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missmungoe · 3 years

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So I'm very very soft for parental Makino and Shanks and recently heard the songs Sleepsong and Song of the Sea which made me wonder if you had any particular song in mind that they'd sing their kids to sleep with? I may also be extremely ridiculously soft for their kids (all of them even the honorary ones)

Oh these are both lovely!! ‘Song of the Sea’ is a favourite of mine, perhaps unsurprisingly (and I may have a little fic in mind for the selkie-verse with Makino and Shanks and their seal-babies). I don’t have a specific song in mind for my stories, I just imagine they sing a lot to their kids, but thinking about this ask inspired this soft, silly thing, so...

pirate lullabies

He’d claimed once, wholly serious although with a twinkle in his eyes, that his singing voice had been deemed so dangerous by the World Government, it had been outlawed in several countries. Among the many outrageous tales he’d told her over the years, it was the only one Makino had no trouble believing.

She was working when the song reached her through the floorboards, carried to her first by the rhythm of their boots, before she picked out his voice, the deep timbre with the raw, laughing lilt that needed no instruments to accompany it, and that probably warranted its reputation, given how many times it had stolen away her good sense, her hair tousled and her laughter faint as he spun her, the polished bar-top under her feet a canting deck: a unique kind of magic he had that could transform even the most ordinary things, gentle-natured barmaids included.

She followed it now, up from the cellar where the casks were stacked floor to ceiling, ageing apple wine and whiskey, the spellbinding sound taking shape into a melody she knew as she hoisted herself up the ladder, although had to pause just to check that she’d heard right, but―no, it was the one she thought, down to the rough, stirring pitch of his voice as he performed it.

Her startled blush recalled the last occasion he’d belted out this particular shanty in her presence, but then he’d been naked at the time, a private rendition she still couldn’t think about with a straight face, which begged the slightly shrill but laughing question now―

“What are you singing to our children?”

It saw him turning around, mid-performance, but he took the interruption in stride, at ease at the centre of attention, the common room of their bar full and every pair of eyes trained on him where he stood, their youngest in her sling across his back and their three-year old on his arm. The former refused to go to sleep without her sister, who could never be compelled to sit still long enough to fall asleep; an alliance that had necessitated some creative strategising. A tiny Scylla and Charybdis, and most captains would have steered clear of the challenge altogether. This one had set his course right through the strait.

“You know this one,” Shanks said, his innocent grin as though she’d asked out of ignorance. “You were the one who taught it to me.”

“One hell of a performance, too,” Yasopp supplied, to loud hoots of approval, their tankards raised to her, frothing at the rim with their latest batch from the brewery. Makino accepted the praise with demure dignity, as Yasopp added, “You nearly fell off the bar. Good thing Boss was there to catch you.”

“He’s the reason I was up there in the first place,” Makino parried primly, and with a pointed glance at the culprit, who didn’t look the least bit chagrined. “I’m just relieved you opted out of the acrobatics this time. You’re not as limber as you used to be.”

“Do you know what ‘savage’ means, swallow?” Shanks asked their three-year-old, who repeated the word, if not exactly with the correct pronunciation, but her father’s adoring grin promised many more attempts.

Turning the grin on Makino, a glint of familiar challenge in his eyes where they curved at the corners, “I’d make you eat those words if I wasn’t carrying precious cargo. Or I could always prove you wrong later, if you’ll join me for an encore. Show you just how limber I am.”

“No cartwheels!” called a voice from the back, to laughing agreement. Shanks stuck his tongue out; the girl on his arm responded in turn, to his delight.

Walking up to where he was standing at the centre of the room, Makino tucked an errant lock back into their daughter’s kerchief, sleek and dark as a swallow’s wing; the only one in their brood whose colouring was like her own. A gentle touch to their youngest’s head saw her looking up, snug in her sling, her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

“What happened to putting them to bed?” she asked, a teasing tug adjusting his shirt where the sling had pulled the open front even wider than usual, her fingers smoothing through the hair climbing up his chest. Father of three, but some things hadn’t changed. Not that she was complaining.

“What did it look like I was doing?” Shanks asked, with a grin that said her distraction hadn’t missed him, the cheeky flex of a pectoral catching her in the act, but instead of pulling her hand away, Makino only flattened her palm over the hard expanse.

“From where I was standing? Teaching entirely inappropriate bedtime songs to impressionable little ears.” The ones belonging to the girl on his arm missed nothing, to Makino’s continued horror.

“Oh that? Don’t worry,” Shanks said, his wide mouth stretched in a roguish smile she was tempted to remind him was usually cause to do just that. “I censored it.”

Before she could ask if she even wanted to know what he meant by that, a tiny hand gave an impatient tug at his shirt. “Sing about the rusty sailor!”

Brows arching gently with her smile, “Rusty?” Makino asked, as Shanks pressed a sloppy, bearded kiss to a soft little cheek, eliciting an infectious giggle.

The last time she’d seen that grin, he’d had her thighs over his ears. “What?” Shanks asked, his eyes unsheathed steel. “Certain skills need maintenance, to leave all parties satisfied.”

“It’s just hard to imagine he’d ever get that designation, with his infamous appetite,” Makino mused.

“He has a big rock!” their daughter announced.

From the crowded room, a startled cough sounded, from one of the hundred accomplices to this creative rewriting. In the corner of her eye, Ben’s smile curled around his toothpick.

“Oh does he?” Makino asked her, giving a playful tug at her little kerchief, the fawn-like freckles across the tiny bridge of her nose wrinkling with her giggles, before sharing a look with the man who’d given her that laugh, and while she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, “And what exactly does the rusty sailor do with his big rock?”

Shanks grinned, all pride, as their daughter declared, “He sticks it in the hole!”

Her hand flew to cover her startled grin, as several laughs were smothered unsuccessfully, but, “Not the back one,” Shanks assured her, his grin so wide now, she wondered if that wasn’t what warranted censoring. “At least not without asking first.”

“Classy guy,” Makino murmured, and when he wagged his brows, promptly failed to keep a straight face, to the delight of the room.

His eyes danced, the warm look in them compelling the words from her mouth, “So what else does the song say about this rusty sailor?”

A look was exchanged with the girl on his arm, that cheeky little grin his own legacy, and unsuccessfully supporting his claim to innocence, before Shanks said, “That he can usually be found face-up under a tavern bench?”

A round of hollering toasts rose to punctuate the line, the last of a filthy refrain, before he picked it up from the top, his voice raised as he sang to their daughter on her perch:

“Under skirts and petticoats, he’s never hard to ask, a wink and a slap and he’s ready to go, rising to every task. You’ll find him with the portside boars, he knows them all by name, and if he’s got no coin to spend, he’ll charm them all the same. And at the local tavern, well, he’s known to every lass, and every time he visits there, he hopes he’ll get some―”

“GRASS!” shouted a voice from across the room, to hiccuping laughter from the crowd and a bow of approval from the captain, and the loud delight of the girl on his arm, clutching his shirt as he spun her.

“―and if you’re looking for him, know that this is where he’ll be: a sailor with a thirst to quench, you’ll find him on his back beneath a squatting tavern bench!”

This tavern bench was having a hard time maintaining an appropriately chastising expression, hearing the shrieking laughter of the girl on his arm as Shanks spun her, dancing to the song they’d spurred to life like a storm, and with nothing but the rhythm of their boots on the planks. And she might have reminded them that the goal was to get their daughters to sleep, but their children were used to the noise, had all three learned to fall asleep to the sounds of their bar, tucked in their crates, between the shelves of the pantry and the kegs behind the counter, and in the crooks of a hundred arms, coaxed by the wordless lullabies of creaking floorboards and the clink of glasses, ale tapped into tankards and bottles uncorked invoking the sea rushing across the deck and pistols firing, and the muted chatter of a retired crew of pirates that was as effective as any bedtime story, for hungry little ears.

And of course, the songs they’d learned while still in her belly, sung under her breath as she worked, or with his cheek to the swollen curve, his voice reverberating through her, the words pressed with bearded kisses to the movements beneath her skin, as though responding to the sound. They’d known his voice before anything else in this world; had known the songs before they could speak the words, the many in his vast repertoire from a long life at sea, and he’d brought it ashore, to her deck that remained steady underfoot but that didn’t need more than his voice transform to something else; a wild storm brewing and warships on the horizon, and a daring captain at the helm.

He caught her gaze now, a familiar grin flashed like the bare edge of a blade, offering a duel, and it had been a while since he’d proffered his actual sword, his one arm occupied but no regret in the exchange, but Makino answered him as she would with steel, their eyes tethered and her voice raised to join his, her gentler cadence claiming its due amidst the rougher timbres filling their bar:

“And if you’re looking for him, know that this is where he’ll be: a sailor with a thirst to quench, you’ll find him on his back beneath a squatting tavern bench!”

Roaring applause shook the rafters, sending the bottles on their shelves chiming, the kind that would have made her shrink back once, but she’d learned to claim more than just her due, and accepted it now, and the tender look regarding her from over their daughter’s head, and when he bent down to kiss the top of hers, the rough promise kissed into the skin below her ear was uncensored, and had her laughter flinging out, loud and startled.

The noise settled down, their voices taking on a softer pitch, like the sea after a storm, but then this was a familiar routine, performed many times with each of their children, the oldest of whom had claimed the armchair by the hearth, a book in his lap and his father’s cloak around him, and sound asleep, for all his bold claims that he didn’t need a bedtime.

“That’s three out of three,” Shanks said, drawing her eyes back from Ace. His voice was pitched low, to not disturb the girl on his arm, her head tucked against his throat, one small hand still gripping his shirt where she’d nodded off. The one on his back was following suit, her fingers in her mouth and her lashes kissing her soft cheeks. “Questionable methods aside, you’ve got to admit it’s effective.”

Smiling, Makino helped relieve him of the sling, the girl within reaching for her sleepily, a soft breath sighed against her throat as she pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smoothing her fingers over the red down of her hair.

Meeting his eyes, the tender look in them somehow always a little new, “Portside boars?” she asked.

Shanks grinned. “Not to be approached without caution, at least if you value your life.”

“Sound advice.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her soft laugh followed him to the storeroom. The spacious pantry was bigger than Party’s had been, replete with liquors and foodstuffs, crates and barrels and sacks all neatly organised, and all of it written in the leather-bound ledger lying open on the middle shelf. The smells recalled her own childhood, the sound of her mother’s heeled boots across the creaking doorstep, and the bottles chiming in their crates, stacked high above her head. A rough hand smoothing her hair from her brow, before she'd be gone, leaving the door ajar and a sliver of light, the laughter spilling through and into her dreams.

She watched him tuck them in, snug within their makeshift bunks, a different song sung in low, soothing tones, a lullaby for gentler waters that sang of two clever little seals outwitting the fearsome lord of the coast, a longtime favourite that saw two big brown eyes struggling in vain to stay open. Their youngest had already surrendered, even as her sister persevered, but his voice didn’t waver, coaxing until tiny fingers released his shirt, although even asleep, he lingered a moment longer, to finish the verse.

Watching him from the doorway, the sweat of a long evening making his shirt cling to his back, straining over the wide shoulders that didn’t carry the same burdens they had once, she followed the sight to an old memory; a busy galley on a gentler sea, and the rowdy court of pirates with its rakish king that had swept her off her feet. “Do you remember the first time you sang to me?”

Looking over his shoulder at her, his smile held her answer, even before Shanks said, “Don’t know how I could forget, although it’s not my singing I remember. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking,” Makino said, smile soft with the memory, her eyes on the little shapes sleeping amidst the liquor crates, “that they’ll remember this when they’re older.” The years had blurred it at the edges, but some things stood out: his hand lifting her atop the table, and of feeling fearless. A long time ago now, but while the course of their lives had shifted, some things hadn’t changed, their marriage always writing new verses, even as the refrains were her favourite―the lines she knew by heart, and while he could still catch her off guard, a few words altered here and there, the melody was always the same.

“Hopefully they won’t find it too mortifying,” Shanks chuckled, lifting back to his feet, before adding, with a look, “That’s not me saying I’d ever stop. As if!”

Smiling, she didn’t say she doubted they’d ever want him to, although wondered how long until it wouldn’t be him holding the room captive with his singing, but two small successors, who knew songs from every deck of the world, questionable rewritings included.

She watched him make a note in the ledger, a once-cheeky habit that had grown tender over the years, no longer noting her missing innocence but two small additions, currently in stock. Makino wondered if it was a way for him to keep them while he could, and might have felt similarly inclined, but the sea had given her more than it had ever taken, and she didn’t fear trusting it with their children.

She lifted her head as he came towards her, bending down to steal a kiss from her lips, his hand raised to tuck her hair back into her scarf, the long length of silk where it brushed her spine, his thumb catching on the gold in her ears, because he might have brought the sea ashore with him, but she had claimed her own parts.

“So, Captain,” Makino said, head tipped back to look up at him, and saw his brows quirking at her gentle challenge, tugging playfully at his scars.

“Join me for an encore?”

#Shanks/Makino #Shanks x Makino #One Piece #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #Akagami no Shanks #Makino #fanfic #fanfiction #mungoe writes #I'm so happy you're soft for their kids<3 #it's been a while since I wrote anything about their family and I just realised how much I've missed it

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voorbeees · 3 years

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Hello, I have finished the 3rd chapter of dad jesse au. you can read it here or here

Jesse is...put straightforward, fucking exhausted. He knows he's not getting any younger but fuck. Time can allow him one small morsel of relaxation. The separation of work and hobby has always been exceptionally easy for him to manage. During the day he's able to keep composure and do things that furthers his company's success. Meanwhile at night he's always able to release that built up pressure. That second part has been just a teeny bit harder for him to accomplish lately. Especially when Tilly will just not go the fuck to sleep.

