. Derek was quiet after that.

Hotch asked her about her line of work and both him and Rossi were surprised when she replied, telling him she was a kindergarten teacher. Everyone had been expecting her to be a Doctor of some kind or some super-brained scientist. But she was artsy, witchy, and had fingerpaint under her nails.

Everyone loved her, including Spencer who was more than happy they all liked her, but a little anxious that someone would mess it up. As it turned out, surviving that event and heading home afterward led to a shower, then to a bed, then to a shower again.

That day was followed by more days, then two weeks before all the craziness kicked in. Spencer Reid, shy, sweet, young, had gotten his girlfriend of eight months- knocked up.

People at work asked how she was doing to which Spencer gave the answer. Told them she was good and happy and that they were doing fine, but was reluctant to tell them about her pregnancy. He himself didn't know why- he didn't even notice he wasn't mentioning it.

One day, Spencer made the mistake of taking the wrong bag to work. It wasn't a matter of memory, it wasn't a matter of a brain, it was the fact he and his girlfriend who was nearing the last weeks of pregnancy had identical bags and he accidentally took hers to work.

Spencer called her to bring it in to make the swap because he had a case to leave for in about an hour. Meaning... everyone was about to know about the pregnancy- but Spencer still had no idea that he hadn't told the BAU. It never came up.

She got herself in the car in a beautiful pale pink sundress that was part of her kindergarten teacher's vibe she hadn't let go of even on maternity leave. It had a v-neckline that was formed by the wrap of the fabric and cinched just above her bump to accentuate it through the dress. Pregnancy had been good to her, keeping her skin clear and glowing as well as her hair healthy and gorgeous.

So she walked into the BAU with Spencer's bag and the entire team had their jaws on the floor. They looked at her, nine months pregnant and wondered when the hell that had happened and how the hell Spencer hadn't said anything about it.

Penelope had spotted her first, watching her walk in with the bag and recognizing her from that event nine months ago. "Hey! Long time no-" she had come bustling over to say hi and only noticed the bump until seven feet away and it stopped her entirely. Spencer's girlfriend was a little confused, as Penlope choked on her words and blurted, "Nice to see you again!" As she bolted off to Derek Morgan's desk.

"Hey, Garcia, what's going on?" Emily inquired as Penelope rushed over to the bullpen work area, her cheeks red.

"Spencer's girlfriend- she's here, and she's very very very pregnant. Like 'any-second' pregnant." Penelope gushed. Derek narrowed his brows in confusion before all three of their heads swivelled to where his girlfriend had just walked in. Bag over her shoulder, hand on her stomach, she walked over to Spencer. Emily gasped and rushed from her seat to go tell JJ.

"Spencer's girlfriend is nine months pregnant!" Emily said, still in disbelief.

JJ shook her head, "There's no way. It's only been what, eight months since we last saw her? Spencer would have said some-"

"She's pregnant!" Penelope chirped, peeping her head into JJ's office. JJ got up from her seat the fastest she'd ever gotten up, stumbling with Emily and Penelope to peer out the door at Spencer taking the bag from her and chatting a little before he had to go.

Derek Morgan stood up and greeted the young teacher with a smile and friendly hug that avoided her bump. He congratulated her and then grabbed Spencer by the upper arm as Hotch and Rossi came down the steps to say hello as well.

Spencer was a little confused, being dragged around the corner to the briefing room by Derek. Emily, JJ, and Penelope went to go greet the girlfriend as well, but Spencer wouldn't be there with her. Derek shut the door, "What the hell man, you're going to have a kid?"

"Y-yes, actually. I thought maybe you'd known."

"How could I have possibly known, Reid? If you never mentioned to me or anyone else here that you'd knocked up your girlfriend, how would we know if we don't see her every day?" Morgan wasn't really angry, just a little pissed that Spencer never mentioned it. "I consider the BAU my family and when my family is going to start a family of his own, I would have liked to know. Congrats, man."

Spencer had no idea he hadn't mentioned it until now. The blind spots of a genius brain. "I'm sorry- wow, I really thought I'd-" Spencer was nearly in awe of how he might have missed mentioning this.

"Boy or a girl? Names picked out? Come on, now that the cat is out of the bag, I think you better fill us in." Derek gave Spencer an unexpected hug that nearly squeezed the life out of his body.

The BAU, though they had a case to leave for in thirty minutes, was all sitting around her. There was a small smirk from maybe not-so-shy Spencer when he knew that the team knew he had fucked his girlfriend well enough to knock her up. It was an undiagnosed, mild breeding kink, but he wouldn't dare speak of it.

She sat there, glowing, hands resting on her bump as the team interrogated her. Derek joined them as she and Spencer began to tell the team pretty much all of it so far. Spencer was having a daughter and they decided to name her Andromeda, after the constellation. Penelope was swooning, JJ was intrigued, Emily was still shocked to see that Reid was capable of both doing this and hiding this.

Hotch congratulated Spencer endlessly, Rossi pat him on the back. It felt good to finally have it out in the open, because there was something weighing on Spencer and until now, he didn't know what it was. Now the whole team knew he was going to be a father and that his sweet girlfriend had been fucked well, nine months ago. He still smiled when he remembered that, he ought to be hit in the side of the head.

Then again, there was a lot more in the open now. Really, forgive his bashfulness for slipping away for a moment.

tags: @meep-meep-not-in-a-jeep, @hotchnerundercover

[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.

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and the Witcher  Chapter 4

Summery, Budding friendship, A wedding and possibly something more

Word Count: 2600

Warning: Fluff

A/N Thank you for the amazing engagement and encouragement  

Chapter 4

4 weeks had past and the household of Julia of Wolnosci was full of excitement. Julia had begun to feel like she was getting closer to finding a place of peace. Her clients were beginning to see the changes in her, causing her clinic to begin to make a name for itself again. The estate was also thriving, each of the new servants were adding there skills to the benefit of the family.

Geralt had begun to feel like he was gaining his strength back. He had been working hard with his sword training and was finding working with the horses very therapeutic. Each day Julia continued to work with him in the spring, and using remedial massage to help aid his recovery after each training session. Julia was sure he was well on the way to a full recovery, there were still some scars that were healing but they would fade in time.

Every evening Geralt would come and visit Julia in her library. Some nights the room would be silent as they were both lost in the worlds painted in their books. Some nights the room would be filled with animated discussion debating monsters, politics, and everything in between . The surprising part for Julia was that a real bond of trust and friendship was growing between them. Many night the servants could hear as they went about their chores, deep discussion and laughter coming from the library.

Today there was an air of expectation on the minds of every member of the estate as preparations for a grand wedding celebration were in full swing. Tobias and Renee would be man and wife in just under 3 hours, followed by a huge celebration. The first one to be held at the estate since Wilfred had died. Julia once again looked at the great room, this time the colours were of soft pinks, rose gold and white, Renee's favourite colours. The columns were wrapped with green Ivy and white roses, the tables adorned with pink silk, white and pink roses, rose gold goblets and rose gold and white crockery.

Julia narrowed her eyes and gazed around the room critically looking for anything that was out of place. Just one last look, although knew she didn't really need to. She knew that it had been  lovingly done by the servants for their favourite couple, and as she suspected it was perfect. Julia was so grateful for Renee; she had come to be invaluable at the estate. She had refused to return to her family until yesterday. Only leaving to full fill the tradition of her Husband coming to claim her before the ceremony. Not only had she endeared herself to the servants, but she had become a great friend to Julia. They shared many similar passions, hospitality, reading, and Renee had even shared a longing to learn the art of healing from Julia. The unnamed God surely had a hand in bringing Renee to her family, not only for Tobias, but for her as well.

As the sun hit the room a rainbow danced across the wall reflecting off one of the crystal vases. It was only a small rainbow but it was enough to trigger a wall of sadness in Julia, as if a cloud had moved over the sun, suffocating her joy making her heart ache. Her mind remembering the last party she and Wilfred had shared with the village. He should be here. Wilfred would have loved this; He would have loved seeing Tobias married to such a beautiful bride. Allowing herself to dwell on the grief of one more thing that had been stolen from them, Julia began to silently weep.

Geralt was heading to the kitchen to get some apples, his favorite food to give as treats to the horses. As he passed the great room he spotted Julia standing in the middle of the explosion of flowers and finery. Something caught at his heart as he noticed Julia was weeping. Without a thought he quickly moved into the room, and without a word pulled her into his arms. Julia stiffened for just a moment then melted into his chest sobbing as Geralt held her tighter.

After a few minutes her sobs turned into small hiccups, and then she calmed. They stood in each others embrace for what seemed a lifetime. Geralt did not want to let her go, he was surprisingly enjoying the feel of her body against his. Julia also felt surprised, her body enveloped by the warmth of his body and security she felt in his arms. Eventually, Julia pulled back and looked up into his now softened eyes "Thank you" she whispered unsure of what she was feeling she stepped away.