Lately it seems she's made a conscious effort to avoid bedtime at any cost. Tonight it seems the urge is even stronger. Jesse can't talk, which is probably for the best. If he could he would be shouting swears and yelling and he really doesn't like the mental image of the young girl cowering from him. Unfortunately that means he also can't read bedtime stories, something that seemed to crush Tilly when she learned of it. Jesse had felt so bad about the whole thing that he'd had Spann record herself reading a child's book just so he could play it at night for her. It isn't the same but she seems to accept it.

Tonight they both sit on the couch. Jesse in black sweats and a black tank top, a far cry from his typical blue-collar fashion. Tilly wears the new pajamas she got recently. They're red and have teeny horses on them (one of her most recent obsessions). Jesse can't even remember what movie they're watching. He thinks it's about cats, but it's hard to tell when all the colors from the animation keep blending the fuck together every time his eye starts to cross from exhaustion.

Tilly sits beside him, seemingly content to ignore the movie altogether. (So why the fuck is he trying to make the conscious effort to watch it.) She hums as she trades out her red marker for her green one. Another of her new hobbies seems to be coloring in Jesse's blank tattoos anytime she gets the chance. So much for just enjoying the black ink. Thank God his suit conceals it until all of the marker wears off.

Jesse let's out a deep sigh just as he's about to finally fall sleep when he realizes Tilly has put down her marker. He hopes to God this means she's ready to go to bed but a quick glance proves wrong. Her eyes are glued to the screen where she watches one of the cats playing the piano. (Honestly who made this movie? Cats playing pianos, ha! And why the hell is that what he's concerned with right now.)

He tilts his head ever so slightly to the left. There's a brief hesitation to his movement but he works against it. Jesse taps her on the shoulder and the small girl looks up at him with those big eyes. He's still trying to keep signing as simple as possible but he also doesn't want to rely on the phone for communication. He mimicks playing a piano like on the TV and then points at her.

Tilly's tiny face scrunches up in confusion. Of course nothing could be that simple. Jesse repeats the action, this time slower. It takes her a minute but he thinks she's finally got it.

"I can't play the piano." Her tiny voice squeaks out and no it seems she still doesn't understand.

He repeats the action again. Piano and then pointing to her. Jesse gives her a minute and watches as she pieces it together. Tilly's face lights up with a massive smile as she looks up at him. She jumps up, grabbing his arm and shaking it. "I wanna learn to play it! I wanna learn to play it!" Almost immediately after though her face falls and she stops jumping. "But we don't have a piano ."

Jesse shakes his head and stands, motioning for her to follow. "But we don't have one...do we?" Tilly trails along beside him expecting an answer but receiving none, at least until he opens the door to a room she's never really paid attention to before. Her face lights up and she darts inside but Jesse stays at the threshold. He feels his chest start to constrict. The room itself is unexceptional save for the marble that decorates the floor and its white walls. Well that and the piano that sits inside. It's entirely unspectacular but the sentimental value it caries feels like its strangling him.

Back in Jacksonville he had bought the piano and fixed up one of the rooms in his mansion there. Sure he knows how to play it but it was mainly purchased for his wife. Jesse can only remember her playing it a handful of times though. More often than not she coerced him into playing it while she either sat beside him or danced lazily with a glass of wine in her hand. It was a dead memory now and he couldn't help the way it made him feel nauseous. (Would she still want him to play for her now? His facial features altered from all the reconstructive surgeries.)

When he'd moved to LA, Jesse had packed the piano and had it transported to the new mansion. His wife was never in this room or this house, but he'd made an effort to replicate the room the piano once occupied. The only thing that remained of his wife's attachment to the object was a framed photograph of her he'd placed on one of the small side tables in the room. Other than that she was entirely gone, out of his grasp.

The sound of piano keys smashing has Jesse's memories crashing and burning. He's abruptly brought back to reality. His good eye sees Tilly's tiny hands dragging across the instrument but her attention is short lived. She let's out a gasp. "Who's this!" The little girl rushes toward the photo of his wife and pulls it off the table to inspect it. There's no ill intent behind her movement but Jesse's moving before he can ground himself. He marches in and yanks the picture frame from her hands, his good eye boring a hole into her very form. A silent: don't fucking do that again, hangs in the air.

"I -I'm sorry." Tilly shrinks in on herself. She clutches her hands near her chest, almost like she's afraid they'll get her into trouble. Her bottom lip quivers and Jesse catches sight of the tears threatening to spill from her green eyes.

Jesus what the fuck is wrong with him. Here he is clutching to the photo and offering more protection to it than he actually did his wife when she needed him. Jesse takes a breath and exhales shakily before he hands the frame to her.

Tilly watches him for a moment before she snatches the item almost how a wild dog would snatch food from a hand. The woman in it is smiling and it's a headshot. It almost makes her wonder if it were for the lady's job. Her blonde hair is cut to just above her shoulders and diamond earrings decorate her earlobes. The matching necklace lays against her clavicle. "Who is she?" She looks back to Jesse.

He really needed to teach her more sign. It would be easier than his current plan, which is to retrieve a pad and pen from the corner desk and write. When he does turn the paper to her, his scribbly cursive has written one word. Wife.

"You're married?!" Her tiny head wipes back and forth as if she's trying to decipher where the woman is hiding at in the room. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her brows knit as her lip pouts. This whole time she could have had a mother figure but he chose not to tell her. "Where is she?!" Tilly almost regrets that question instantly when she sees the way Jesse flinches ever so slightly. Oh no. That's not good. Did she upset him? Is he going to be mad at her? He's never punished her (unless you count not being able to watch a movie as punishment) but that doesn't mean that he won't or couldn't do it, right? Tilly blinks with a tiny furrowed brow as she looks up at him. "She isn't here, is she?" Her voice is probably the lowest Jesse has ever heard it but judging by the way he looks at her, Tilly knows the answer. Now she desperately wants to ask what happened. Did she leave? Did he leave her? No, that didn't seem right judging by his posture. Her little eyes go wide at the prospect that something else could have happened. Oh no. That would explain the sadness. She's stuck in that loop of thought until she sees the note pad in front of her again.

Do you still want to play the piano? Jesse feels like he already knows the answer to this question. His main goal is to change the subject, and just as he thought, he's met with an aggressive head nod. He grins (if it can even be described as that on his disfigured face) and his shoulders jump with a silent laugh. He makes his way over to the instrument and motions for Tilly to follow.

Jesse lifts her with no issue and places her on the small bench sitting in front of the piano and then sits beside her. Already he can practically feel her vibrating with excitement. It makes him vaguely think about how he can't remember the last time he felt like that. The thought is cut abruptly short as a loud THWANK echoes in the empty room. He makes a face and jabs a pinky in his ear, almost like he's testing to make sure his hearing is still working. Jesus Christ he needs to put more things in here so it isn't so loud.

A nervous smile decorates the girl's face. "Sorry." It's followed by a nervous laugh. Somehow Jesse can't help thinking he's going to regret showing and teaching her the piano. Goodbye peace and quiet.

He exhales and intertwines his fingers before popping them. From the corner of his good eye he sees Tilly doing the same and matching his expression. God, at this moment she could ask him to burn the mansion down and he would. Oh no, that wasn't good, was it? Fuck. She really did have him wrapped around her finger.

Jesse takes precise care when he starts showing her where to place her hands. This is another time being mute has fucked him over. It's kind of hard to teach someone to play the piano when you can't explain the sound or which key makes it. He makes a mental note. If Tilly ends up seeming to have an interest in it, then he'll just get a teacher. It's not really the same, but she'll get the knowledge out of it that she wants.

He focuses back on the currently reality. Tilly watches as his forefinger and thumb press several keys and it makes a melody. She blinks as she watches his other hand and fingers begin to find their rhythm, each seeming to press a different key. She glances down at her own small hand. That may be a little harder for her. Although she was pretty positive that Jesse had the biggest hands she'd ever seen. Maybe that's why he was able to play so well. Tilly continues to watch, her eyes darting between him and his hands. Was it even harder with one eye? She wanted to ask but something told her that probably wasn't the best idea. Instead she settled for listening to the melody and leaning her head against his arm. It had to be the most soothing melody she'd ever heard.

Glancing down, Jesse couldn't help but mentally pat himself on the back. A simple lesson seemed to be having a drowsy effect on her. Opposite of what the goal was, but fuck, if she was going to finally go to sleep, he was more than happy with that. A few more moments he played the song until he ended it on a soft key. Another glance proved him right.

Finally.

God, if he had known this would make her sleep, then he'd have done it to begin with. Jesse sits there for a minute. He observes the room. It doesn't feel the way it used to. Maybe actually coming in here had done that. He wasn't sure. Maybe he'd let Tilly decorate it in her odd little way. There's no point in keeping the past alive anymore when it's dead.

He sighs and scoops her into his arms as he stands.

"Can we play the piano again sometime?" He glances down to see her little eyes cracked open. Jesse nods and she sighs happily, returning to sleep. "I like the piano." He can't really say what comes over him, but yea, he thinks he's starting to like the piano again.

#okay to reblog i guess #voorbeees writes

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aijee · 3 years

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hello aijee!! what are your thoughts on mingyu and wonwoo's bittersweet?

Oh anon. Oh anon, anon, anon. I have very many feelings about this remarkable intersection of ley lines. I’m sure the WWxMG spheres of the Internet are in some state of madness, and I felt like my meager offerings would be nothing in comparison. But you are now my excuse to write up a Pandora's box answer that I've done my best to organize below the cut. It’s honestly not that exhaustive, but I have to catch a flight soon.

The short of it is: I really liked it! It was nice to see WW/MG doing something distinctly not hip-hop, or eye candy-centric, or “let’s fight over this random girl for no reason other than to give (female) fans the feeling of being sandwiched between two hot guys.” The urban imagery was also wonderful. I’m a big, big sucker for Japanese films set in cities in the 80s/90s, so this video definitely hit a specific aesthetic nerve for me. ALSO LEEHI MY BAE!!

But, fair disclaimer, I do have some reservations. Nothing is perfect!

The song itself

It was refreshing to hear a softer song with WW and MG doing so much of the vocals. I’m so used to eleven other guys contributing (I’m personally a bigger fan of the group/non-solo tracks), it was almost jarring to hear only two male voices in something very much not hip-hop or rapping. And LeeHi? My ex-YG BABEE?? I honestly wished I heard more of her!! And saw her in the video! Her voice was a perfect addition to a song that sounds more, as its name suggests, bittersweet.

I feel like all three of the artists involved have a much more dynamic range that could have been utilized, even for a muted tone. The song overall doesn’t really stand out to me, especially within Seventeen’s wonderful discography and selection of ballads. The instrumental was kinda weak ngl. But I still very much enjoyed the song! The lyrics from an English-speaking standpoint were also very lovely and definitely struck the heart on my sleeve, as you can imagine from the types of themes I tend to write about. Kudos to MG and WW for participating in it! Always love seeing SVT showing off their creative chops.

The video/cinematography

Frankly, I wasn’t impressed by it. 3.5/5 stars. I’m personally not a big fan of the blurry type of slow motion. I get that, perhaps, it was meant to evoke a sense of reminiscing on old memories, which can be blurry and choppy. But I felt like those extra seconds could have been used for more evocative cinematography between the trio or combinations thereof. There was so much potential to have a more unified sense of “story.” I felt like the acting really carried it, but overall the visual artistry didn’t hold together in my opinion.

I also thought that the imagery paired with the lyrics was often too on-the-nose. (Take this with a grain of salt from someone who doesn’t know Korean, only the official English translations.) In other words, I thought that the shots could be too literal when paired with the lyrics.Yes, yes, eyes are are meeting but something still feels far apart because the girl ain’t lookin at WW. Yes, yes, the scent of a moment fills hands because we see a glass of alcohol in presumably WW’s hand. I do like that the lyrics actually match the video to some degree (since so many Kpop MVs are just dancing in a fancy room), but, again, it felt too one-to-one without much thought otherwise.

Also, those AirPods lmao. I don’t know why, but that took me out of the immersion. WW and MG had one each, and I’d be knocking furniture down at that observation if they both weren’t wearing right-side pods, thus eliminating the possibility of sharing. Imagine!! Turning the act of sharing AirPods into something symbolic! Remembering things when someone else “plays that old tune”, being disconnected and connected at the same time, etc. To think that I’d be yell-writing about the potential symbolism of AirPods...

The duo/trio

My first thought seeing this video was: Are Mingyu and Wonwoo okay with this? They clearly had a say in the lyrics, so I feel like they’re okay. Instinctually, I get concerned about how a company can push idols pairings in official content to the point of undermining the real-life relationship; I felt like WW, as a naturally shyer and introverted person, stepped back from the WonGyu pairing at some point. I think this was a bigger concern in the group’s earlier years, and I feel like they and the fandom have matured significantly over time. Fans reading this are certainly free to educate me on their takes regarding this, since I follow Seventeen’s official content more (as much as I am able to, at least) than fan content, like fancams, and I try not to make too many legit assumptions based on official content.

All this being said, I think they looked really comfortable with each other in the video! Which I loved the most, honestly. The premise didn’t didn’t feel like guys fighting over a girl (yawn). I’m not a fan of the overused K-Pop trope of “let’s have a random girl act as a stand-in for fans to feel like they’re being pursued by their oppars.” I felt like, while MG and WW expressed clear interest in the girl, there was interest expressed in each other as well—especially MG towards WW in my opinion, cont’d below. And the interest was never forced to be romantic, even though it could be! LOVE that for them. (I highly recommend reading up on “queer platonic relationships”, which a friend of mine taught me recently. Made the mistake of writing “romantic” instead of “platonic” so sorry 😬)

Motherfuckin Kim Mingyu AKA my interpretation of the story

*I did read the little summary in the description box about “three longtime friends”, but I’m choosing to ignore it because I don’t think the video portrays that well and I like my interpretation better haha!

That sequence of WW putting a hat on MG, with WW’s fond but exasperated face of a hyung (I’m okay, not okay).

The cut from that shot of WW and the girl breathing heavy and looking at MG, to MG staring vacantly behind a rained-on glass window (I close my eyes but thoughts of you...).

The way MG steps out first into the rain and smiles back at WW in that last sequence of shots (Eyes meeting but hearts apart); MG looks so content despite the sadness usually meant to be evoked by dramatic rain sequences.

As someone who normally connects with WW, I really connected to MG’s character this time around. I interpreted MG’s character as going through a really complex series of emotions towards both the girl and WW, platonic, romantic or otherwise. It’s hard to pin down, but the small age difference between him and WW felt so much more apparent in the MV. I almost got the impression that maybe MG’s character felt new, naive and lost in the city (he has a few shots of wandering or being in front of urban areas). Then he found stability with the girl and WW, the consequence being the whirlwind of feelings he must be experiencing because of them. I wish there was more exposition hinting at what happened to the girl, since she sorta just...blipped out of existence by the end.

At the start of the MV, WW’s character looked like he was at the end of his rope, drinking away his woes, maybe because of what seems like a nice job based on the suit. But then he found solace in the female bartender, who was kind and had open ears. The two of them became friends (maybe more, perhaps one-sided in WW’s disfavor). Then WW met MG through her. He saw MG’s character as a cute dongsaeng to be nice to, mostly on the whims of the girl, even dancing with them after closing time. But maybe WW’s character started having complicated feelings for MG’s character throughout it all. He started seeing MG more (more than the girl? Hard to say), based on how he was staring at MG at the end of the running sequence at around 2:08, not even looking back at the girl. He ended up liking MG so much, that he followed MG into the rain despite them both avoiding it, staying indoors, before the end sequence.

That’s sort of the dirty and quick of my initial thoughts. Honestly, I wish I had the energy and speed to throw out a proper written work because I LOVE stories that are basically just complicated feelings with relationship boundaries that are hard to define. Also, gotta say, that little sassy look the female actress gave at around 0:30 was real cute. 👀

#askaijee #might as well be an aijeepost

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arlocedwards · 4 years

Text

╰ ✧ HARRY STYLES. MUSE NINE. PANSEXUAL ❞ say hello to the s club’s very own ARLO EDWARDS! a TWENTY-FOUR YEAR OLD, CISMALE that goes by HE/HIM pronouns. i heard they were voted BEST SHOULDER TO CRY ON in high school, which says a lot about them because they’re very IDEALISTIC and INTUITIVE, but watch out for their DETACHED and DESTRUCTIVE side as well. i hope they’re ready to take a break from being a MUSICIAN and finally get this summer started! ( kt / 24 / pst / she/her )

hiya! i am kt &+ underneath the read more is some info about my bb, arlo. ** insert clown emoji but make him yee-haw **

trigger warning : death .

NAME: arlo cornelius edwards. GENDER: cismale. PRONOUNS: he, him. AGE: twenty-four ( 24 ). BIRTHDAY: february 14th. ZODIAC: aquarius !! HOMETOWN: kent, england. ORIENTATION: pansexual OCCUPATION: drummer. LANGUAGES SPOKEN: english & french. FACECLAIM: harry styles ~ currently featuring long hair. :’-)

kt’s note: I KNOW THIS IS SO LONG, SO IF YOU DON’T READ IT, I WILL NOT GET OFFENDED.

but, just read this so y’know what you’re getting yourself into when interactions open : death tw: arlo will be joining this summers reunion coming from his parents home, post-funeral, trying to escape boxing up his brothers stuff and wanting to not be pitied. :’-( my boy is going through it, so his typical behavior and personality is gonna be v muted for a while.

ᴀʀʟᴏ'ꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

arlo was born in kent, england. i know what you’re wondering, and yes, he does have an accent. :’-) his family moved to new york when he was five years old because arlo’s father was offered a high level position within his company.

arlo was born into a loving family, him being the middle child. he has two supportive parents, sasha edwards (his mother), & carter edwards (his father). there are two years separating him from both his older brother and younger sister. his older brother ( now deceased ) was named holden edwards, and his little sister is named ivy edwards. his older brother can be imagined as eric matthews from boy meets world ( at the end of the day, they were bffs ) & his little sister is quite literally cher horowitz from clueless mixed w/ a splash of bianca stratford from 10 things i hate about you ( they are polar opposites which makes for a fun dynamic !! )

growing up, arlo enjoyed playing all types of sports - there truly wasn’t anything that he wasn’t really good at, and that’s simply because he’s always been such a competitive individual. he would go home and practice a skill or trick for hours in order to be able to come back the next day and whoop everyone’s asses. he will fight you over board games and make alliances in monopoly to mess w/ you.

his interest in taking up an instrument kicked in when he was seven years old. he and his dad were driving back from a hockey game together late at night, and his dad played him the song moby dick by led zeppelin & he knew it was something that he wanted to pursue bc “john bonham was a genius.” ~ arlo vc. and so his dad gifted him a drum set on his eighth birthday !! :’-) soft. but over the years he was exposed to other instruments and can also play the guitar, piano, and he has a nice set of pipes !! harry styles being his vc as well ~ makes it easy. he really wants to learn the saxophone tho??? don’t get him started - he will go on and on and on.

throughout highschoool ; arlo was a v dedicated student. although he’s a bit reckless and loved to goof off, he was always acing classes and applying himself. he genuinely cares for others, you could’ve seen his ass volunteering at a soup kitchen with his mom on sundays and what not! just soft things.

until now - now anti-soft. hard things. sdgjdjgd okay, so, arlo is A Mess™️. and i say that with so much love in my bones. arlo is the type of friend that is honest, and all about tough love when it’s needed. he doesn’t mind getting into a fight or two if he knows its worth the outcome he’s envisioned. he will tell you when you’re fucking up, and if you’re throwing a punch as a result - catch him leaning into it. this ties in l8r !!

he’s just a bit desperate to feel against following the death of his brother & also post-break up with shanley? ( which give me one hot sec and i’ll go into those v soon ) but overall he just wants to feel like himself again, y’know ?? don’t we all. amen & what not. to break it down, he just feels so intensely that he ends up numbing himself in the aftermath of it all, and he’s sadly willing to put himself into harms way in order to get a bit of that - happiness / pain, it doesn’t matter to him as long as he no longer feels numb. so, if ya see him with some scrapes and stitches ~ MIND YA BUSINESS.

arlo’s lurve life : woo ! okay, welcome back -- let’s get into it. so shanley and arlo dated throughout hs and into their first year of college, for a whopping five years together before they broke up. god if you’ve made it this far, i applaud you...but hmu and let me know your fav color, okay? like and comment below ?? subscribe ?? thx. OKAY BACK TO BUSINESS. in case you’re wondering who broke up with who, gosh so nosy, let me just tell you ‘twas arlo. he did it, we can unfollow his ass now. BUT ~ he didn’t want to ? y’know. he felt like due to the long distance, she was missing out on college experiences and her waiting by the phone for him to call was just sad, and he felt guilty. he wanted her to enjoy her time and felt as if he was weighing her down. although he did try make an effort to fix this doing by visiting her that weekend at her university in chicago, but when he came across her with friends he felt stupid and bailed back to cali again. a couple months later he called her, hoping to apologize for his poor judgement and admit to his mistake of ending the relationship, but she wasn’t the one who answered the phone. arlo assumed the random guy who answered was shanley’s new boyfriend (although , he was shanley’s roommates boyfriend but my sad dumb ass boi didn’t know ). arlo only assumed the voice belonged to shan’s bf bc he swears the voice distinctly said “coming, babe!” ( although he did, just not to shanley) and ever since arlo’s been a bit jaded when it comes to romance. shanley called him back later that day, and arlo shrugged her off bc he was jealous af and drunk - claiming he “butt dialed her and it wouldn’t happen again.” :’-( since then they haven’t been in contact.

he was so in love with shanley, and despite him being the one to end things, he’s never fully gotten over her. he’s definitely hooked up with other people, but my boy is not the committing type after that relationship.

after high school, arlo attended stanford university, as they offer one of the best criminal law programs across the nation. wahoo ! yahtzee !

after graduating college, arlo moved to san francisco & moved in with ali !! they have a nice little place overlooking the golden gate bridge w/ quality acoustics for their creative music projects. / also where he currently lives !! :’-) we love a bromance.

while in san francisco, arlo attended university to continue on pursuing his law degree and after two years was able to graduate with his juris doctor.

TRIGGER WARNING : DEATH / CAR ACCIDENT / DRUNK DRIVING. the death of his brother is very recent, like four weeks ago recent. arlo and his brother were road tripping across the states back to their family home in NY to visit their parents, when a drunk driver struck the driver side of their vehicle, which on impact killed his brother. arlo has survivors guilt as a result from the accident. he and his brother had switched seats a couple minutes prior to the collision, after arlo had asked to switch with him in order to rest for a bit. :’-( miraculously, arlo was unscathed in the greater scheme of all things injury-based. he’s entering the villa w/ a couple broken ribs, broken left arm and scrapes/cuts. so plz sign his cast.

post-break up with shanley, they had some type of unspoken agreement of trading off years of who gets to attend the summer( aka who has custody of the sclub ) and so last year, arlo did not attend. however, this year, they somehow got their info wrong about who was going / not going, so they have found themselves here at the same time. this being the first time they’ve seen each other since holidays during their first year of college previous to their break up. so get ready for some spice.

last summer, since arlo wasn’t attending the sclub reunion, he was taking the california state bar exam. which is only offered twice a year - he opted for the one in july and passed! :’-) he spent some time after the exam in europe with hastrid. <3

however, arlo will be joining this summers reunion coming from his parents home, post-funeral, trying to escape boxing up his brothers stuff and wanting to not be pitied. :’-( my boy is going through it, so his typical behavior and personality is gonna be v muted for a while.

ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ

overall : arlo truly strives to be kind, and genuinely wants for everyone to get along. treat people with kindness and the like. he has the best of intentions, but often times that can get a bit muddled with the way he goes about things due to his chaotic energy. he will do anything to lighten a dark mood, and will sacrifice / throw himself under the bus if its needed. however, he also is the type to cause the dark mood depending on the day.

however rn, with his current state of mind, arlo is just going through the motions. numbing himself with unhealthy outlets and has a different type of mentality. definitely engaging in a bit of the more chaotic activities, as well as leaving everyone alone to their own vices as well. whereas his typical behavior would be more so attempting to lead them onto a better path if it meant well for their overall wellbeing.

habits : smoking cigarettes ( ali likely nags him bc they aren’t herbal ) . staying up into the early hours of the morning, and yet somehow still an early riser ( hence, he drinks an absurd amount of coffee ). yeah, hence. - get it, from the house bunny? sdjfkngdg any who, he’s in a phase of numbing via alcohol and drugs rn.

personality type : INTP - T / THE LOGICIAN

moral alignment : chaotic good

tarot card : the hermit ( currently )

character inspo : connor walsh from how to get away with murder, jess mariano from gilmore girls, & ambrose spellman from chilling adventures of sabrina ( literally his #1 ranked personality match on a quiz i took ) !! so, we have that ! and also a heavy sprinkle of seth cohen from the o.c.

ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

the album ‘fine line’ by golden child, harry styles in this case will be used as a hc for arlo. arlo wrote and recorded the album - all songs included, with his muse being shanley over the course of the last couple of years. he’s just kind of been sitting on the entire thing, never really feeling it was the right time to release his work/side solo project...but later this summer, he may just leak it. :’-)

arlo is a vegetarian ! he has been since his freshman year of high school.

those who inspire him : roger taylor, mick jagger, alex van halen, john bonham.

LUNA : ali and arlo co-founded the band with friends edie dorn and guy perkins in junior high. playing gigs where they could as often as possible. arlo was on lead vocals, ali as lead guitarist, edie on bass, and guy on drums. although when it came down to recording and what not they seemed to bounce around when it came to other instruments - v experimental. the band took off in college, prior to something strange and over the years they’ve produced numerous albums and have won a couple awards.

red roses are his Thing™️ ; fans of the band will walk up and hand him them. i think that’s soft. and i am here for it.

he loves fancy wine ~ he’s cultured.

fun fact : dirty dancing is v much so a sharlo movie. they used to practice and be able to successfully pull of the jump & lift dance move literally just for fun / bc they wanted to. after nailing the lift, they learned the entire dance - i can't. dfjkgndjkg SOFT.

arlo has all of harry’s tattoos !! makes it simpler, might add more along the way !! stay tuned, folks !!

also the ‘ h & s ‘ rings that will be seen in photographs later on are for his brother, holden, and bbg, shanley </3

arlo is a gucci enthusiast - having much of his closet filled with staple pieces over the years. to further his love for the brand, he was recently asked to be in an upcoming campaign for the fall season - he’s v jazzed about it.

ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖑𝖚𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ( open connection ) : with arlo being a bit chaotic in nature, he needs somebody that is likely going to steer him clear from all the ideas that’ll bring him to the brink of disaster. he’s impulsive and in that desperate attempt to feel again, he’s very likely to bring a bit of mayhem upon himself. so while they may constantly worrying and attempting to talk his ideas down, he’s trying to get them to go along with his plan. it may be rare that he actually takes their advice, but when he does it seems to be for the best.