Geralt felt the loss of her body. An ache he had not felt for a very long time spreading through his chest caused him to want more.  Silently he reached a hand out to brushed a stray tear from her face, before saying with a low whisper "will you be ok? I sense today might be hard for you." Julia overwhelmed by the compassion this man was showing her, and amazing that he had read her emotions so accurately stood silent. "Mistress?" Tobias stood at the door a bunch of flowers in the crook of his arm. His words broke the spell over Julia, stepping away from Geralt she turned to Tobias answer. "yes my boy?"

Tobias had been nervously pacing the gardens, his task was to make the perfect bouquet to present his bride. This evening when he went to claim her from her father, it would he his gift to her. He had found a beautiful array of her favourite flowers, baby's breath, gardenias, and roses in pink and white. Their beautiful aroma's filling his nostrils, all that was left was to find something special to bind them together. Julia would have just the right touch to make it perfect had been his thought as he strode towards the house. Moving down the corridor, he heard the sound of Geralt's voice coming from the grand room, and on inspection had seen him hovering over Julia who looked like she had been crying.

"Mistress?," he voiced with concern, Julia turned away from Geralt looking at him and replied with a soft voice, "yes my boy?" that endearment never grew old filling him with a familiar warmth. Not sure of what had transpired he entered the room intent of protecting her. "are you ok?" he looked at Geralt who now looked at him with a stony stare. "yes, Tobias I'm ok, I just had a sad moment and Geralt came to my aid. All is well now." Julia wondered at the change in Geralt's face the softness had disappeared replaced with a hard frown, but she decided to ask him about it later. For now, her faithful servant, her Son, had an arm full of flowers, and if he was seeking her out it could mean only one thing, he needed her help.

Tobias sat tall on his horse; he was dressed in the finest ivory silk suit his dark brown hair curled atop his head. In his arms, the bouquet of flowers sat now tied together with an ivory ribbon with two crystals hanging from the ends. Even though it was a cold night Tobias was oblivious to it, his body full of nervous energy right now. All that was on his mind as he kicked his mare into a gallop was that he was going to fetch his bride.

Standing at the doorway to her house Renee stood ready, she too was adorned in a beautiful ivory silk dress that was edged with rose gold satin. Her headdress dripped with crystals across her forehead securing the long shear Vale that covered her face and hair. She held her lantern up peering into the distance, not knowing the hour that Tobias would come as was custom but hoping with nervous expectation that it would not be too much longer.

Her feet tapped the earth in an expectant rhythm, her mind filled with thoughts of the night to come when she felt an soft hand on her arm. Her mother's smile calmed her beating heart as she heard her whisper, "Peace my child. The waiting, the giving and the sharing will all be over in the blink of an eye. So cherish each moment. The waiting is important, there will be many times in your life when you will be waiting for him to return, learn to be content in the waiting." She knew her mother was true, the life of a merchants wife was filled with waiting.

She could hear her father chuckle beside her mother "listen to your mother my daughter, she speaks wisdom from experience." He drew her mother into his arms and kissed her cheek, the love between them was tangible and she hoped that when she and Tobias were their age they would still cherish each other in the same way. Together they waited enjoying the peace, it was her parents who would hand Renee to her betrothed tonight, signifying their agreement of the joining of the two in marriage.

As Tobias approached the city he slowed his horse to a walk. His heart hammered in his chest as he began to see the streets lined with their friends and family. Each holding a lantern to light the way, he smiled at each one until he could see her. Even from a distance she stood out from the rest. There she was holding her lamp a symbol of the love she had for him, it glow illuminating her satin gown creating a vision the brought him to tears. His beloved was waiting for him.

He dismounted and walked to her father and kneeling at his feet, lowered his head and asked "I have come to humble myself before you and your wife. I love your daughter, and ask that you give us your blessing to become husband and wife" He felt a hand reach under his chin and lift his face up, so he could see her father's eyes shinning with tear as he gazed at him replying. "Tobias of the house of Wilfred and Julia of Wolnosci, we have watched the way you care for our daughter. We have seen your character as you deal fairly in the marketplace, and we have witnessed your compassion and loyalty to your mistress, and to the people of this town. Yes, we gladly give our blessing to you and our precious daughter. We welcome you as our Son" helping Tobias to his feet Renee's father brought him to face Renee. "Daughter, do you take this man to be your husband. To love him, and honour him no matter what life's difficulties bring to your house?"

Renee peered up at Tobias through her vale, she could see his handsome face staring at her with a soft look of love, and tears shining in his eyes. She had no doubt in her mind that she would love this man for the rest of her life. So with a strong voice, she said "yes". At this, the street erupted with celebration as Tobias lifted her vale and kissed her sweetly on the lips. Releasing Tobias from the kiss Renee turned and hugged her Mother and Father, as did Tobias then together they walked to his horse. Tobias lifted her into the saddle and jumped up behind her. Together with the rest of their family and friends began a procession back to the estate.

Julia shivered as she stood at the archway to the estate. The road to the house was lined with the servant's, lanterns in hand. Standing in place of Tobias's mother it was her job to accept and welcome the bride and groom to her estate. She had spent the evening with Hannah and Ruth "getting pretty" as Wilfred had called it. She wore a lavender silk dress adorned with crystals that caught the lantern light. Her hair, curled, was half up and half down covering her shoulders with a ring of crystals in her hair. She knew this night would be a wonderful celebration, and she would be happy for this beautiful couple, but there was still an element of sadness.

As she shivered again, Julia felt a warm hand place a shawl over her shoulders. Looking up she found herself lost in a warm gaze of amber-yellow eyes looking down at her. The softness she saw in his eyes caused a quivering in her stomach. An awareness that this man was becoming more to her than she was ready to accept. She shifted her eyes as the intensity of his gaze was becoming unnerving moving to his body. She could see he had washed and his white hair was pulled up into a bun at the back of his neck making him look even taller than his 6ft 1inch height. He was dressed in a simple black outfit that befitted his station and made his silver medallion of a wolf even more prominent on his large chest.

Geralt sensing her discomfort leant down to her ear so only she could hear, "I can leave if you want, but I would prefer to stay by your side tonight. One because I sense you need it, and two I am not great in crowds and would prefer to be near someone I know." Julia felt it took a lot for Geralt to admit this, and realised she was actually comforted by his close presence. Returning his quiet statement with her own whisper "No, don't go, I would be happy for your escort tonight. Thank you for the shawl, I didn't realise how cold it was."

Emboldened by her words Geralt wrapped one arm around Julia pulling her into his side, a soft smile forming on his lips as he teased, "it's even warmer here." Before she had time to protest, she heard the sound of an army of people singing and laughing, she looked into the distance seeing an ocean of glowing lanterns following a lone horse with its two riders. Stepping out from his warmth Julia walked forward in anticipation of greeting her Son and his Bride.

Julia walked to Tobias as they dismounted, her heart bursting with joy as she spoke "Son of my house, I welcome you and your bride to this estate, I pray blessings on this union" Lowering her head as she took each of their hands, she prayed "to the unnamed God, we ask you bring many blessings to this beautiful couple, may you bring them peace and many years of joy" with tears in her eyes she kissed them both on the cheeks, turning together to walk the illuminated road she felt Geralt come up to her side, his presence felt right, filling her with a foreshadowing of something new uncurling in her heart as they walked with the bride and groom to the main dwelling.

Tobias and Renee were standing on the balcony of their apartment at the estate. The sound of music and laughter floating up to them as the celebrations raged on. The love Julia had shown to Tobias and his bride had touched him deeply. The evening had been more than he could have ever imagined. Now with Renee tucked against his side he felt complete, as they looked at the stars. This was their favourite place to be, and it helped to calm his nerves being in this familiar embrace . "are you happy Renee, is this how you imagine it would be?" turning to face Tobias Renee reached up and cupped his face her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone as she spoke softly. "I would have been happy if we were in feed sacks and it was just my family and yours downstairs. But this" her face held an overwhelmed awe.

"This was beyond any expectations; Julia truly loves you and  it has been made even more evident by how  lavishly she had blessed us." Tobias smiled down at her chuckling at the dimples the were deepening as her smile echoed his "I think she also loves you; I have seen how close you have gotten over the last few weeks." Tobias tucked a strand of her sandy hair behind her ear, his pulse racing at the intimacy he felt as his voice deepened "and I am glad for it. For whom could not love my sweet and beautiful wife" at this he bent and kissed Renee softly, she responded gently at first then deepened their kiss with more intensity, together they moved to the bridal bed both nervous but happy to explore this new journey together.