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉 / 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖎𝖉𝖆𝖓𝖙 ( open connection ) : these two know how to have a good time together. despite the amount of alcohol they are throwing back and the shenanigans they find themselves in as a result, this is a time where they also find themselves confiding in one another. if you look at their camera rolls, it’s likely they have tons of embracing and unflattering videos and pics of one another, in between their sob-worthy confessionals and venting/rants. these two trust one another, and although they love getting wreckT together, they find themselves discussing very raw and personal details.

open to other connection you may have in mind! :’-) LMK!!!! <3 i love me some chemistry !!!

ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ( featured on arlo’s connections page here !! )

𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖋𝖎𝖙𝖘 ( taken - simon peralta ) : these two went through rough break ups of their own, and a rebound didn’t sound too bad to either of them at the time things started. it may not occur all the time, but they sometimes still find themselves offering up to one another. this occurred more frequently then any of arlo’s one night stands, obvi, but it never surpassed anything other than the physical aspect of their relationship. the nature of their relationship outside of the bedroom can go either way !!! :’-)

𝖆 𝖇𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 ( taken - ali mallick ) : as if living together for the past two years wasn’t enough, ali & arlo are also roommates every summer that arlo attends the sclub reunions. these two are always laughing, and saying some ridiculous ish. you’ll likely hear loud jam sessions and howling laughter / the occasional excited shouting back and forth from their room in the late hours. they are truly nothing but a good time and tbh, they know it. that and the fact that they have the best hair in the villa. djfgnjkdfg FIGHT ME !!

𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍 𝖘𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖑 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 ( taken - shanley evans ) : these two began their relationship in their freshman year of high school - spending five years together before breaking up in their freshman year of college. * cries in sharlo * they were the “it” couple, no pennywise included … unless ? anyways, everyone thought that they were going to get married, and arlo was v much in love / thinking shanley was his romantic soulmate. yet when they did break up everyone was shookith - even the birds and the bees.

𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘 𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘 ( taken - ali mallick , willow finch , sirena rose ) : these four formed something strange. arlo is the drummer of the group, and also writes some songs for the group. they’ve blown up over the years and are a quite successful group.

𝖛 𝖘𝖎𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌-𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 ( taken - sirena rose / willow finch ) : these two have a love/hate relationship, very sibling like filled with pranks, competition, teasing and playful banter. however, when it comes down to it they have so much love and respect for one another. they know that no matter what happens they will always have one anothers back and be supportive of the other. pure relationship.

𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖎𝖊 ( taken - delilah jacobs ) : ride or dies ! need i say more ?? these two have one anothers backs despite anything and everything going on otherwise. they play in to one anothers antics and enjoy one anothers presence as they can likely be seen dragging one another across town and causing a bit of mayhem together. you can catch them in their beautiful, bitch #1 & #2 tee's.

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖔𝖓 ( taken - ramona verdez ) : it would be wrong to say one is the more likely the bad influence over the other, although arlo may just be. these two find themselves bounding into, well hell, ( i guess??? ) together. playing on one anothers impulsiveness and if one ends up in the back of a police car, the other is handcuffed to them. and yet despite the length of their potential injuries, they find themselves thinking of something crazier to subject them to the next time around. with arlo having his law degree, he’s always able to squeeze them out of trouble before it gets too serious, so trust - it’s ok !!

𝖚𝖓𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖘 / 𝖕𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖗 𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘 ( taken - izzy de la rosa ) : these two may have ran in the same circle, but were complete opposites when it came down to their personalities / styles / perhaps even humor, so it was expected for them to stand their distance. however despite the odds, they just clicked !! opposites attract and what not, ya dig?? somehow their dynamic just works and they have a lot of fun together by introducing new things to one another.

#( ❛ ᴀʀʟᴏ ᴇᴅᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ | ɪɴᴛʀᴏ . )#so long - whewwww!#if you read all of this.....i owe you all of my love #schq:intro

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kumeko · 4 years

Photo

Title: airships

A/N: For the @bnha-steampunk zine! I think I got a better handle of descriptions in this one. :)

…

It wasn’t a typical morning without the steady thud of a hammer or Nejire’s quiet swears. Well, as quiet as Nejire could be, that is. This morning, Mirio was doubly lucky and woke up to both. Lying groggy on what could just barely be counted as a hammock, he stared at the bumpy ceiling as he listened to another thud followed by a swear. He’d say the walls were thin, but a better word was nonexistent. If he were honest, the fault lied more with him and Nejire; Tamaki was so quiet that sometimes Mirio forgot he was there.

This was a case of getting exactly what they paid for. It was one thing to move in with his two best friends, another thing to pick the cheapest apartment they could afford. Rolling off his ‘bed’, Mirio automatically lumbered over to the window, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. Grabbing his toothbrush along the way, he started to brush as he peeked out the window, to his adopted town of Musutafu.

As usual, overhead, hot air balloons slowly drifted with the wind and dirigibles cast large shadows on the ground. Just down the street, the sun glinted brightly off the gears of the town’s main clock. Like tombstones, the houses jutted out of a rising hill, matching one another neither in size nor colour. Tall chimneys poked out of roofs, smoke wafting to the sky. In the night, gas lamps would light the streets. Somehow, he never got bored of this sight. Musutafu was a floating city, just barely tethered to the earth, but he could barely tear his eyes away from city proper to look at the ground far below. There was always something going on.

Another clang sounded off behind him. Wryly, he glanced over his shoulder. Mirio didn’t have to look at the city to find something to do, there was always something going on in here too. Hopefully, the landlord didn’t hear it this time. Strolling over to the tiny bathroom, he quickly rinsed and washed his face. The splash of cold water woke him up entirely, ready to face whatever was waiting for him outside.

Sucking her thumb, Nejire looked up at him as he entered the second room of their two-room apartment. Seated on the hardwood floor, she sat next to mass of gears, hammers, and strange pieces of metal. Maybe it was a good thing they didn’t have any furniture aside from a set of mismatched chairs and a wobbly table; Mirio wouldn’t have room to walk otherwise. As it was, he had to be careful to step around her long skirt that pooled around her. “Hey, hey, you’re awake!”

“A little hard to sleep through all that noise,” Mirio replied dryly, turning from her to where Tamaki sat. A pair of goggles rested over his eyes as he worked on a long telescope. His nimble fingers twisted and turned gear, adjusting the precision of the instrument. Well, that explained why Nejire was taking apart things. “New creation?”

Tamaki nodded, a soft smile on his face. “It’d be nice to see the ships coming in at night.” As usual, it took only two seconds for worries to enter his mind and he mumbled, “If it works. If you want to see it.”

“Of course I do!” Mirio chirped, already on damage control. He crouched down to tap on the telescope, and a muted hallow clang sounded off inside the chamber. “And when have you made something that didn’t work?”

“I…” Tamaki still looked doubtful, his hands anxiously playing with the instrument.

“Hey, hey, you’re amazing.” Nejire beamed brightly. She stood up, dropping all the screws and gears from her lap. Gesturing at the mess around her, she added, “You made a telescope using toasters! And that weird toy I found!”

“I can’t believe you recombined them all!” Mirio praised. His eyes widened as he processed what Nejire said and he whipped his head to the pile of scrap on the ground. “That’s not our toaster, is it?”

Nejire laughed. “Nope. I went around collecting junk while you were sleeping, bed head!”

He flushed a bright red and quickly patted down his hair. Not that it’d help much, his hair always seemed to have a mind of its own that a brush could only barely control. He glanced at Nejire’s wild curls. “Your hair isn’t any better!”

“It is!” Nejire flounced forward, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “It’s called style!”

Mirio was certain that wasn’t how style worked, but it was impossible to break Nejire’s confidence. He glanced at Tamaki for help, but he looked away skittishly. “I don’t know anything about that,” Tamaki muttered, nervously fiddling with the telescope.

“That’s alright.” Nejire skipped over to Tamaki and ran her hands through his messy locks. His ears burned a bright red, still unused to the attention. Leaning back, she beamed brightly. “You look great like this.”

“And I don’t?” Mirio retorted, unable to stop himself.

“I never said that,” Nejire leered, giving him a wink. Her dress flared around as she spun to face him, revealing her practical trousers underneath. “But that’s still bed head.”

He wasn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or an insult. Knowing her, it was probably both. “Fine, fine.” It was easier just to stop the argument.

A large, dark shadow flew overhead, blocking the sun from the window, and Nejire perked up. “Hey, hey, that’s huge!” She ran to the balcony, leaning hard against it as she tried to catch sight of the low-flying airship. “What’s that flag?”

“What flag?” Mirio asked, following after her. Looking up, he saw a giant dirigible pass by, its belly low enough to almost skim the rooftops. He was surprised no one had come to stop such dangerous flying. His eyes slid up the canvas sides to the flag fluttering gently off the top, the image of an ever-burning torch. That explained it. The number two pirate-hunter in the city. “I think that’s Endeavor’s flag.”

“Ohh, I heard he’s a prick to work for,” Nejire sighed, leaning out even further off the railing. She craned her neck trying to catch sight of other airships as they passed to and from the city. “Like a real tough boss. He threatens to toss over anyone who doesn’t listen and he’s constantly breaking things.”

Tamaki stepped out now, keeping a safe distance from the railing. Tugging on the straps of his goggles nervously, he looked nervously at Nejire. “You’re out too far.”

“What do you mean?” Nejire asked, by now leaning so far out her toes were skimming the ground. She looked back, cocking her head, and while her grip on the railing looked strong, it felt like she was about to fall at any minute. She seemed part acrobat sometimes, with no concept of gravity, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying to watch her.

Tamaki squeaked and Mirio quickly loped an arm around her waist, pulling her back to safety. “Try to keep your feet on the ground,” he admonished with a tired shake of his head.

“Thanks.” Nejire grinned before looking back at the airships. The wind blew through her hair and she pulled out a ribbon to tie back her loose curls. “Hey, hey, think we’ll get one?”

“An airship?” Mirio stared at the large commercial blimps, carrying passengers from city to city. The smaller zepplins that were used on an almost hourly basis to ferry citizens from one side of floating city to the next. The medium sized ships used by police and criminal alike. They were the only ticket out of this city, the only way to discover more of the world. He raised a hand as a ship flew by and grabbed the empty air.

He had spent years dreaming, fantasizing about having his own ship. Unfortunately, they were worth far more than the kind of money made doing odd jobs, scraping junk, or cleaning chimneys. Even the hot-air balloons would cost more money than they could save.

“They’re too expensive,” Tamaki sighed gloomily, his back hunched as he peeked out at the sky from behind them. “It’s not happening.”

“What if we built it!” Nejire suggested eagerly, twirling around to gesture at the forgotten telescope. “You made that!”

Tamaki’s mouth fell open. “Do you know how long that’d take? And how much stuff we’d need?” He shook his head, his hands tugging on the straps of his goggles as he ducked his head. His skin grew pale as he considered the possibilities. “And I’d have to keep you safe and what if I did something wrong?”

“You wouldn’t,” Mirio replied confidentially, patting Tamaki’s back gently. “But we’ll keep that as plan B, okay?”

He looked a little better, the colour returning to his face. “Plan D.”

“Plan D,” he confirmed.

“Fine.” Nejire frowned, tilting left and right as she thought about another method. “Hey, hey, we could rob a bank.” She glared down at the fancily dressed people walking below, her eyes narrowing at a particularly rich couple. “Their bank.”

“A bank?” Tamaki looked even more appalled.

“Yeah, maybe not. That’s plan Z.” Mirio chuckled. He was never certain of how serious Nejire was when she said that. Glancing up one more time, he scanned the skies for a familiar flag of an overly smiling buff man. Nothing caught his eye; it seemed All Might hadn’t arrived yet. Clearing his throat, Mirio said, “Sir offered us a job.”

Nejire and Tamaki snapped their heads toward him, their jaws slack. The first to recover, Nejire asked, “Sir did? I thought All Might said we’re too young.”

“Yeah, but Sir convinced him to give us a chance.” Mirio nodded, grinning brightly. This was the first step to their dream and finally it felt like it was within reach, just at his fingertips.

“It’s going to be dangerous.” Tamaki blanched, stepping back. He had always preferred to keep his feet on the ground. “I’ll sit this one out.”

“Hey, hey, we’re the three musketeers.” She loped an arm around his back, keeping him close. “We all go! I’ll protect you.”

“I’ll protect you too! And it’ll pay good,” Mirio added, hoping to convince him. “Maybe we can buy our own ship then, or even take over Sir’s.”

Nejire clapped her hands, excitement shining in her eyes. “We could be pirates!”

“Sir’s a cop,” Tamaki replied dryly.

“A pirate cop,” she corrected. Grabbing his hands, she cocked her head. “Come on, it’s more fun with you.” She gave the widest, most pleading eyes possible and stuck out her bottom lip in a wobbly pout.

It was no surprise what happened next. Tamaki had always been weak to puppy eyes. “F-fine,” he muttered, cheeks red as he averted his gaze. “I’ll go.”

“Great!” Mirio bounced eagerly on his toes. Working in the high skies with his two best friends, All Might, and Sir? There was nothing that could top this.

Aside from owning his own airship, of course.

A loud gong broke him out of hit thoughts. The antique clock tower down the street chimed the hour. One. Two. Mirio counted the gongs silently. Five. Nine. The clock stopped. It was nine the morning. His eyes widened.

It was nine in the morning. He was supposed to be at the docks right now, helping ships unload their cargo. Nejire chuckled. “Hey, hey, aren’t you gonna be late?”

“Maybe if you run?” Tamaki suggested, weakly.

Mirio didn’t bother to respond, already bolting out the front door. Well, it was a good thing Sir offered the job. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had his current one.

#bnha #tamaki amakiji #nejire hadou #mirio togata #miritamaneji #boku no hero academia #fanfic

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rosywrites · 5 years

Text

Silent Waves, Chapter 2

Title: Silent Waves (Siren Sona x Bounty Hunter/Pirate Jhin AU) Chapter 2: Driven to the Brink Fandom: League of Legends Ship: Jhin x Sona

[AO3]

Word count: 4,623

Eyelids flutter open to the moonlight shining through the porthole. The light bounces off the water of the tank, almost as if it's dancing to the sway of the ship. Seeing the moon provides some comfort, if any at all. At least this was better than being damned to rot in the bottom of the ship.

Sona doesn't sigh her woes away, rather admiring the moon for her beauty. Sirens of her kind, despite being native to the dark, have an appreciation of light and warmth. She would often swim up to the surface near caves to sunbathe by the rocks.

A stream of bubbles floats from her lips, not yet a sigh. Being captive was, obviously, quite restricting. Along with the porthole her only means of sight of the outside world, there was nothing else to do. All she did was sit on the sand and rock placed in her tank while glaring at the captain that took her instrument hostage.

Watching him try to figure out how to make her instrument produce a sound was endless entertainment for her. Though he kept a straight face in her presence, she could hear the tones of frustration and irritation in his words.

Her hand touches glass as she tries to reach for the moon. Despite the night sky being her only solace, she smiles, for she feels at home even in this moment.

“Frustrating not being able to escape, isn’t it?” a voice suddenly says in the dark.

Sona fights the urge to roll her eyes and turns to the voice. She sees the captain’s figure looming over his bed and pulling back his sleeves to his elbows. He turns his head slightly to see if Sona has reacted, but there’s nothing from her. Not a single sound.

What else did he expect?

Jhin stands still for another moment before trudging over to her tank with a chair. He sits with his leg over the other and stares at Sona.

To her, this is rather odd. Her brows irritatedly furrow in question, wondering what he plans to get out of this. Instead of being unnerved, she’s just confused. Just what is this man thinking?

“For a siren, you’re quiet. A peculiar trait.”

She raises a brow, further confused on where this is leading to.

“I’ve read books on creatures of the sea. Several of them,” he starts. “But I have yet to read about a siren that never speaks or sings.” He leans forward, perching his chin atop his crossed hands, curious. “Not to mention, you carry an instrument. There’s no speculation of sirens using instruments in these books.”

Sona blinks. She doesn’t give an answer. It’s not like she can, anyway. She mirrors Jhin’s pose, her tail bending to the side, and stares back. She feigns interest, but her eyes are clearly mocking him. How far is he willing to talk in the face of mockery, she wonders.

Jhin knows she’s mocking him. It’s always the same, every time he interacts with her. She’s constantly provoking him at every opportunity, but he knows the moment he opens that tank (even to kill her), he would lose. He may have a gun, though not Whisper, but creatures of the sea can be faster. The siren would surely claw his neck easily.

“Don’t you have other tricks up your sleeve?” he asks. “The mockery is tedious, and it gets us nowhere.”

She releases a stream of bubbles towards him in response and shrugs. There’s nothing else she can do without her instrument. Silence is her best weapon right now, and gods forbid she doesn’t use it to its full potential. If even sirens can’t withstand a long period of silence, what about humans?

A sigh escapes Jhin, a sign of frustration. He shakes his head. “What’s the use talking to a mute siren?” he mutters to himself. “As if I should have expected anything more.”

Hearing his words, Sona smiles smugly. That’s right. He wasn’t going to get anything from her.

“You’re being moved to the cargo hold tomorrow,” Jhin states aloud as he looks back up. “I can’t keep you here forever, and I’m sure you’d appreciate the bigger space.” He leans back in his chair and purses his lips. “Though it’s much darker and lonelier down there,” he says with a small chuckle at the end.

Her eyes perk up at the words. She tilts her head in curiosity. The ‘cargo hold’? She had never heard of that before. But if the space was bigger, and darker, it would certainly make planning her escape much easier than being trapped in such a small tank in the corner of his room.

“If you think you’ll be able to escape while we’re moving you, don’t get so ahead of yourself,” Jhin says. “You’ll still be trapped inside the tank before we open the lid to transfer you to the other one. Just so I won’t lose any hands, physically and figuratively.” He holds up his hand, where Sona had scratched during their first encounter. The wound appears healed, now a scar in its place. “You’ve made quite the ruckus that day.”

Sona’s smirk grows wider. He deserved it anyway.

After a moment of silence, Jhin stands up and approaches her tank. He relishes in her expression suddenly changing to suspicion. “It’s unfortunate Whisper is still out of commission. I would have loved to carve your skin like a statue and use your scales as decoration. It would’ve been a fantastic piece of art.” He turns around and walks towards his bed.

A chill runs down Sona’s spine. She doesn’t doubt Jhin would have done that to her, had she not ruined his gun. Fear catches at her throat and almost freezes her in place, but she forces it down. She can’t show fear. Her gaze hardens at Jhin’s sleeping figure.

It feels like an eternity waiting for Jhin fall asleep completely, but once she recognizes the steady rising and falling of his shoulders, she gets to examining her tank. She descends down to the rock she perches on and places her hands on the sides.

Removing the rock from its spot reveals a pit, where she dug at it at any chance she had to get to the bottom of the tank. There had to be rocks or just anything she can use as a weapon. Her efforts prove to be fruitless, as there were only pebbles and pieces of kelp inside. Disappointed, Sona swims up to the top of the tank and observes the latch.

She doesn’t recognize the mechanism of the latch, but that doesn’t stop her. She flattens her palms against the glass and slightly shakes the lid of the tank. She hears a strange rattling sound coming from the latch. It’s loose? She pauses to check on Jhin, who’s still soundly asleep. She nods to herself and keeps shaking the lid, and for a moment, she feels the lid shift aside. She huffs and tries again. She hears the click of a nail head that fell out of the hinge.

Sona takes a breath and gently presses a hand against the lid, lifting it up just enough to be able to peer outside it. She lowers the lid quietly.

This is it.

Tomorrow is a chance for her to escape.

And if she fails, she can at least try to take her instrument back from him.

---

She watches the other men stride into Jhin’s room with a cart. She hisses at them when they approach, and they step back in hesitance. But the commands of their captain forces them to overcome their fear and move her tank onto the cart. Though faint and masked by sounds of glass hitting metal, the sound of a loose nail clatters on the wooden floor. She shoots Jhin one last glare before they roll her out of his room.

She’s rolled through hallways until they reach a flight of stairs. Needless to say, the men have a hard time bringing her down, especially since she uses all her might to throw them off balance by swimming into the glass in different directions.

Jhin observes their struggle from behind. While he’s somewhat entertained by how much of a hard time she’s giving his men, he becomes a little impatient by how long it takes them to take her down a flight of stairs. He sighs. “Two of you hold the tank while we go. We’re close to the hold.”

“Yes, captain.” Two of the men who were standing in front of him move to the sides of the cart to hold the tank still while they move up the stairs.

The siren doesn’t do anything more to cause any more chaos. But her eyes are fixated on Jhin with a mysteriously knowing look. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, but her stare continues to unnerve him.

Once they arrive to the cargo hold, Sona sees an iron gate in the middle of the deck. More of his men are outside holding it open while a lift awaits them. Realization hits her. She will be living in a bigger tank in a place she can’t escape from . It’s not like she knows how to work machinery, or if she can even move it to where she needs it to be. She starts slamming against the glass with even greater intensity. The lid is still unlocked. If she can tilt it just enough…

A gunshot suddenly freezes her in place, the sound ringing in her ears like a high-pitched squeal. She covers her ears in pain, but then she sees it. A white graze against the glass, barely deep enough so that the glass doesn’t break. Her eyes widen in fear. The bullet grazed her tank right where her throat could have been.

He really could have killed her.

Jhin smiles cruelly at her reaction. Though his gun isn’t as perfect as Whisper, it does the job. He approaches the tank and lowers himself to her level with a triumphant spark in his eye. “When I said you’d be an excellent addition to the crew, I meant it. Whether you’re dead or alive. But keeping you alive has more perks than having you dead.”

Sona keeps her eyes on his. As if she would back down with one little murder attempt. Her furrowed brows suddenly smooth over that she appears expressionless, but it’s there. A scheming intent in her eyes that only Jhin can catch.

Just what is this siren thinking?

They move her onto the lift and descend into the hold. As Sona turns, she spots the tank placed nicely in the middle of the hold, just underneath the gate. Looking around, she doesn’t see any other ways of escape. Piles of crates and barrels surround her, hiding any doors or hatchways, if there are any at all.

She’s trapped for good.

She was doomed to fail from the beginning.

The siren is silent, almost too silent. She’s just floating in her tank as the sailors use the lift to carry her up to the top. The only movement within is her wispy hair moving about. Strands of her hair cover her already lowered head. Her head slightly moves up when the lift comes to a stop. The sailors lower her tank onto the glass and attempt to remove the lid.

Jhin suspects something. For the siren to give up before being dropped into the new tank, it’s too sudden.

“Hm?” one of the men hums questioningly. “The hinge is loose.”

As the man is about to grab the hinge, the glass lid of Sona’s tank shoots out, a blurred figure of blue and sea green following after. It’s only for a moment, and it’s more than enough.

Sona bursts out of the tank right above the sailors and right at Jhin’s eye level.

It happens all too quickly.

Jhin feels a hand clasp around his collar and pull him towards the tank.

His feet lose balance.

At first, his sight is dark and soon opens to a blurry blue.

There’s a constant pull at his body now, and he can faintly hear his men create a ruckus. He releases a breath of air in the form of bubbles.

He struggles, and struggles, and struggles. His feet kick at nothing in the water while his hands grab at his collar to prevent choking.

But he can’t break free.

He feels his lungs filling up with water.

Another splash of water comes from above. There’s another pull at his arm now, and he hears someone yell for him. He then hears a sound like thunder and sees wisps of red in the water. He feels himself sinking for a moment before a hand grabs for him again and pulls him out of the water.

He’s carried to the lift, where he hurls up all the water he swallowed. His lungs and nostrils flare with searing pain as he coughs violently. He wheezes as he whirls around to see Sona curled up in the water and bleeding from her arm.

She tried to drown him.

She tried to kill him.

It takes him all his self-control to not kill her that instant. He has to stop every muscle in his body not to reach for his gun and shoot her down for good. His eyes meet hers, and in that moment, both of them well up with a desperate rage they know they can’t unleash.

“Lock the tank,” Jhin spits. “And make sure she can’t ever get out.”

She failed. As Sona watches the sailors take Jhin back up to the deck, her face contorts in pain as she sinks to the bottom of the tank.

---

Jhin sits in his room, staring out the porthole from his chair. In three days, they will arrive at Piltover, where the ship will be docked while replenishing supplies. Despite knowing he will finally have his gun fixed, he doesn’t feel any satisfaction or anticipation of his arrival there. After all, he feels like he hasn’t even made a dent in the siren’s will yet. He feels he hasn’t gone anywhere.

The incident a few days ago still weighs heavily on his mind. He tips his glass of whiskey in his hand and takes a sip, the liquid burning hot in his throat.

A loose hinge.

He sighs as his hand tightens around his glass for a moment before relaxing his grip. He sets the glass on the table and stands up from his seat. The corner in which the siren’s tank was placed is now empty, only a small space left that still reminds him of her presence on the ship. He approaches the corner, his eyes immediately spotting the nail by the foot of a dresser. He picks it up.

When did she shake it loose? How did he not notice when they rolled her out that morning? He was there to ensure nothing went wrong too.

Yet, this one tiny nail was the only oversight that allowed her to nearly kill him.

His hand starts to shake. With a growl, Jhin thrusts the nail into the wall as he slams his fist against it. Her will to remain quiet, her indifference to his actions… her mocking eyes … they were insufferable. He turns his head back to the table, where the siren’s gold instrument stands like a trophy.

The instrument that failed to produce a sound, no matter what he did. Just like her . The siren’s smug grin surfaces to his mind, and he feels something snap.

The sound of thunder echoes from his room, and it reverberates all the way to the cargo hold, where Sona sleeps. Her eyes snap open, and she bursts up from the sand. She winces at the pain in her shoulder, but she hears the sound of dissonance with that thunder. An all-too-familiar dissonance.

It doesn’t take long until she hears a door slam open in the cargo hold, and it’s not the iron gate above her tank.

“What… did your instrument do to me?” she hears a voice murmur, as if in pain.

She sees a figure stumble through the darkness. Her eyes squint to focus on the figure. She presses her face against the glass, but it’s not until the figure is a few feet away that she realizes it’s the captain. He has injuries resembling that of blade wounds. And on a ship full of guns, the only thing that could create injuries like that is…

“What have you done to me?!” Jhin exclaims, holding her instrument in his hand as he staggers against the glass. He slides down the tank, gripping his abdomen, his white blouse stained red with his own blood.

Sona’s eyes widen as she sinks down to Jhin’s level. She bangs her hands against the glass to elicit a response from him, but he isn’t moving. She panics. Her instrument attacked him. She bangs the glass again. She hears him groan in pain. He’s still alive.

“Just… what… are you?” he wheezes.

The wound doesn’t seem deep from what she sees, but he’s injured at a vital place. She knocks on the glass to get his attention. When he looks up at her, she points at her instrument. She gestures at him to give it to her.

He only chuckles. “Now why would I do that? I won’t give in to your little game, siren ,” he hisses.

Sona gives him a stern look, an expression different from the glares and looks of indifference she’s always given him. She keeps gesturing at him to give her the instrument. She throws up her hands in frustration and places her hands at her abdomen, then carrying her hand away. She then firmly points at her instrument.

“Are you… trying to say you can… do something about this?” he asks between breaths. Seeing her nod insistently, he sighs. “Even… if you can… I doubt I can make it up there.” His words trail off as he falls unconscious.