Back at the celebrations, Julia found herself lounging against a very warm and firm chest, as the night had progressed, and the wine had flowed she had found herself becoming more and more comfortable with Geralt's touch. So, when he saw how tired she was and suggested she rest against him there was no hesitation. Feeling snug and secure she looked around the room with satisfaction. Once again, her house would be known for its celebrations, and it warmed her heart to see the happy faces, people dancing to the minstrel's tunes, and people lounging engaged in discussion. Contentment filled her heart as her body began to slip into unconsciousness.

Geralt was relaxed, and thanks to his gentle coaxing he had Julia in his arms. He could smell her honeysuckle scented hair as her head rested just below his chin. His eyes strayed allowing himself to look closely at the woman in his arms. Julia didn't seem to know what her very presence did to him. Her hair tonight was a mass of curls, and it took all his self-control not to reach out and play with it. Her dress hugged her figure in all the right places, and ..... What was he doing? He pulled his mind back from where his thoughts were headed. The last time he had allowed himself to get close to a woman other than the ones he paid for was Yennefer. She was like night and day with Julia. Where Julia was compassion, warmth and peace. Yennefer was passion, anger and chaos. Could he, would he risk opening his heart to Julia? subtle as it was her relaxed body now snuggled even further into his chest, and if he judged her weight right, she was falling asleep.

Knowing that the celebration would continue till sunrise he shifted his body so he could pick Julia up in his arms. Carrying her down the marble corridor to her room he placed her on the bed. Tucking her in he went to move away but she captured his hand. "stay with me, I'm cold" Julia whispered. Not sure if she would feel the same way in the morning but not willing to ignore such an invitation Geralt took off his sandals and slipped in beside her pulling her close. She buried her back against his chest and sighed before even breathing showed she had fallen asleep. Geralt, however, did not sleep for a long time. Holding this precious woman in his arms was comforting and at the same time torcher. In the still of the moment watching her sleep he decided she was too special to ignore, tomorrow he would tell her how he felt. Mind made up he fell into a deep sleep.  

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[creepy-bi-day]

PleASe tell us about living in the cum house with habit

I had to write--

@fekst-fucker @the-acolytes-collection @fuck-mcgee

Cum House with Habit

Also: this will be a story detailing AFAB that goes by they/them pronouns just because I am a self-indulgent piece of shit and want Habit to defend my pronouns when I wanna use they/them dammit.

Also, this takes place after the occurrence of the movie and assumes that his wife doesn’t move in and just decides to abandon the place.

 Warnings: Cum House, mentions of prostitution?, jealous boy, 

 New House

Habit had mentioned he wanted a new base of operation.

He just got bored of the old house, mainly because it had drawn too much attention with local law enforcement.

So, due to the rising suspicion that your Mate had drawn, the two of you opted for a house in the middle of the suburbs. Honestly, you found it adorable.

You could live in little home in the middle of nowhere. You could decorate the house however you wanted this time!

A soft hum left your throat as you dropped another box in your new living room. You placed your hands on your hips as you looked around the room. Having convinced Habit to let you start moving in before him, that meant you assumed control of decoration.

“I swear if he doesn’t stop me, this whole place is staying like this,” you muttered, looking around at the pink walls and blushing a bit at all the sexual memorabilia on the walls. “Oh, he’s going to love this.”

The sound of footsteps caused you to jump and spin.

A tattooed male stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen, throwing a cocky grin at you.

“You new in town?” He asked, leaning against the frame as he crossed his arms.

“Um,” you began, looking around and taking a step back. You were starting to regret asking Habit for a few hours to try and make the house your own. “Who- Who are you? And how did you get here?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said smoothly, pushing himself off the wall and walking closer to you. “I’m Don, cutie.”

You tensed, feeling unnerved.

Not only was there a strange man in your house, but he was closing in on your smaller form.

You turned, trying to get to the front door and just wait for your beloved to show up on the front porch, only to see a dog sitting in front of the door.

Visibly confused, you turned to ask the man about the German Shepherd, only to see he wasn’t there.

“Maybe it’s ghosts,” you muttered under your breath. “Habit can deal with ghosts, right? H e can stop them from haunting me. He’s strong.”

You were trying to convince yourself at this point, feeling unnerved and slightly scared. You lifted your wrist to check the time, knowing Habit would be at the house by six for dinner.

It was only four thirty.

A whine left your mouth as you rubbed your arms, glancing around the room. Honestly, you were debating calling Habit, but you were slightly scared he would just make fun of you.

The kicker, though, that made you scramble to get your phone from the bag on the floor was when a soft, almost metallic clicking made its way down the stairs.

The phone rang twice before the familiar gruff voice answered.

“Bunny, I’m busy right now. I’ll help with decorating-“

“Habit there’s something in the house,” you breathed, feeling your eyes tear up. “I don’t- there was a guy in the house and a dog and now stuff is moving-“

“What,” he growled out, and you could just see him tightening his grip on the phone when you mentioned the unnamed male. “Stay the fuck there. Give me ten minutes to clean up and I’ll be there. Go lock a door and stay low, do you understand?”

A soft whine left your throat at the tone in his voice. The dual tone crept through the phone and caused his voice to almost sound like static.

“I-Habit I’m scared,” you said softly, hearing something roll toward you. You spun on your heel to see a small ball moving toward you before stopping at your feet. “Hab-“

“Aren’t you a cute little girl,” a feminine voice mused.  “Such a shame we have to get rid of you.”

You froze, feeling yourself start to shake as a soft, drawn out noise of pure terror made its way from your throat.

The sound of a loud crunching echoed through the phone before the line went dead. You knew Habit had most likely broken his phone again, but couldn’t take the time to be mad as you heard a soft humming in the same tone of voice behind you.

The door slammed open in front of you, and a borderline feral looking Habit instantly snapped his gaze to you. His eyes were wide and almost entirely purple, no blue to be seen.

He was panting, and his lip was curled in a snarl as he glared behind you.

“Who the fuck are you?” He forced out, crouching low and reaching to grab your wrist before forcing you behind him. “Get the fuck out.”

“Interesting,” the woman mused, and you peeked around your shaking Mate. She was pretty, all things considered. Her hair was long and a light reddish, and her eyes were a deep blue. “You’re not entirely human, are you?” Habit stood slowly, seemingly sniffing the air before taking a step back to shield you more. He tilted his head, still baring his teeth.

“What the fuck are you?” His voice was much calmer now, and you felt a fresh wave of fear spike through your being. “You’re not human either, bitch.”

A soft giggle left her throat as she bent down to pick up the small glass ball and twirl it in her fingers. She hummed softly, picking up where she left off. Her eyes shot to you as you cowered behind your beloved.

“She’s cute though,” she said, causing Habit to snarl at her.

“They,” he stated. He rolled his eyes and seemed to relax, turning to look at you. “They’re just fucking spirits. You’ve seen them in my home,  (Y/n),” he shot a glare over his shoulder at the now confused female. “These ones are just shitheads that need to be put in their place.”

Habit’s voice took on the dual tone once more, and he muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite understand.

He tensed again, taking a deep breath as his head snapped to the side.

“What the fuck is that?” He seethed, glaring at a socket in the wall. The redhead let out a loud giggle, covering her mouth as she snickered. Habit growled lowly. “Answer me, whore.”

Her laughter stopped as she glared at the dark haired male. A deep chuckle took her place.

“It’s going to be so fucking fun with you here, isn’t it?” The male from before mused, crouching in the room behind you as he scratched the dog’s ears. “You two seem like fun.”

[phonecallwithsatan]

just look for my owl (three)

a.n. : I am in awe that there are TEN of you that follow me. I don’t even care if I get bullied for geeking out over ten followers. I’m so happy and glad you all enjoy what i’ve written. My lovelies, here is chapter three of this series. I think its getting interesting but im too scared to add mature stuff in here because i dont know how you all will react. Look at me, speaking to my ten followers. It’s a press conference at this point. Chap. four is soon to follow tonight so please keep out for that! This fic is a they/them reader, so  I will only refer to you as they/them. 3k words, fred weasley x y/n, enjoy!<3

Our beloved Fred Weasley falls for Ilvermorny student [y/n] [l/n]. He’s determined to get to them, but the only way he can is through post sent through the two. The only thing left for the pair is to just look for an owl.

Check out chapter two before you read this!

☾

It had been four days since that owl came in to deliver Fred Weasley’s Professor a parcel from [Y/n l/n]. 

It had been four days since Fred hadn’t stopped thinking about [y/n].

Luckily, no suspicions from his professor were brought up about the missing photo, and he was glad. The professor even came in during his quidditch practice to chat with the students cheerfully, even taking a few photos of the team as a whole and separately. 

Today was the 31st of October, and the Triwizard champions were chosen shortly after Fred began to dig into his food, irritated at the interruption that faced him.

Or maybe he should say the Quartet champions now that Harry was facing the tournament too.

Dinner wrapped up a bit after that, and the two twins carried on to their dorms surprisingly silent the whole way. Not causing any ruckus or speaking even.

Perhaps it was because they were disappointed at the selection of Harry even though he was younger than the two twins. They could have had a chance now that he was chosen, but Fred knew that it wasn’t about that.

He didn't know about his twin at the moment, normally he does, but Fred was in a hurry to get to his dorm and sleep, as he had no homework.

Everyday for these past four days, Fred has dreamed about [y/n]. Dreaming, thinking, pondering, it was all connected to them. Not a particular storyline, not at all, his dreams were more of the idea of a real-life physical them.

[y/n] in his jumper, [y/n] in Hogwarts robes, their hand in his under the table during dinner at the great hall, how they would say his name in any context. His thoughts were severely occupied with them and Fred was okay with that.

These ideas followed their way through the portrait hole, into the Gryffindor common room, and up the stairs to the boys dorm. 

He had yet to wash himself off after his long day, so Fred went off to the left side of the dorm to access his trunk at the end of his bed. He takes out a simple orange towel and closes the chest up. He then takes off his sweater vest only to place it on his bedspread.

Walking over to his bedside table, Fred decides to let [y/n] take a dip into his daydreams as he looks in his drawer for the photo of them.

No, thinks Fred. No, no, no, no, no, cascading words now fill Fred’s brain as he panics about the fact that his polaroid was missing.

The polaroid of [y/n] was now missing from Fred’s bedside table, confused as to how exactly he misplaced something so golden.

His whole dresser was obviously rummaged through. There were a few sickles missing along with an extra jar of ink and- his stash of Fizzing Whizzbees and Jelly Slugs. He genuinely frowned at the candy more than anything else, but then he remembered about the photo that was missing- stolen now.

Fred whipped his head back to see who was in the boys’ shared dorm, and the only person he saw was his twin chatting with a visiting fifth year student. 

Now completely turned, Fred walks to the front of his bed and pulls out his trunk, wondering if he had left it in there by accident, but it was no luck.

“George,” started Fred with his back to his twin.

George turned to his brother. 

“What is it, Fred?” He asked with confusion. He noticed the drawer hanging on by a thread off the rest of the table and decided to completely disregard his conversation at that point. “I’ll catch you later.” 

As the friend walks out of the boys’ dormitories, Fred begins to explain what had happened, hand motions waving around. They usually appear when there is something wrong.

“Someone rummaged through my stuff,” Fred motions to his dresser, “did you let anyone else come in here and mistake it for yours?” 

George looked at his twin with furrowed brows until his face lightened up a bit from the clarity. 

“Yeah, actually. Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff was in here and he asked me for some ink.”

“George, what the hell.” Fred was beyond confused as to what, first of all, Cedric Diggory, one of the Triwizard champions, was doing in the Gryffindor common room. Why he was needing ink in the middle of the day and why his drawer. “You let him go through it? Half of my items are missing.” Fred was furious at how irresponsible his brother was at the moment.

“He was desperate and I felt bad.” A simple response from a boy with little to no empathy when it came to using a twelve-year-old student as a lab rat for their inventions. A particular unnamed candy that is still a work in progress gave her severe diarrhea for weeks straight.

“George, he stole money, candy, and t- What is wrong with you?” He cut himself quick before he could expose [y/n] to his brother. He was mad at him and now was not the time to gush about them.

“It’s fine, we’ll talk to him tomorrow.” George laughs at his twin for being unmanageable, but Fred is unamused.

“Piss off.” Fred takes his towel and goes town to the bathrooms, bringing a change of clothes with him.

☾

Fred was a bit after hours for students, but he couldn't wait to get the bath located in the prefect's bathroom.

Yes, Fred had snuck in there, but that's because the boys’ dormitory bathroom was disgustingly filled with too many boys in one perimeter. So with this in mind, Fred knew exactly where to go to relax from the fuming that happened between himself and his brother.

Fred dropped his towel by the edge of the water and took off his shoes. Setting them neatly by the towel, he began to work on his shirt. He loosened his tie but not all the way so the loop in it would stay. He began to unbutton his shirt, hands working a bit slower than normal. He did not come here often, nor was he a prefect, so he took his time.

He looked up from his hands and Fred looked at the mermaid mural on the stained glass, thinking of [y/n], the beauty remarkable from either photo. Not that Fred was comparing physical features from the mermaid and from [y/n], he was rather just acknowledging how both were, to put it literally, breathtaking. 

The colors from it shaded his body in colors of pinks and blues, diluting a bit now that the white shirt was shrugged off his body. The color was not as vibrant now, but his light skin and freckles that were splattered all over his chest created a new palette of shades.

He dropped his shirt on top of his other items and he undid his belt, leaving it on the belt loops of his pants as he takes them off as well, folding them up unlike his shirt and dropping them on his pile of clothes. All he had left were his boxers, and they were soon added to the tower of items on his right side.

He stepped into the water while simultaneously checking for any other visitors. It was a bit late for that, though, considering that he was completely exposed at that point. 

The moonlight shone through the glass, some areas of the floor painted colors with the light. The water was flowing from a few taps and bubbles were flying everywhere. Fred shifted a bit from his old placement in the giant pool so his arms were now propped on the edge.

Now with the photo in the hands of a certain someone he considered a snake, even though they were in Hufflepuff, Fred needed to confront Cedric for not only his money, his candy, and his ink without consent, Fred needed to confront him about [y/n]. What kind of a freak just steals a photo? 

Oh, thought Fred. 

What if, somehow, Cedric gets a hold of [y/n]? Impossible, he reassured himself. Cedric doesn't even know their name. He knows nothing. He's a loathsome rat who steals money, candy, ink, and photos. 

Smiling to himself for coming up with that description, Fred quickly goes down the same road again.

What if, somehow, [y/n] likes him, instead? What if- His mind was filled with ‘what-ifs’ and ‘somehows’ that clouded his brain. Cedric shouldn't have been running through his mind regardless. There’s just no possibility where [y/n] would even meet him.

He was consumed with someone who did not know he existed Fred was jealous that someone else was in possession of that photograph.

The only way to eliminate Cedric was to get to [y/n] first, and he knew his plan from the moment he saw their photo.

He was going to catch his professor at the owlery in the castle, and sneak his own letter in there. This way, both parcels would miraculously be carried over the Atlantic ocean.

His professor wouldn't notice and hopefully [y/n] wouldn't be too freaked out.

The tap finished spewing water and the room went silent except for a few drips coming from one of the spouts. Fred estimated his time and decided to waste none of it, so he dunked his head underwater out of impulse and came back up with his hair sticking to his forehead. 

He needed to write.

☾

Fred was now back in his common room sitting on a couch with his parchment spread out over his legs and couch, and his wet hair slowly dripping on it, making the ink smear a bit. He had crumpled up at least five different drafts of a few sentences while sitting there.

He was wearing grey pants and a gryffindor jumper, keeping him warm on the first day of November. It was about one at night and he could hear his brother, Ron Weasley, snoring from the upstairs dorms.

He dug up a few polaroids he had taken with his brother at the beginning of the year to drop in the parcel. Fred had decided to make this out to his mother, Molly Weasley, hence the photos would have been for her. Molly wanted photos taken with their new camera and photos of their new brooms for Quidditch being put to use properlly.

Normally, Fred didn't really use muggle instruments, but he did have a shared camera with his twin, George. Luckily, a shop in Hogsmeade sold refills for it.

And they would have, Fred and George ended up taking photos of themselves during Quidditch practice, making sure to hide the camera from teachers and spectators so it wouldn't be taken away. Snape would make it his life goal to snatch it away from them when really it did no harm.  They took photos of their jerseys, the field, a few separates, a few with the team, and two separate ones of the twins. They were planning to give them to their mum, but these photos would be put to use differently.

It was a brilliant plan in his eyes. [y/n] would surely respond to his so-called mistake, right? Hopefully they would send a letter back, and maybe a few polaroids for himself to keep. It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Fred began his sixth attempt at writing out a letter to his own [y/n].

Mum,

We miss the burrow. And you and dad, of course. 

As promised, the photos. We think you’ll really enjoy these, since you probably miss our ravishing looks.

There’s not much to write about, mum. Ginny is okay, Ron is alright, and George is asleep somewhere right now. Otherwise, they would have scribbled something on here.

Fred

It was too short but he couldn’t think of anything else to write to his mum. She had written to Ginny a few days prior so he had given all viable information to Ginny’s response letter.

He reacted quickly to the water that dripped off his hair and snatched the parchment before it could bleed and combine with the ink. The script was perfect, absolutely incomparable to his other drafts.

Time moved fast and it was now two in the morning. Fred took his parchment and placed it neatly in the parcel. He took his stack of polaroids and placed them in the parcel.

Almost forgetting, Fred searched through the polaroids and found the two individual snapshots of the twins in their uniforms. Molly constantly mixed the two up when they wore their quidditch uniforms, always forgetting who was #5 and who was #6. Their own mother. It severely got worse every year.