She gasps when he doesn’t move anymore. No! She balls up her hands and knocks against the glass with full strength. Anything to catch any of his men’s attention. Anything. They must have heard the gunshot from earlier. Sooner or later, they have to come looking for him.

And sure enough, one of the men who was standing guard at the deck comes running into the cargo hold. She assumes he had checked the captain’s room and followed the trail of blood. She hurriedly ushers him over to Jhin’s location, pointing at the wound on his abdomen.

“What the…? Captain!” the sailor calls out, trying to shake him awake. “What did you do?” he asks the siren.

Sona sighs in frustration. She points at the instrument and gestures at the sailor to give it to her. Please, I need it , she tries to mouth her words. But her words are overpowered by the commotion of the other sailors who barge into the cargo hold to find Jhin slumped against her tank. She helplessly watches them carry him away back to his room. Their words begin to blend together to the point they’re just unrecognizable muffled sounds to her.

Please. All she needs is her instrument. Her precious, beloved etwahl.

No one can hear her. No one can understand her.

A burst of bubbles floats to the top of this prison, nothing but silence coming from within.

---

“Fortunately, the wounds weren’t very deep, captain. You’ve already recovered from most of the injuries. Though, the one on your abdomen may take a little longer.”

“I figured as much. Very well. You are dismissed.” Jhin stands up, puts on his coat and mask, and walks past the medic.

“Where are you going, sir? We’ll be arriving in Piltover within half an hour.”

Jhin stops before his door, staying still for a moment before turning back. “The siren has answers I need.”

“But sir—” The medic suddenly yelps as the barrel of a gun is pointed at his head.

“Do not interfere with my personal matters. It is of no concern to you.”

“Y-yes, captain.”

“Dismissed,” Jhin repeats once more. He fastens the golden instrument on his belt before he heads out to the cargo hold. But when he arrives at the door of the hold, he freezes in place. His eyes glance at the instrument. Absolutely no signs of distress or even a dent, as if it’s still in mint condition. He suddenly remembers the look of panic the siren had last night when she saw his wounds.

Why did she look like that, he wondered. She had tried to kill him a few days before, did she not?

He sighs and shakes his head of the numerous questions that follow. He enters the hold and spots the siren perched on one of the rocks in the tank, looking up at the sky past the gate, in longing. The sun is shining upon her, her scales shimmering like the ocean itself. She suddenly turns her head towards him, which almost takes him aback, considering he went inside as quietly as possible. For a moment, he swears he saw her sigh in relief.

Sona watches him approach the tank, and she spots her etwahl in his hand. Her eyes perk up in surprise.

“We’ll be arriving to Zaun soon,” Jhin starts, “I won’t have the time to sit down for a cup of tea yet, but I have questions I know only you can answer.” He can’t help but chuckle bitterly. “I doubt you’d actually tell me, given our… interactions… so far.” She shoots him a matter-of-factly look. “That’s why I’ve come here to make a deal,” he states as he holds up her etwahl.

She raises a brow in curiosity. She slowly swims over to the glass with her arms crossed.

“If you can answer my questions, I will give you your instrument back.” Though, depending on her answer, he could just end up killing her himself. “Is that sufficient?”

Sona takes a moment to think. What kind of questions would he even ask her? It’s not like she can answer him properly. She tries to gesture to him of her freedom.

“Answering my simple questions all for your freedom? Don’t be absurd, siren. I don’t plan to free you until you’ve exhausted your use to me.”

An attempt was made, at least. Though irritated at his last sentence, she accepts the deal. But in exchange, he must only ask her questions that she can answer through nodding or shaking her head. He wonders if she thinks this is just a game to her, but he accepts anyway.

The ship rocks to a stop, the sailors above the gate rushing to keep the ship in port. “All hands on deck!” one shouts. The ship is now much louder than it usually is, and Sona can hear several voices that don’t belong to any of the captain’s men.

“Ah, we’ve arrived,” Jhin says. “Perfect timing.” His men come into the cargo hold with a large tarp, bewildering Sona as they rush to cover her tank. “We wouldn’t want anyone stealing you while I’m gone. The people here—rather, the people below Piltover—are rather… interesting people. If they spot you, you may end up in a worse position than you are now. We can’t have that now, can we?”

Sona frowns in annoyance.

“It’s too bad. Even if you somehow escaped while I’m gone, the toxins in the water would probably kill you before you even swim out of region limits.”

She’s aware. Piltover and Zaun are known as a major source of danger for all merfolks, after all. The toxins would seep into their skin so slowly that they wouldn’t notice until it’s too late. Those who survive become so malformed both physically and mentally that they wouldn’t be considered a merfolk anymore.

“Why don’t we fulfill that little deal of ours once I’m back, yes?”

Sona huffs out an acknowledging stream of bubbles in response.

They were both reaching for scraps at this point.

They were tired of these mind games.

They just want anything, anything to keep their sanity at bay.

#league of legends #jhin x sona #jhinsona #jhin #sona #fourth tempo #silent waves #rosywrites #siren sona #bounty hunter/pirate jhin

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one-piece-dumpster-fire · 5 years

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🌸(1/2) hi! could i get a matchup please? I'm an aquarius, INFP-T straight female. I have long dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, 168 cm tall, slender build. I play piano and cello, I like to draw, read and watch the night sky,I love flowers and i love cats and will always stop to pet them. I feel super uncomfortable around large crowds and prefer to be either alone or just with a few friends.

🌸(2/2)im distant and don't talk much but slowly open up once I get to know someone. I care about my friends a lot but i have a hard time showing it. I'm afraid of thunderstorms and the ocean. I'm blunt, sarcastic, i don't laugh easily and my sense of humour is slightly dark. Thank you!

From what you told, I'd match you up wiiiiith....

Mihawk!

seeing how neither one of you seeks the attention of the public or enjoys being around large crowds, it wouldn't be much of a suprise if your first meeting with Mihawk took place somewhere pretty secluded (like in a forest) while he was on one of his casual strolls

catching his eye is certainly not easy, but yet he is quick to detect that he found a certain kind of peer in you (aesthetically speaking). And unlike Perona your more quiet and reserved personality is something that could potentially arouse his interest

just him acknowledging your existence is already a 'privilege' not many can claim to have. And if fate plays along, then Mihawk would actually be curious to get to know you better (but let's be real here, he wouldn't try to pursue you unless someone, most likely Perona, who also digs your style, tells him to)

both of your aesthetics go together perfectly and really add up to a vast field of interests you could share with each other. His love for swordsmanship is one thing, but there is more to Mihawk than just that, as you will soon find out...

his romantic interest in you didn't really start to develope until he notices how you slowly start to open up though- up until that point you were more like pleasant company who somehow manages to mute out Perona's obnoxious behaviour, but now it is clear to him that he actually... underappreciated you for what you are, and he will do what he can to change that

and might I just add how grateful Perona is to have you around. Jeez, I mean Mihawk certainly is a bore but you're suprisingly different- for once, you have actual hobbies! And she wouldn’t mind going out to hunt cute cats to pet with you

back to Mihawk- seeing how you play the piano, one of the few instruments he adores, he would definitely enjoy to hear you practice- especially in the living room while sipping on some good wine. It creates a more than desirable atmosphere and actually gives him inspiration to watch as you dive into that creative side of yours!

as far as the 'romantic' aspect goes, he is extremely oldschool and somewhat reserved with his advances, but that does not mean that he isn't willing to suprise you with unique, personal and gothic presents!

it's just... he can't do 'normal' gifts and dates. There always needs to be that edgy edge to it that might just make you roll your eyes. But it has its own charm to it as well now, doesn’t it?

„My, (Y/N), what's with that sudden change of attire? Am I correct to assume that Perona decided to use you as her little dress up doll again? ...Oh no, please do not feel forced to change. I enjoy this eerily elegant look on you quite a lot, actually...“

#michelle the matchmaker #match-up... tuesday?#xD #dracule mihawk #op headcanon #one piece headcanon

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skybound2 · 5 years

Note

David x Michael, on a road trip, arguing over music choices (or whatever permutation of that you would like to use!).

Hey, so 500 years later, I know, but I’ve written a thing! Well, several things, sorta? This is basically a series of short ficlets each focusing on a different song, but all connected, and is basically a direct follow on to the response I wrote MONTHS ago for a different prompt (You Are My Sunshine)!

THANK YOU SO MUCH for the prompt, it helped get me out of a rut, LIKE A LOT. (Also, I had a TON OF FUN thinking up songs to set each piece too :-D)

Takes place in my Walk Unafraid universe sometime after Michael has gone full vamp, and is maybe just a little bit cracky ;-P

Hope you enjoy!

Billy Idol “Rebel Yell”

Michael frowns as the first few beating notes of the song start pouring out of the speakers. Before the first line is over, he’s a freshman again, shuffling into the streamer and tinsel decorated nightmare that was his first (and last) high school homecoming dance.

He hadn’t wanted to go. Would rather have been playing chicken with his skateboard on the highway. Or at home, babysitting Sam and rewatching that movie with the talking rats for the fiftieth time.

Or working on his math homework.

Really, just about anywhere else doing anything else would have been preferable.

But he’d made junior varsity on the football team (Thanks, he’s sure, to him being a year older than the rest of the freshman class. Flunking third grade. So helpful.) and even though he hadn’t played a second of that day’s game, it had been made clear that he was expected to attend that evening’s festivities.

To support his team. And school.

Rah rah rah.

He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about any of it, not when the girl he’d been seeing (if you could call one awkward make-out session ‘seeing’) had broken things off with Michael the day before, opting to go to the dance with Michael’s friend Keith instead.

The situation might have been less of a mess, Michael suspects, if the sight of his friend and former almost-girlfriend dancing together had sparked the expected kind of jealousy for Michael.

Which of course, it hadn’t. Instead, it had dosed Michael with a confusing case of adolescent ‘what the fucks’ when he’d caught Keith and Jenny kissing mid-dance, and he’d realized just who he was jealous over.

The whole thing had gone topsy-turvy not long after, in a spectacular (sloppy, messy, pathetic) fist fight between Michael and Keith on the dance floor to the tune of that damn overplayed Billy Idol song.

Michael had been suspended for two days following the fight. Which had been fine by him, as it gave him time to first come to terms with what he’d been feeling, and then to find a careful place in his psyche to shove said feelings into, to be dealt with never.

Three years later, Michael had moved away, the bond between him and Keith forever broken.

As the memories play back in Michael’s head, Michael finds that the old agitation, that bitter ache of confusion and loss he’d always felt in the past, is muted. The scene’s a faded sort of matte gray, instead of technicolor. Like it happened to someone else, and he’s just catching the repeat on late night TV.

Which in a way, he guesses it kind of had. The person he is now so far removed from who he was then as to be unrecognizable.

Different person or not, he still hates the song. (Maybe he hasn’t changed that much.) And so Michael’s lip lifts up in a sneering approximation of the blond singer’s trademark curl as he reaches for the knob and seeks out another station.

“Hey. I was listening to that.” The complaint from the driver’s seat is annoyed but without any real heat.

Michael keeps twisting the knob, not looking at his companion, skipping over white noise in search of something - anything - else. “We’ll find something else. Can’t stand Billy Idol.”

Even though Michael knows it’s not actually possible, it feels as if the temperature inside the car drops several degrees. Shock reverberates across the link between Michael and David loud enough that it bounces Michael’s brain around inside his skull, forcing him to turn his head away from the radio towards the blond as he continues to spin the dial.

David appears downright scandalized as he stares back at Michael, eyebrows making friends with his hairline. “You can’t stand Billy Idol?”

Michael nods, head tilting at David, confused by the obvious annoyance rolling off of him.

And also a little worried by how long David has kept his eyes from the road, regretting having let the blond take over driving duties at the last gas station. “Uh, yeah. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Can you watch the road, David? Don’t feel like getting up close and personal with the guardrail.”

David sneers, but turns his head back to the road, grumbling incoherent words beneath his breath that, try as he might, Michael can’t pick out.

Not that it matters, as when an audible sentence finally does work its way up and out, Michael’s still as confused as when all he’d heard was gibberish. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Michael frowns. “With what?”

“Making you immortal. I can’t spend eternity with someone who doesn’t appreciate Billy Idol.”

Michael snorts, his hand dropping away from the dial when he locates something less detestable to listen to. The fast pace guitar chords and beats of Mötley Crüe playing through the speakers as a backdrop, he leans back in his seat, head angled towards David, the better to watch the exaggerated play of disgust on his lover’s face. “Too late. No take backs.”

David’s frown deepens, but there’s a twitch at the corners of his mouth, like he’s fighting the upward tug of a smile. “Never too late for anything, Michael.”

Michael smirks at him, stretching his legs out and dragging his tongue across his bottom lip in a deliberate attention grabbing move that pulls David’s eyes straight to his mouth. “Yeah. Right. After how hard and long you fought for me?” Michael drags the words out with dirty intent. Feeling playful, and eager to wash away the lingering remnants of that earlier time, of that earlier life. He draws upon more recent, much more pleasurable memories, letting them hover at the front of his mind. The spike of lust that floods the air between them all the proof he needs that David’s on the same page. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“So damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” The question is spoken with careful neutrality that does nothing to disguise the visceral want pouring off of David.

A growl thrums across Michael’s vocal chords. “Pull over. Let’s find out.”

David does.

And they both forget all about Billy Idol.

Abba “Fernando”

Sated and settled back in the passenger seat on the road south, David knows what song it is from just the first couple of notes. He has no intention of subjecting himself to it, so he reaches for the dial only to have his hand smacked away by Michael. Shocked, he looks up at the man behind the wheel, the driver’s blue eyes alight with mischief as he starts to sing along with the music while David watches on in horror. “No. No absolutely not. Turn it off. Right now.”