From totally forgetting to absolutely forgetting, Fred forgot that this letter wasn’t even going to reach his mother. He had already marked up the photos though, that was just an afterthought.

He looked at the photo of himself and his twin standing in front of the center field, astonished as to how clear it was. He could see his features perfectly unlike the photo he previously had of [y/n] that was blurry but nonetheless readable.

Shoving the photos back into the parcel, he wrapped it up nicely and carefully wrote the address of the burrow on it.

His plan was slowly coming into action, and Fred was just excited to see it play out.

☾

Fred had ended up spilling everything to his twin the day he planned to sneak his letter along with McGonagall’s.

“So you have no clue who [y/n] is, and you’re providing photos of you and your friends to this person, might I add again, who you don’t know? Fred, this is ridiculous.” George was talking to his twin in the corridor right before the owlery as they were both waiting for the professor to return with a response letter. Fred had been holding onto the parcel for a few days now, and yesterday, he saw that familiar brown owl arrive again.

McGonagall greeted the owl mid-class and took the letter in hand to place it safely in her desk. The owl remained on the window perch for the rest of class.

Fred wasn’t able to see who sent it, but he knew that owl all too well to be mistaken for someone else owling his Professor.

Just as Fred was about to respond to his brothers snarky question, they heard footsteps down the hall and they began to walk up to the owlery.

They had decided to distract McGonagall with a familiar owl, Hedwig. Harry had been complaining how she had been squawking too much for normal. Harry wouldn’t mind, though, because he never had to know that his owl was involved in a hopelessly romantic ploy.

Fred and George were now in the owlery next to Hedwig, feeding her snacks they had brought for compensation. It was only fair to her that she got something in response. A few strange squawks escaped her beak.

“Good morning Mr. and Mr. Weasley. Are you writing someone?” McGonagall was an expert at knowing who was who just off the back of their heads. Granted, she could probably tell the two apart without them turning around. 

“Just paying a visit to Hedwig here, professor. We need to get going soon.” George glanced at Hedwig mid-sentence and gave the professor a small smile.

Their plan was failing terribly. McGonagall was getting her owl ready for the journey by winding the ribbon around its leg to hold the letter more in place. 

Normally, Fred and George would just place a note in Errol's beak, but since it was a longer distance they would have to find a way to tie it around the owls leg.

Luckily, Hedwig served as an amazing distraction as she began to choke and squawk on the snacks they were giving her. It was a time of crisis but the twins had to act fast.

McGonagall turned to the twins and quickly discarded her owl to help them. She pushed them aside and began to aid the choking owl, George began to laugh a at the visual of an owl choking, but quickly put it away as he got a scolding look from McGonagall, who was now shaking the owl. 

Fred used this distraction to run over and tie his letter to the owls leg, attaching his and his professors letter to the owl. The animal began to flap its wings, confused as to why an unknown ginger was picking at his feet, but Fred was too busy to yell at it.

By attaching his letter to McGonagall’s owl, Fred didn't need to get authorization from someone to send it. He also did not have to get it searched, as he was sneaking it through.

He turned to see George motioning him to hurry, laughing at the same time because his professor was still talking to the bird, trying to get it to stop choking. 

Fred was able to tie the letters successfully and shooed the owl quickly, noticing how the two letters weighed it him down a little, making Fred laugh too. He didn’y understand how he pulled it off, but he was happy it worked- somewhat. The owl was steadily flapping it’s wings but Fred could see that it wasn’t used to that type of weight on its feet.

He speed walked back to his professor who was oblivious as to what happened behind her back. The twins were wrong for laughing at the McGonagall who wanted to just help them deal with the animal cruelty they put on Hegwig, but it was a visual they would never forget. And truly, it was a little funny and dramatic.

Fred wondered again how the hell his absurd plan worked, but he was glad that he was able to send out the parcel, and avoid murdering his friends owl with food.

“There, girl. You’re alright. You spit out.” McGonagall consoled the owl by patting her head. She turned to the twins and scolded them for being so irresponsible with someone else's owl.

“Potter doesn’t know, does he?” She asked.

The two twins looked at eachother and ran off laughing, leaving McGonagall clueless to everything that just happened. 

Soon after that, Fred realized that he had just created the beginning of something new in his life. Something that he had yet to receive not in person, but rather in a form of a letter.

All he had left to do was look for that Brown owl.

[ddagent]

Any chance you could write more QueenBrienne and LCJaime snippets? Maybe including their children?

I sure can! 

A sharp cry pierced the air. 

“Congratulations, Your Grace, you have a baby girl.” 

Across the room, Brienne’s gaze caught his for a single moment. And then it turned to her – their – babe. The Maester placed the infant in Brienne’s arms, swaddled in Tarth blue cloth. Jaime wished he could step closer. He wished he could be there to envelop the woman he loved in his arms, who’d endured so much during her labour to bring their babe into the world. He wished he could see the colour of his daughter’s eyes; see whether she had his nose or Brienne’s ears. Instead, Lord Commander Lannister stood by the door. 

“She’s beautiful, Brienne.” Catelyn Stark did what Jaime could not. She touched the babe’s head, and pressed a light kiss to Brienne’s temple. “I will go tell my Uncle the good news.” 

The Maester and the midwives fussed around Brienne in the bed; the death of the Queen’s mother in childbirth had given them much concern. But Brienne was strong, and the Warrior and Maiden smiled down upon her. Jaime managed a smile as Catelyn passed; her hand patting his shoulder. 

“You can relax now, Ser. Your Queen is fine.” 

Jaime swallowed; nodding. “Childbirth is the one thing I cannot protect her from, my Lady.” 

“I understand. But she has done well, and now you have a new charge to protect.” 

“That I do.” 

He turned to the unnamed Princess in his beloved’s arms. Brienne tore herself away from her babe long enough to see him, to witness his barely concealed longing. She turned sharply towards the Maester. “I wish for a few moments alone with my daughter. Ser Jaime will stay by the door; he’ll call if anything is wrong.” 

The room emptied at her command. As the door to the Queen’s chambers closed shut, Jaime immediately closed the distance between himself and his family. He peeled off the tan jacket he wore, kicked off his boots, and joined Brienne on the bed. It would not be long before Lady Catelyn would return, and the Small Council would descend. Just long enough for them to be together, the three of them. 

Brienne sagged against him; Jaime’s fingers brushing damp strands away from her forehead. “You were incredible, Brienne.” 

“I’ve yet to endure a battle I have not won; this was just a different kind of battle.” Brienne turned to their daughter. “She looks like you. I’m glad for it.” 

“Really? Because I think she looks like you.” Jaime stared upon his daughter for the first time. She shared the sapphire blue eyes of her mother and grandfather; delicate strands of white-blonde hair. Her face ruddy; her fingers tiny.  “She’s perfect.” 

Brienne bobbed her head. “She is, isn’t she?”

Jaime’s gaze was stuck between staring adoringly at his baby girl and watching the woman he loved stare with utter joy at the physical proof of their love. He did not say so; knew Brienne would not believe him if he did. But, by the Gods, she looked so beautiful right now. Eyes alight, cheeks pink. Like when she sparred with him in the courtyard. When they’d first met, Jaime had thought her the Maiden. Over the months of their acquaintance, he had seen her as the Warrior. Now. she was the Mother. 

“What do you intend to name her?” Jaime asked, his fingers touching the hand of his newborn daughter. “The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, first of her name.” 

"I–I don’t know.” Brienne sighed. “Everyone thought I was carrying a boy.” 

Everyone did, from the Citadel to the smallfolk. Money had even been wagered on the name: Robert, Steffon, and Selwyn were all high contenders. Jaime had, personally, preferred Duncan if their child was a boy. No one had entertained the possibility she was to have a girl, even if the rules of succession had changed. 

Brienne looked at the doorway, a crease appearing on her forehead, before turning back to their daughter. Her fingertip brushed the soft line of their babe’s nose. Brienne’s nose. “Cat. We’ll call her Cat.” 

Jaime grinned, staring at his daughter. She stared back. “Hello, Cat. I’m your father.” 

His stomach clenched at the knowledge she would never remember those words; never remember this brief moment where they were a family. He swallowed, and smiled, and held his girls until the Maester knocked to announce his return. 

[gospelofsam]

OLYMPUS BOUND

OO1 . COUNCIL OF WAR

Zeus sat on his golden throne with pride, although a storm surged below him in his anger.

Flanking his right was his faithful, if not angry, sister-wife, the White-Armed Hera, her silken dress adorned with a cloak of green, blue, and purple peacock feathers. The Queen of the Heavens gripped her scepter tight in her soft hands. Her hair was well-kept, laying in a crown of braids atop her head.

To the Thunderhead’s left sat his second-in-command and brother, Poseidon, King of the Seven Seas. He bore blue tattoos in which depicted his undersea kingdom. In his hands was his trident, a mighty symbol of power forged from bronze and whalebone. The Earthshaker’s hair and stubble was sea green, his sides bearing a set of fish-like gills.