But Michael’s hand stays covering the dial as his voice gets stronger. When he hits the title lyric he leans heavily away from the wheel in David’s direction and croons it in his face. David’s frozen in place by the disturbing sight. “Why do you even know the lyrics?”

‘You’ve met my mother and my brother, you honestly think I wouldn’t know the lyrics?’ The thought jumps from Michael’s mind to David’s, but Michael’s singing voice doesn’t falter at all as he sings about crossing the Rio Grande.

Under any other circumstances, David would be damn proud of Michael that his ability for telepathic multi-tasking has come along so far, but as is, he’s too distressed to feel much of anything else.

“Is this a method of torture? Is that why you’re doing this? Testing the waters? Because if so, bravo. Very effective. But it’s time to stop now.”

Michael cackles. Cackles! As he smacks David’s hand away from the dial again, the sound bleeding into an off-key “Liberty” with a devilish grin upon his face as he turns the volume up.

David sinks as deep into the leather bench seat as is possible, all the way against the door, trying to put distance between himself and the… horror happening on the other side of the car. “Just stake me. It would hurt less.”

The gleam in Michael’s eyes is pure evil as he sways towards David again, all his earlier concern for road safety seeming forgotten in his Abba-induced haze.

He manages to keep the car between the painted lines and away from any ditches as the song comes to an end - though it weaves a considerable amount. The smile on his face when he looks David’s way on the final note is wide and brilliant and blinding. Pleasant waves of giddy happiness echoing across the bond so strongly, that David’s own treacherous emotions race to sync up with those of his tormentor.

David hates himself a little for being so far gone on the bastard, but the shared laughter that fills the car between them feels good all the same.

Deep Purple “You Keep On Moving”

Another tank, another station, another song.

Michael smiles as the beat of a tune he never hears getting radio airplay hits his ears. He drums his fingers against his knee, mouthing along to the lyrics and bouncing his leg in time. Thinking it might be fun to finally learn how to play something other than his kneecap. The drums, or the guitar even. Or hell, why not both? He’s got nothing but time now, right? Why shouldn’t he spend it learning how to play a dozen instruments if he wants?

David speaks up when the song hits the third verse and Michael’s halfway through an imaginary worldwide tour as the next biggest drummer since Bonham. “Paul had a copy of this album.” He chuckles, once, the sound dark and heavy. “Two copies, actually. One he’d worn down to nothing. Sounded like garbled shit, but it was the only one he’d play. Said he was keeping the other ‘for posterity’ or something.”

Michael returns from his European stage debut and looks to David, trying to judge the meaning behind the story. The other man offering up information on the absent boys so rare, that he figures there must be a reason for it.

There’s not much light to illuminate him, the dash on the old vehicle mostly dark, but Michael’s eyes don’t need much light to see by these days. Not that it matters, as there’s nothing to read on the blond’s face, his expression that disconnected mask that Michael’s grown so familiar with in the past year.

“Think he bought the first one on account of the cover, but turned out he liked the music too.” David’s voice is muted - not so soft as to be wistful, but a next door neighbor to it maybe.

Michael digs through his brain, trying to recall what the cover looked like, but comes up empty. He prods at David for some help, snorting when David reproduces in Michael’s mind the image of the band’s disembodied heads floating in a wine glass of dark red liquid, with the tagline ‘Come Taste the Band’ scrolled over the top. He guffaws at the sight. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Paul was always easily amused.” The comment is said with a quiet intensity that peters out to a heavy silence, despite the song still rocking through the car.

It leaves Michael feeling like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be. He inches back and forth in his seat, tapping the leather seating between the two of them instead of his knee. “You, uh, you want me to change it?”

David glances at Michael, the expression on his face a little mournful, but not despondent or angry as it may have been in the past. “Nah. It’s a good song. Let it play.”

Michael nods once, and the song plays on.

Fleetwood Mac “Landslide”

“…”

“I - you can change it if you want.”

“Course I can.”

“…”

“Are you gonna change it or…”

“Nah. Took too long to find this station. Probably just be static everywhere else.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. So…we leave it then?”

“Might as well. It’ll be over soon.”

“Okay.“ Michael takes a deep breath, uncertain about what he’s about to say, but unable to stop himself. “This was Star’s-”

“I know.”

“And you still don’t mind-”

“No. Should I?” The questions is flat. Unconcerned, but Michael doesn’t miss the way David’s face tightens when he asks it.

Michael moves his right shoulder in an awkward shrug. “Just got the impression you didn’t care for her much.”

David makes a low humming sound. “Liked her well enough at first. Liked her a whole lot less later on.”

Michael doesn’t have a ready response for that, knowing damn good and well why David’s feelings towards Star changed.

“You heard from her lately?”

Michael whips his head towards David, surprised by the question.“No. I haven’t.“

David hums again, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he does. “Sure about that?”

“When exactly do you think I would have talked to her, David?”

“No clue. It’s why I asked.”

Michael thinks that’s a lie, but doesn’t call David on it. Instead, he settles back, letting Stevie Nicks serenade them for a few verses before offering what little he does know. “She calls my Mom sometimes. They…talk.” David’s gaze stays firmly on the road, though Michael can feel the way tension thrums through his frame. “Think she’s still with Laddie, wherever they went. I don’t - I haven’t spoken to her since she left.” It’s the truth, but for some reason it feels like a lie.

“She took Laddie back to his father I take it?”

Michael gives a noncommittal bounce of his head. “Think so.”

“Hmm. Maybe we should pay them a visit.”

Michael lets out a low laugh at the comment. “Doubt we’d be welcome.”

A sly smile that Michael knows can’t mean anything good lifts the corner’s of David’s mouth. “Never know if we don’t try. Could pencil it sometime after Phoenix.”

Michael rolls his eyes, knowing he’s being baited and not about to be caught. “Yeah sure. Why the hell not?” Michael smirks at the way David’s forehead scrunches up at the easy agreement. He means it - he’s curious enough about where Star ended up and what she’s been doing that visiting her isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard - though he’s not so much of an idiot that he doesn’t know that David’s reasons for wanting to see her are far from benign.

No longer in the mood for the song, Michael changes the station.

Billie Holiday “You’re My Thrill”

David hums as he twists the dial through station after station of white noise. He spins it past an old jazz tune, but then twirls it back again, making an appreciative noise as a crooning female voice starts to spill from the speakers.

Satisfied with his find, he slouches back into the leather upholstery, eyes closed and an almost dream-like smile on his face.

From his spot in the driver’s seat, Michael goggles at him. “Seriously?”

“Michael Emerson, if the next words out of your mouth are that you don’t like Billie Holiday either, I’m leaving you at the next truck stop and you can find your own way back to Santa Carla. I don’t care how close to sunrise it is.”

The way his voice doesn’t falter when he says it brings Michael up short, making him think that it may be more than just an idle threat. (Not that Michael would let him leave him behind without a fight, but that’s beside the point).

Michael manages to keep his mouth shut for a cool twenty seconds, during which he watches David out of the corner of his eye. Watches as the bleached-blond, spiky-haired murderous vampire clad all in black - not a small amount of it leather, hell, there are spurs on his boots for Chrissakes - quietly enjoys the old-fashioned song. The disconnect between the image he presents and the one the song evokes makes Michael laugh. “Damn, what decade are you from, Old Man?”

“The seventies, Michael.”

Michael snorts, rolling his eyes. Not that David can see him with his own eyes enjoying the view behind their lids. “Yeah sure. You’re younger than me. Explains the occasional tendency to throw tantrums still.”

“The eighteen-seventies, Michael.” David says, calm and cool and not at all joking.

Michael’s hands on the wheel jerk sideways in surprise, sending the car swerving over the line before he can yank it back where it belongs. David’s eyes crack open at the disturbance, leveling a glare at Michael, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “Seriously?”

David smirks at him, slipping the cigarette he had stowed behind his ear down and to his mouth. He doesn’t give Michael an answer, just flicks his lighter open and sets flame to the stick, puffing on the end to get it to light, and settles back into his seat, eyes half-closed.

Michael molls the unexpected tidbit of information over in the space between verses. One particular thought standing out in greater relief against the rest. “Shit…you’re older than my Grandpa. By a lot.”

“I am. And if you want to be too one day, shut it and let me enjoy the song!”

It’s only the lingering shock of the information that keeps Michael quiet. It has nothing to do with the amber gleam in David’s eyes.

Really.

Besides, as far as old-as-sin songs go, it’s not half-bad.

Starland Vocal Band “Afternoon Delight”

Approximately one point five seconds into the song, David’s hand meets Michael’s as they both reach for the dial. David growls, fangs dropping. “I will break your hand, your arm, and all your fingers if you try and stop me from changing the station, Michael.”

Michael’s hand raises up in the air in a placating gesture that David doesn’t trust. At all. “Hey! I was trying to change it too.”

“Sure you were.” David twists the dial, spinning it through endless seas of static and snowstorms and a whole lot of absolutely nothing else.

“I was.” Michael’s voice is pleading, but there’s mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the sound.

David gives him a sideways glare. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Michael breathes out a heavy-handed sigh. “So little trust. And here I thought we’d really been getting somewhere this past year.”

David rolls his eyes. “You forfeited all rights to musical trust after that horrendous ‘Mamma Mia’ sing-along.

“Hey! First off, it was ‘Fernando’, and second: you enjoyed that. You were smiling. I saw you.”

“That was a defense mechanism, Michael.”

“Liar.”

Which is true, but David’s not about to admit it. So he ignores him, and stops the dial on a patch of white noise; settling back in his seat to enjoy the scratchy sound of absence.

Less than a minute of quiet passes between them before Michael’s hand inches for the radio. David’s voice is curated calm when he says: “Try me, Michael.”

“Idle threat.”

“When have you ever known me to be idle, hmm?”

Michael scoffs, giving David a tilted smile that tells the elder vampire just how little Michael thinks of David’s threats. “Go ahead, tell me all the ways that you’re gonna torture me if I change the station. What’s it gonna be this time? Something more creative than holy water dipped knives, I hope?”

“You ever heard of ‘torpor,’ Michael?” David asks, dipping into the darker part of his psyche. To the blackened memories of his early life under Max’s so-called-care. Fully intending to shower Michael with the visual of being trapped - buried - deep beneath the earth in a impenetrable box, screaming for his maker to let him out. To let him go. Screaming until his throat runs dry, and the blood in his veins slows to a trickle. Skin gone paper-thin, and ashen. So desperate to be released that he’ll say anything. Do anything.

David doesn’t plan to exact such a punishment on Michael of course, but he’s not above a little mental torment. Especially not after being trapped in a car for two-hundred plus miles with Michael and his previously undocumented love of country music and disco.

But before David can so much as conjure up an image of a box or a handful of dirt, Michael frowns in his direction. “Don’t think so. That a New Wave group or something?”

A surprised bark of laughter bursts out of David, amused eyes latching onto Michael. “What? No, it’s-” He shakes his head, small peels of laughter leaking out of him as he does. David’s laughter grows in time with Michael’s confusion. The uncertain look upon the younger vampire’s face endearing to David in a way that it has no right to be.

David shakes his head, his plans to teach Michael a lesson forgotten. “You know what, never mind.”

A frown stays planted on Michael’s face for a while longer, the confusion fading at a snail’s pace. But he drops the subject, and the two of them drive on in silence.

A silence that lasts for the length of time it takes Michael to forget why the radio was off in the first place.

But David hasn’t. So really, it’s Michael’s fault that David launches at him, teeth bared, and the car is sent skidding off the road.

At least there aren’t any guardrails to hit.

And if the only casualty of the accident ends up being the radio, well, they were do for an upgrade anyway.

Preferably one with a cassette deck.

~End

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saey-bae · 7 years

Text

Know You By Heart (Pt. 2) - Saeran/Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

hellohello !! here’s part two :)

a little note here: you are not mc --mc, rika, and v are out of the picture in this series-- so i’ll be referring to you as (Y/N) (L/N), which is “your name” and “last name,“ respectively

if you’d like to be tagged for the rest of this series, make a comment of it below !!

as always, thanks for reading 💜; the rest is under the cut

It’s one of those lazy Sunday afternoons; the kind of day where time seems to move lethargically; the kind of day that casts sunny glows in living rooms and fills confined spaces with a false sense of idyllic peace.

Not in Saeyoung's bunker, though. There isn’t a single ray of sunlight that makes it past those titanium and steel walls-- the only source of light found in the room is a flickering artificial light that imitates the beauty of the sun; it's an insult to compare the natural glow to this fluorescent falsehood.

Saeran sighs, lowering his novel as he rubs at his eyes. A part of him longs to go out, to feel the warmth of the sun caress his cheeks and kiss his pale skin, but apprehension arises in his chest at the thought. Any yearning he feels dissipates entirely as he remembers the last time he went out-- while it seems like ages ago, in reality, a little more than a month has passed.

Going to a local park for a stroll was supposed to be a simple pleasure. It wasn’t supposed to go so wrong.

There had been too many people, too many noises, too much of everything. It was overwhelming, and he felt himself losing his composure when he realized didn't have any control over the situation. His chest had constricted in a way that made it hard to breathe, as if his lungs refused to accept the oxygen he drew in desperately-- it was a feeling that terrified him. It still does terrify him.

Memories of incessant chattering still linger in the recesses of his mind, as do the strange looks he had received when he covered his ears and whispered to himself under his breath. Judgmental looks that told him he was a misfit, a freak. Someone who wasn’t right in the head. He vaguely remembered how Saeyoung took him home immediately after that, and how it took an hour before that feeling left his heart, leaving him drained.

He hasn't been out since.

The sound of the bunker door opening shakes Saeran out of his reverie. He swallows hard, pushing down the memories before glancing up to see his brother conversing with someone at the door. He catches a glimpse of silvery-white hair when Saeyoung steps aside to let whomever it was in. Zen.