The Mountain King’s most adored son and daughter walked into the atrium, bowed, then took to their thrones awaiting council.

Phoebus Apollo, God of the Sun and Patron of the Arts, golden haired and dressed in a golden tunic, thrummed the strings of his lyre, filling the room with the sound of his sweet music.

Pallas Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy of War, wore a long blue dress reinforced with pieces of silver armor and a helmet decorated with a plume of blue horsehair. Her eyes were a striking gray, her skin fair, her hair as black as the midnight sky. The owl that had perched itself on her shielded arm bore feathers the color of rainclouds.

“Where are the others, your Highness?” Athena asked, tucking her helmet in the crook of her arm.

“They will be here soon enough. My bastards arrive now,” Zeus gestured to the Warrior and the Blacksmith. Ares Enyalios, God of War and Murder, glowed with the bloody red of his fallen enemies, a spear in one hand.

Ares said nothing to Zeus, not even looking in his direction, but he did march to his mother Hera. He planted a kiss to her cheek, then asked, “Why have I been called, your Majesty?” One couldn’t even glimpse his face through the darkness of his iron helmet with a crest of fire, although they could lay witness to the horror of his exposed body. He was without skin, showing only pink and red muscle, sinews and tendons underneath his armor.

Hephaestus, on the other hand, wasn’t as large or as strong as his brother. He was lame, his left leg shriveled like a sun-dried worm. He made up for this, though, with his industrial intuition. He burned with an orange light and used his black sledgehammer as a crutch. He, too, walked to his lone parent asking, “Where is my beloved, your Grace?”

“I’m here, you pig,” Aphrodite walked into the room followed by Hermes, the Messenger, and Artemis, the huntress and twin sister to Phoebus Apollo. Any mortal would see their wildest desires come to life in the Goddess of Love, but Aphrodite put on a specific appearance for the Olympian Council. She was fair skinned with flowing ginger hair. While the Huntress and the Messenger took to their respective thrones, Aphrodite stalked to her love Ares, running her perfectly manicured hands down the length of his body. Hephaestus ignored his wife’s infidelity, as he still loved her with all of his heart. “Is there a reason to why I’ve been evicted from my lovers, your Bitchiness?”

“You will cease your perversions, Patron of Prostitutes.” Zeus commanded, slamming his lightning down onto the marble floor. “My love,” Zeus pointed to Hera with the bolt, “The floor is yours.”

Hera rose from her throne and tapped her lotus-tipped scepter on the oval floor, creating a window of magic upon the grounds surrounding Mount Olympus. “The Titans have returned. They have broken free from their prisons and are declaring war on the Greek Pantheon. My messenger, Iris, has informed me that they have gained both the trust and support of the Hecatoncheires.”

“How many are still alive after billions of years in Tartarus?” Ares asked as he sat Aphrodite in his lap, her soft hands continuing to trace the swirls and slivers of his flesh.

“Enough to storm Olympus and burn it to the ground.” Poseidon solemnly answered.

“I see,” Ares picked up his spear and paced the length of the room, the fire of his helmet leaving behind a trail of embers. “And what of us? What say you? Are the Olympians fighting alone or are we fighting the Titans at are full ranks?” As Ares paced, his bronze armor changed and shifted. He remained skinless but was now armored in many plates of SWAT gear. His spear had been replaced with an assault rifle adorned with a grenade launcher, and at his side was a large assortment of explosives.

The waves of the sea stirred with Poseidon’s mind. “We can all fight for a millennia if we must, but it will hardly be enough. The Moirai, who will be fighting in their own ways, have glimpsed into the future. They have told my brother, your father, what will happen after this war.”

Zeus held his head high, “We will all perish. You will die, as will Atlas. Aphrodite will fall, as will Mnemosyne. And I will die, as will Kronos.”

Ares returned to his throne. “I see…” He now saw a young woman singing of war and destruction for a crowd of rejects. “This prophecy, as cruel as it might be, doesn’t need to entail our downfall. Yes, we will die, but the universe must be kept in balance on our end.”

Athena, who had remained silent the entirety of the meeting, strode to her half-brother’s side. “What I believe Ares is trying to make clear is that our Pantheon must go on. As much as I dislike agreeing with him, I believe replacements, successors, are in order.”

“We will hold the line, and Olympus will prevail!” Ares, in all his glory, stood in his iron fortress on the edge of Mount Olympus, his soldiers ever ready.

Hermes watched over the confounds of Olympus, his winged sandals fluttering to keep him upright. He called down to his Zeus, his father, “We need a contingency!”

Zeus nodded, then wore a gray business suit. The King of the Heavens now stood on a beach, where children were being taught how to surf along the waves. As he walked, his thundery hair and lighting filled eyes crackled with solemn determination. He conjured his bolt of lightning, a column of crackling copper, silver, and gold coiled around each other.

He paid no mind to the surfing children, instead focusing his attention solely on their instructor. She was young, no more than fifteen, with midnight black hair. Her arms were decorated in Polynesian tattoos. She had an inquisitive mind, one that wanted to command. A mind that wanted to rule. She was happily clapping, cheering on one of the young ones for managing to surf along a sizeable wave.

Despite her protests, the God King pulled her away from the site, placing the bolt between her hands once they were away from prying eyes. In that instant, Audra fell to her knees in agony. Her hands burned as glowing gray lightning bolts branded themselves into her palms. “Do me proud, Audra Noelani.”

#

Artemis walked through the tents as the soldiers of the Northern Union recovered themselves. Apollo walked beside his sister as they weaved in between the man-made covers. It was then that they saw them.

One of the children bore long, wispy black hair and gray eyes, while her cousin has golden brown eyes and blond locks. Artemis and Apollo, Twin Gods of the Sun and Moon, took aim with their golden and silver bows, releasing them with pride and determination. As the arrow pierced Charlotte’s shoulder, a crescent moon burning itself into her pale skin, Artemis knelt before her and said, “Come now, little one, you’re safe now.”

Charlotte, now glowing with a faint silver light, scurried to her younger cousin’s side as his scream pierced the air. A sigil replicating the sun itself etched into his Adam’s apple. The Golden Archer knelt before the crying boy, offering a smile and a smaller bow constructed of gold and cherry wood. As Gabriel took the bow and quiver with shaky, hesitant hands, Apollo said, “ Don’t be scared now. You’re alright, I’m here now.”

With a flash of pure light, the twin gods and the two children disappeared, leaving behind a grieving, frantic mother and aunt and a legacy shrouded in mystery. The Missing Children of Hue would be what remained of Charlotte May-Reiner and Gabriel LeBeau.

#

Hephaestus rolled through the humble, family owned mechanics shop, his electric wheelchair humming as he went. His brown pinstripe looked out of place amongst the haphazardly arranged equipment and oil stained aprons. The Blacksmith at last ventured towards the back of the shop, where a paraplegic boy with shaggy red hair and lanky body tinkered with pieces of what was probably a larger project.

Hephaestus’ hands conjured a flame, eliciting a flow of lava to pour out of the seams of the storage room. The walls surrounding the boy burned, though no one but he could see them. Hephaestus retrieved his massive sledgehammer from the embers, then rolled over to the boy, who was justifiably frightened. The god struck the boy in his kneecaps, the blows burning into the shape of orange anvils. The child, no more than twelve, bellowed in pain, tears pricking his eyes. Hephaestus steadied the boy, taking the metal pieces he’d been tinkering with previously and reworked them, changing them into a swan much too delicate to have been crafted by the Blacksmith’s large hands. The swan fluttered around the boy’s head, momentarily distracting him from his pain.

“We have much to do, young one,” The Lame God said. “Come now.” The boy snapped his head towards the Blacksmith, nodding despite his hesitance.

#

Ares, wearing a full set of riot armor, leaning against the balcony of the underground club where punks and rejects and society outcasts gathered to socialize. On the stage, illuminated by red, black and white lights, was a band which went unnamed, as their reputation spoke for them. His fiery gaze shifted to their lead vocalist, a rather tall Latina with short, choppy brown hair. She had the build of someone who had played sports as a child, or, in the god’s perspective, one fit for a warrior. A crow, as if on cue, perched on her shoulder.

The God of War drew his long, razor sharp spear and then took aim. “You’ll make a perfect champion.” Ares threw the now glowing spear at the girl, her collarbone now burning as a red boar’s head took its place where the wound should have been. Aloisa laughed at the pain, proceeding to draw her pocketknife and lunge at her guitarist.

#

Athena wore a simple linen gown, though it was adorned with identifying plates of Athenian armor. She studied the scrolls strewn across the villa floor, her face as stone cold as it had been during the Council meeting. Most depicted machines that could never possibly work, others were just the ramblings of a madman. She set one of the scrolls onto the mahogany table, casting her gaze over to the boy who stood idle in the doorway. He was twelve, maybe older, with hair so blonde that it was nearly white. His eyes were a striking, glassy silver hue.

Before he could speak and alert anyone that might have been lingering outside, Athena took a paintbrush from a cup that littered the table and broke the art supply into two jagged halves.

The boy stared at the Goddess of Wisdom with wide eyes, the papers he’d been holding crashing to the stone floor. She approached him carefully, a rare smile on her wise face. Kneeling down to the child’s height, Athena used the broken end of the brush to carve an owl into the side of his neck. The young one seethed in pain, nails digging into his pale palms. The owl pulsed with a light the same silver as his eyes.

“I have so much planned for you, Cato,” Pallas Athena sighed, raising to her full height. “You will be the wisest of us.” She took his hand in her own, leading Cato away from the life  and the people that had forsaken him so.

[howsmyhairlook]

Texts From Last Night Writing Prompt:

•Brand hosted events. When a baby influencer gets the invite to their first ever event, with all the swag and monogrammed gifts, that was when you knew your clout was climbing in the right direction. All those over-staged flat lays and maintaining the grid aesthetic had finally proven worth the effort.

My first brand hosted event was in NYC. I’d been invited to a few, but I still had some dignity, and took my desire to be a well respected influencer seriously, and so I had declined the ones that simply didn’t make sense for what I was trying to accomplish with my account. I was no sell out, Mr. Mhmm was not an easy buy bitch willing to promote shit I didn’t actually like. Flat tummy tea? Pfft. Hair gummies? Please. My locks were natural and salon maintained like they should be. I didn’t mess with the work of my stylist. He’d cut my ears off if I did.

I knew holding out on accepting events that didn’t necessarily match my vibe would delay the instant gratification everyone craved, but I actually wanted to stay true to what I had been building. It was a slow process and one that wasn’t without blood, sweat (ew) and a few tears. So when an up and coming clothing brand, owned by someone who was out and proudly queer invited me to a fashion show during Pride, I RSVP’d faster than I could deny the squeal of delight upon reading their email.

Attending an event like this was not just a fun weekend away, it was also work. Having my flight, hotel and of course all the food and drinks when I attended their events paid for wasn’t exactly “free”, I was expected to in return post no less than twenty stories highlighting the goings on through the weekend. At the time, I thought it was an easy price to pay. My insta was going to be a three day weekend promo. I had it all planned out, I’d be the best attendee they had ever extended an invite to.

The night was going perfectly. The food was delicious, drinks were flowing, and the first of three fashion shows scheduled for the weekend had me doing multiple double takes in the best possible way. I made sure to snap a photo of each piece I loved and gushed appropriately about it on my feed. My followers were loving it, and the brand had shared my stories on their stories. It felt like the perfect execution of how an influencer and a brand could collaborate together.

The second night was an early evening show that delved into menswear and BOY was I feeling it. This particular fashion show had the models mingling among the crowd allowing everyone to get a more up close look at the clothing. Let’s be honest, though, the man candy was where my eyes were landing. And, because I’m me, I dressed to impress.

Once or twice I was confused for being part of the show. It was quite the ego boost. Not to mention a compliment to the designer that my vintage Gucci suit jacket fit into the vibe well enough to have me being confused for a model. The only difference was that instead of wearing any kind of slacks like the models had on, I was wearing tailored shorts to show off my argyle socks which were being held up by leather garters. I never skipped an opportunity to show off such an underrated accessory.

I also didn’t skip an opportunity to enjoy the free drinks each time one of the waitstaff would pass by with a tray. Selfies were being taken, numbers were given out. People were telling others to slide into their DMs. I’d given my number to more than a handful of people I’d had conversations with. It was exactly as you’d imagine a gathering of tipsy people might progress.

When the evening seemed to be winding down and the room had thinned out, I decided it was time to head back to my suite for the night, grateful the fashion show had been held in the same hotel the brand had booked my room. As I waited for the elevator to arrive, my phone, which had been buzzing most of the night buzzed again, only this time, it vibrated in my pocket to indicate I’d received a text from an unknown number.

Swiping it open with my thumb I smiled upon reading the words.•

(870) It was great chatting with you tonight. Too bad you decided to leave…

•I’d spoken with so many people this evening, and given my number out to the majority of them, I had no idea who was on the other side. My response was a polite thank you before asking who it was. The speech bubble popped up, then disappeared for a couple of seconds before another text came through.•

(870) Also, wanted to tell you, I really liked those socks you were wearing.

•An odd compliment but I was happy to take it because I loved my socks. Then, another text came before I could reply to the still nameless person.•

(870) There’s something sensual about taking off a pair of socks.

•Um.

What?

The elevator had arrived but I ignored it, instead turning around and looking throughout the lobby to see if anyone had followed me. I wasn’t lucky enough to find my mystery texter giving me the obvious sock lover vibes so I replied again to ask who it was. Instead of an answer, another text came through.•

(870) A bunch of us have headed to the club down the road, you should join. I’ll tell you who I am if you show.

•I hesitated, but not for very long. The mystery was too much, I HAD to know. My reply was quick, telling them I was on my way. I kept my eyes on my phone as I made my way through the hotel lobby, but my unnamed texter left me on read. Tempting me even further to get there as quickly as I could. I didn’t even know the gender of the person I was going to meet, not that it mattered to me.

Maybe I was being foolish going out on my own to meet some person at a club in a city I didn’t really know that well, but my fearlessness was fuelled by alcohol and I’d most likely realize the error in judgement in the morning. For now, I was hailing a cab to take me a mere couple of blocks just so I could meet this person sooner, walking would only delay the reveal of what I was anticipating to be an Ah Ha moment. Any amount of patience I normally possessed had vacated my faculties quicker than my followers had liked my posts from the show earlier in the evening.

My arrival at the club was anti-climatic.

Nobody was waiting outside for me. Rude. Then again, I wasn’t some Pretty in Pink girl who was coming of age, I was a grown ass man following the request of a semi-weird text just to learn who the sender was. For the record, though, I could totally rock the colour pink, if I wanted. I wasn’t biased when it came to colours I’d wear.

By some kind of luck. No, actually, it was by the grace of New York clubbing standards, it was still early despite the actual time, and there was no line to get in. I found myself taking in the atmosphere and sounds while eyeballing every group of people I passed on my way to the bar, staring a little too hard at their faces, hoping one might strike as familiar. They didn’t.

I placed my request for a drink with the bartender, my buzz was fading and with it, my gusto to see this through. His smile was easy and friendly as he spoke.• “One Last Word for the dapper dresser.”

•He winked and I slid him some cash with one hand while the other lifted the glass so I could down the entire drink in a couple of gulps. The gin flowed effortlessly down my throat, and I tapped my fingers on the bartop, trying to decide if I wanted a second. As I was deciding, a deep raspy voice sounded from behind me.• “I’ll take a Pussyfoot, please and another here for Mr. Mhmm.”

•I froze. His voice. Oh my Gucci. My body had a visceral reaction to it as I felt the rumble along with the sound of it. I wanted to hear more, I didn’t even care that he had ordered the strangest sounding drink I’d ever heard. He moved to stand next to me, and I turned to get a look at who I assumed was my mystery texter.

He had been at the event earlier in the night, and we had spoken, though I didn’t recall giving him my number. My eyes scanned over his body and I could feel them growing wider the further they travelled. Long gone was his suit and tie. He’d made a costume change, and was now in full leather gear. Where his hair had been artfully tousled, it was now slicked back. More than all of that, which was QUITE the sight to behold on its own, from the lines at the corners of his eyes and between his brows, I realized he was at least twenty-five years older than me. He chuckled deeply at my reaction and didn’t that sound just hit me right in the groin. I shifted from foot to foot, trying to shake off the reaction my body was having. It didn’t work.

I was TRULY speechless and this leather daddy was letting me suffer. He said nothing until our drinks had been made and delivered. I wanted to ask what was in his, but I was pretty sure I’d caught a glimpse of an egg yolk being dropped into his glass so I took my own and swallowed half before I could get my tongue to form proper words.•

I don’t remember giving you my number. Also, thank you for the drink. How did you get it?

•He grinned at my jumbled thoughts but seemed to make perfect sense of what I was trying to say. He took his time sipping at his drink before speaking, and I got the distinct impression he enjoyed making others squirm. The silence was killer but I resisted the urge to fill the space, willing to wait to hear his voice again. He didn’t disappoint.• “You’re welcome. A friend of mine passed your number on to me after I wouldn’t shut up about your garters.”

•The reminder of my beloved accessory had me looking down at them, and I laughed as I realized they were leather, no wonder he liked them so much.• Oh yes. Nobody likes slouchy socks, right?

•I snapped my mouth closed when his grin turned slow and lecherous. I’d said his magic words, apparently, and most likely reminded him of his text about how sensual sock removal could be. I held my breath waiting again for him to deem enough time had passed before he was ready to speak some more.• “I prefer them to be pulled as high as they can go so I can take my time removing them.”

•Yep. Definitely my mystery texter. But now what?!• What do you want with me? What’s your name? Do you have some kind of sock fetish? I’m not judging if you do, honest. I just can’t seem to shut my mouth up, this kind of thing has never happened to me.

•Instead of answering my twenty questions, he nudged my drink closer to me, picking up his own and then stepped away from the bar. When I grabbed the glass, he nodded his head for me to follow. OF COURSE, I was hot on his heels. I wanted all the answers. For how much he had no problem doing all the speaking during the text exchange, he was unsettlingly silent.

And yet, I followed him all the way to a curtained off area that was entirely private. There was a small table that sat low to the floor in front of a leather sofa. He sat down first, the leather of his pants creaking against the sofa. Then, he placed his drink on the table before tapping the spot beside him. I moved to sit, leaving some space between us. He grinned, not seeming to mind that I hadn’t landed my ass right where his hand had indicated I should be. Once I was seated did he decide to speak, answering only the questions he wanted to.•

“My name is Charles. You can call me Charlie. Or Daddy if you prefer.” •He winked at me before allowing his eyes to sweep over my body the way I had done to him at the bar. His eyes stayed on my socks as he continued.• “I really do love your socks. Can I see them closer?”

•My head tilted in confusion, first because I was not the type of person to call anyone daddy regardless of my wide open sexuality. Second because I was not really sure how much closer he wanted my socks to get when we were already only a couple of feet apart. He took my silence as hesitation and reached down to grab one of my feet, putting it in his lap and holding it there until he was certain I wasn’t going to pull my foot away.

Charlie began to run his hand up my shin, his fingers were light and gentle, tracing over the different coloured shapes. When he got to the top of the sock, his index finger dipped below the elastic, pulling it away from my skin and allowing it to lightly snap against my leg. Such an innocent act felt obscene and dirty.

I didn’t know whether or not I was turned on or off. I did know I wanted to see where he was going with this. Next his fingers moved to the garter at the top of my calf, he traced over it the same way he did my sock. Taking his time, studying the details. I took his low grunt as approval. I knew the leather was soft and supple, not to mention high quality and by the sound he had made, he knew it, too.

His other hand had moved to the lace on my shoe, pulling the bow loose and grabbing ahold of the heel to slip my shoe off completely. I thought maybe I might be getting lucky with a foot rub...

I was wrong.

SO very, very wrong.

I found myself full of shock when he leaned forward and put his mouth on my foot. Not a kiss, or anything sweet and simple, but completely wrapped his lips around my toes and filled his mouth with my foot. I felt his tongue through my sock trying to push between my toes, the fabric growing wet with his efforts. He moaned around my foot and I felt the vibrations all the way across my sole.

That was the moment I decided any chances of being turned on were long gone. Not even alcohol could help me be okay with this. I was not into this the way Charlie very clearly was. I pulled my foot back and sputtered as I shook my head.• Nope. No way. No. I’m sorry but no matter how hot you are, and how much my dick loves the sound of your voice, can I get on board with toe sucking.

•I stood, and stepped backward, abandoning my unfinished drink. He seemed to be expecting my reaction and I watched in horror as he grabbed my shoe and began to smell the inside of it. That definitively answered the fetish question he had ignored.

If anyone noticed I was all but running to the exit, they didn’t say anything, thankfully. I probably could have walked at a normal speed but I was not looking to find myself a new hook up or have any more drinks, and I certainly was not going to wait around for Charlie to finish enjoying himself with my shoe. Absolutely not.

As I settled into the cab, and gave the name of my hotel to the driver, I decided the separation of such an amazing pair of shoes was worth the loss just to bring the entire foot blowjob experience to an end. This was what I deserved for attempting to mix a working weekend with someone else’s pleasure. With a relieved sigh, I resigned myself that next time I received a mystery text, I was going to ignore it the way I had ignored all the signs Charlie had been giving me to indicate he had a foot fetish.•

[hwaryungrp]

SPOTTED! HAN BOMI . 22.

Looks like they’ve been wandering around Hwaryung! You can find them living at JEONGNYEON STUDIO APARTMENT #605 or if they’re not home they’re probably working at AURA AS A STYLIST/MAKEUP ARTIST. If you can’t find them offline, feel free to message them @beaumi.

BIOGRAPHY

ACT 1 : it is a tale told by an idiot

EXT. HAN FAMILY HOME The exterior is a pristine pearly white ; an obviously fairly recent development in a quiet & affluent neighborhood. It sits between two other homes, cramped but spacious enough to draw a clear line between them. One window on the bottom floor shines vibrantly in the slowly dimming darkness of the creeping night. It radiates a warmth that melts the newly fallen snow sitting on the windowsill.

INT. LIVING ROOM Like the exterior, the inside walls are white (though one could refer to it as eggshell). They are lined with family photos of a smiling father and his cherished only daughter & framed movie posters from the father’s former (failed) career. Perhaps it could be the reason as to why the images of his wife are nonexistent ; save for a realistic painting of her as a warrior on one of the posters tucked into a corner.

The plush leather couches groan underneath the weight of those gathered. In the laps of the women are their luxurious brand name coats ; used as makeshift blankets for their barely covered legs despite it being winter. Beside them are who seem to be their husbands. One of the men sits alone in a recliner, but his posture appears too regal to kick up his feet & take full advantage of the comfort. He is aged ; donning an all black suit & flashy accessories as signifiers of his wealth. From what could perhaps be deduced from the jeweled ring on the knuckle of his scarred middle finger & the hardened lines of inner war creased on his face. In his other hand, he gently holds a crayon drawing of stick figures eating ice cream labeled : BOMI & GRANDPA.

All are staring towards the center of the room where a play by their children. They surround a cauldron, stirring invisible brew for their own rendition of a Shakespearean play. The living room suddenly dims & from the corner one child shines a flashlight toward one of the girls dressed as a witch. Her long black hair billows from her robes & she stands with a gasp.

BOMI The girl raises her hands to remove the hood of her cloak. “By the pricking of my thumbs ; something wicked this way comes! Open, locks ; whoever knocks!”

LITTLE BOY She bursts through a cardboard door. “How, now, you secret, black, & midnight hags!”

BOMI “Well, that’s none of your business!”

LITTLE GIRL Raises from her spot. “Hey, that’s not how the line goes!”

ACT 2 : the unexpected virtue of ignorance

INT. JEONGNYEON STUDIO APARTMENTS, HAN BOMI’S RESIDENCE.

Light pours in through pulled back curtains. The sun’s rays appear to target the lump on the bed beside the window. Then, a loud blaring - muffled - emerges. A pair of hands burst through the bundle of sheets like the recreation of rebirth. First, the familiar hollows of long black hair & then the visage of a girl having just woken up. She crawls off the side of her bed to retrieve the alarm clock underneath, turns it off, & then tosses it back to its respective location.

Her living arrangement could be described as an organized mess. On the floor are unfinished scripts & storyboards, sloppy sketches of men and women in high fashion clothes alongside old copies of magazines like Vogue & Bazaar ; namely from decades ago. Clothing gets none of the same treatment & is stored in the small closet by the color.

Her phone is ringing, ringing. Missed notifications line her screen to the brim from various sources. Once the call from an unnamed number falls through into voicemail, she scrolls until an important line of text appears. Or one she deems important enough to pause for.

She raises her head to look at the words scribbled on the whiteboard hung on her wall tucked between movie posters kept up by colorful thumbtacks.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?

BOMI “I did.”

And what did you want?

BOMI “To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on this earth.”

ACT 3 : burn the witch

INT. AURA FASHION HEADQUARTERS

The sound of six-inch heels against marbled flooring echoes within the entrance of the building. Each step is in time to the music playing in her head. The clicking turns heads in the owner’s direction. The young woman is dressed fashionably from head to toe as per the profession she was recently hired on for. Her wide eyes & gaping pink couplets are evidence enough she has never been inside the building before. Its modern, sleek architecture inside & out.

Other people will glare ever so slightly with the blatan rumor of her solidifying her hiring with nepotism, not to her knowledge. Some will greet with genuineness because people deserve a chance. It shows in Bomi’s confident step she is naive to the eyes on her. A rookie mistake, perhaps, or she knows exactly what she is doing. The smile she wears is to convince them she does. Even as she nearly trips over her own feet while striding up to the vending machine.

They decide whether or not that the devil indeed does wear Prada ; & she will insist that : no - these shoes are Jimmy Choos. Paid for with her father’s money, but she will insist it’s perfectly valid with a tap of her finger.

PERSONALITY

( + ) outgoing, creative, independent  ( - ) stubborn, talkative, perfectionist