The young man smiles at Saeran as he crosses the threshold, though he makes no move to come closer. There are very faint remnants of grey and red make-up on his alabaster skin, as if he had rushed to get here after a production. "Hey, Saeran. How are you doing?"

Saeran shifts, straightening. His mind runs through various things he could respond with, but all that comes out is, "Fine."

"That's great." The smile never wavers, and there is a genuine sincerity in his tone that makes Saeran feel guilty for being so curt with him, but Zen doesn't seem to notice.

"Anyway..." His crimson gaze turns back to Saeyoung as he digs out crumpled paper from his pocket. Tickets? "My friend's holding a piano concert tonight at a small venue downtown. It fits about a fifty people, but only forty are confirmed to come so I thought I'd invite the RFA --in person-- on her behalf.“

"Yeah?" His brother accepts the tickets with an uncharacteristic hesitancy as he glances back at Saeran. There’s a muted worry in his golden eyes, and Saeran doesn’t doubt that he’s remembering the incident as well. "Do you want to go?"

"It'll be fun!" Zen pipes up enthusiastically, a charming and persuasive grin tugging at his lips. "She's a really talented musician."

Saeran feels an inner turmoil, a strong tug from both sides that threatens to tear him into two; a part of him is curious and wants to go the show, but the other part tells him that forty people is a big crowd.

"Saeran?"

"Yes." The word comes out before he can stop it. A deep regret resonates through him at such a hasty decision. "Let's go."

The lethargic afternoon is swallowed up by the evening far too soon, but even hours after confirming they would go, Saeran still feels a sense of regret and anxiety thread through his limbs, weighing him down. However, he also feels the need to go through with his commitment and changes his clothing accordingly, throwing on a crisp black button up and a pair of jeans half-heartedly before heading out to the garage.

Saeyoung is waiting in one of his cars, a sleek black 70s Plymouth Hemi 'Cuda. He rolls down a tinted window, watching Saeran with the same look of worry he had on earlier. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

"It's fine." He climbs into the passenger's side, leaning back against the leather seat as he buckles up. “Let’s get going. It’s supposed to start at six, right?”

“Yeah.” His twin pulls out of the garage and, soon enough, he’s cracking stupid jokes while he fiddles with the radio system.

Saeran stays silent, turning his head to gaze up at the sky. Crimson red streaks, as thick and vivid as acrylic paint across a canvas, highlight the smoldering oranges and soft yellows mingling in the atmosphere above. Even through the dark tinted window, the sky looks like its on fire, alighting all of which it touches.

“Hey, Saeran?” A gentle nudge against his arm. “Ready to go?”

He turns to look at Saeyoung, then realizes that they’ve stopped moving. His eyes flicker up to the old building they’re parked near; the red bricks are weatherworn and faded, the dark grey paint on the front door chipping, and some delinquents have taken it upon themselves to decorate the side of the small building with spray paint. It looks practically abandoned. If not for the other cars parked along the sides of the street, he would have thought it was the wrong place.

He grimaces as he steps onto the street, remembering that there were supposed to be another forty people crammed inside the venue, and anxiety begins to gnaw at him.

The twins head into the concert venue, only to bump into the rest of the RFA members. Saeran greets them with a brief nod, his head lifting when he notices Zen standing off to the side as he talks animatedly with a girl in her early twenties... you. You’re wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans, a pair of headphones clamped around your neck like Saeyoung usually does-- it doesn’t look very professional.

The two of you laugh, and Zen gives you a quick peck on the cheek before noticing Saeran. The actor smiles brightly at him, and the you look up in turn. Somehow, to Saeran, your smile is even wider than Zen’s, and it’s directed at him.

And he can’t tear his eyes away from your happy look.

The silver-haired man takes the your hand and practically drags you over. “Hey, you two made it! We thought you weren’t coming.”

“We said we would.” Saeran’s voice is quiet, flat.

A silence breaks out over the group, and no one is quite sure what to say. But then,

“Thanks for coming,” you say cheerfully. Your voice doesn’t betray the fact that you’re trying to make up for an awkward moment, and Saeran appreciates it. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

His gaze meet yours. He’s silent.

Your eyes are impossibly bright and vibrant. They look like the burning sunset outside, like they hold fire and beauty and they could set the world alight with just a glance.

Meanwhile, his brother babbles on when Saeran doesn’t respond. “I’m Saeyoung and this is Saeran. Funny, we look pretty alike but we actually met a few years back and he’s been my roommate since.”

You laugh at that, but Saeran doesn’t find it particularly amusing.

”Sorry, he’s pretty quiet, but if you give him a bowl of rocky road ice cream with peanuts, you can get him to say almost anything.” Saeyoung grins, his voice lilting playfully.

Saeran elbows his brother in the ribs so fast, no one is quite sure if it actually happened, but you just smile. “I’ll remember that.” You take Zen’s hand and give it a little squeeze before letting go. “Alright, we’ve stalled for long enough. I’ll see the lot of you inside.”

With that, you turn and leave, ducking into the large wooden doors at the end of the hallway.

“Well?” Jumin looks at the other members, his voice holding a touch of impatience. "Shall we?”

Zen’s brows knit together and he opens his mouth to retort something --probably about his tone-- but Yoosung and Jaehee beat him to it.

“I, too, would like to listen to Y/N’s playing, if you wouldn’t mind, Zen.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” the blond agrees quickly, “Let’s go.”

Saeran is still a little out of it as they file into the small room and take their seats near the front of the room, where you sit at a grand piano. The lights have been dimmed and the atmosphere seems warm, comforting, even with all these unfamiliar people around. He subconsciously relaxes, and realizes his anxiety has melted away at some point, though he doesn’t mull over that for long because you’ve started playing.

Your deft fingers shift slowly, waltzing across the black and white keys, and he loses himself in the moment.

The gentle sound of the instrument reverberates around the room and his heart swells at the indescribably tender, beautiful sound. Saeran doesn’t realize how empty he’s felt until the music fills him, wraps its arms around him in its gentle embrace.

His eyes close as he lets the lilting notes and rhythms wash over him and, for a moment, he remembers the person sitting at the piano. The person who’s weaving a plethora of notes together to create something entirely ethereal in its beauty. He remembers those bright eyes of yours, and how there was so much light in them, and he wonders if they look even brighter while performing.

However, he’s too afraid to peek at you, too afraid that this fragile, peaceful moment would fade all too soon if he looked. So he sits there, his eyes closed, picturing how your eyes would shine as you played.

“Mm...” Those eyes --the ones that had so enamoured him three years prior to now-- open slowly.

Saeran, who had pulled up a chair by your bedside some few hours ago, straightens up in his seat in an instant. When his gaze meet yours, he’s swept up in an ineffable feeling that ebbs in his chest, not unlike the first time he had seen that burning gaze of yours.

“Y/N...“

But yet... that light is no longer in your eyes when you look at him. Instead, they're dulled with a quiet confusion.

“Who are you?”

Your whisper threatens to break him.

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dat-town · 7 years

Text

Heartbleed Rhapsody

Characters: Namjoon & You

Setting: witch hunter au

Genre: angst

Warnings: character death, blood, swearing, hint of torture and a bit of madness just like how Connie likes it

Summary: You get caught up in an endless circle of revenge but you, witches has always been vengeful creatures so it tastes sweet like death on your tongue.

Words: 9.1k

For @lthyl. Not at all Christmas-y but I sincerely hope you like it. Thank you for being an inspiration, an amazing, supportive friend and bless you for being a unique, creative and super talented writer. Not to be cheesy but getting to know you (& the rest of the squad) is one of the things I’m eternally grateful for in 2017. Have a merry Christmas, Connie! ♥

Witches are told to be vicious creatures and you certainly don’t help to prove the rumours wrong.

“You know tying me up leads you nowhere, right? I can still make you cry blood and take your pretty head without my hands,” you sneer at the man tousling you around roughly as if you were merely a ragdoll for his entertainment.

His arrogant behaviour makes your blood boil with anger and turns you into a ticking bomb waiting to go off. Provoking your kind is a dangerous game just like playing with fire and you’re seriously pondering on the methods of death he deserves: suffocation, heart attack, a knife aimed straight at his heart? So bad he can only die once, you would like to watch him bleed out in agony in front of you, begging for forgiveness again and again. A sad pout creeps onto your cold features realizing that the blood would make the job messy and you hate everything that’s not neat.

“Then why don’t you?” the hunter challenges you, a satisfied grin spreading onto his unfairly handsome face as he tugs on the metal chain around your wrist. No matter how hard you press your mouth together, a hiss escapes your throat as your skin is sizzling when the touch of iron burns it.

You turn your head away, the offence tasting bitter in your mouth. Arrogant witch hunters, they act so all-knowing but they know nothing about how magic actually works. But you won’t give this man the advantage to use it against you by enlightening him, so you choose to ignore his remark and raise an eyebrow ever so elegantly at him.

“How do you want me to take you to the Queen without magic though?” you snicker pleased that you found a loophole in his perfect little plan.

As he shoves you against a tree instead of answering, the tree bark against your back scrapes your skin through the flimsy dress you wear and your long, dishevelled hair full of dead leaves falls into your face darkening the world around you.

The witch trap carved deep into the ground you’re standing on keeps you there, at the mercy of the hunter who chased you across the deepest pits of the forest where no sane person dares to step in. So apparently, this silver-haired man towering over you with a triumphant smirk is just as lunatic as you are.

“Well I have my ways,” his lips twitch in amusement as he takes out a long object with a circular end from his backpack and your eyes unceremoniously widen at the sight.

“No way in hell! You won’t put me on leash,” the protest falls off your lips fiercely and shame is bubbling up in your insides. You are not an animal.

“Did I ask?” the man laughs raucously but his frivolous giggles die abruptly in the air as the rope in his hands transforms into a snake.

“I said no,” you are making your point once again, greatly piqued but this time with more edge in your otherwise light voice and fire in your eyes as dark as the nights of new moon. Your gaze follows the shiny green scaled reptile fondly as it hisses at the hunter and slips out of his hands to disappear in the wildness where it belongs.

“Shit, you crazy witch,” the startled man jumps back, pure shock and panic on his face that conjure light-hearted chuckles out of you.

“I’ve been called way worse,” you shrug nonchalantly because these words have long lost their meaning to you. Humans and their stupid habit of calling you and your kind names.

It all comes down to a pause. It starts with silence, the woods inhaling the essence of life present and everything stands still. No chilly wind, no leaves rumbling, no whispers of forgotten spirits. You feel goosebumps forming on your forearms while the man in front of you doesn’t seem to notice the change. Oh how stupid of him to be so careless and naive. These forests are not for magicless beings like him.

Yet, only when everything else is muted around, this is the first time when you actually pay attention to his rigid pose, his slump shoulders, the hollow of his face and the circles around his eyes. He looks sad like the moon on those nights when it can be heard crying. Melancholy hugs him close like a cloak and the blood on his hands is not just from witches.

“She took my brother. I just want him back,” he mutters into the stillness, more to himself than you, but you hear him and can’t help but wonder:

“You must be pretty bad if you pissed off the Queen like that,” you snort not quite lady-like and then suddenly, it clicks: all that whispering among your fellow witches, the mourning that took over everything like dark clouds on the baby blue sky and the rumours about a man who did the impossible. “Oh don’t tell me! You were the one you killed the princess?”

At first you gasp, almost comically but then a snarky laughter bubbles up in you. It’s quite improper and tactless taken the circumstances but you have never been one to fawn upon the royal court of your kind. You have better things to deal with but look at how funnily the world works: intertwining your string of fate with the hunter’s who is wanted by many in and outside of the witch-ruled areas too.

When the man himself doesn’t even bother to deny the accusation that can cost his head - or even better: his heart ripped out of his chest and planted on a silver planet as a gift to the Queen – you sigh. How can one be so stupid to think they can get away with that? Breaking into the Castle and killing the princess who has just turned eighteen and tasted the first bites of human flesh? A sprout of respect springs into life in your lungs silently that the man is even alive after pulling such an outrageous act. Killing witches for living is one thing but threatening and attacking the royal family? He has surely lost his sane mind.

“Kim Namjoon…” you taste the infamous name on your tongue sweetly, playing with the vowels and consonants like chords on an instruments. You have heard it whispered between the walls enough, it almost feels like a half-forgotten dream. Hearing them rolling off your tongue, the man looks up at you, surprised you heard of him and that’s when you throw a knife at him. Figuratively. “Your brother might not even be alive by now.”

It might sound cruel and insensitive but it’s the truth. Witches are born vengeful, revenge boiling up in their system and turning their blood black to spill. No wonder why the Queen took Namjoon’s younger brother. An eye for an eye, a sibling for a sibling. It’s simple math.

“I don’t care. I have to know,” the hunter insists, determination set in his eyes like gemstones in the cold harsh ground, deep enough to evolve into something beautiful. A purpose, that’s what it is for him, you realize and he won’t change his mind no matter what. Stubborn, stupid human running into the arms of death so carelessly. You almost feel sorry for him but you don’t. Not an ounce especially when he traps you between the tree branches and his body again, the puffs of his heavy breathing dancing on your skin.

“So you either help me or I kill you because you are no use for me otherwise. I guess they would pay hundreds for your pretty head only,” he says through gritted teeth, so cold you shiver.

“You will kill me anyway, don’t cha?” you look straight into his eyes, searching for the deepest pits of his soul but you only see different shades of black: anger, sorrow, pain.

He only needs you to help him get beyond the Castle Gates, to make sure he has a safe in and out but then he will get rid of you like he probably did with that traitor witch who helped him get in the first time. Otherwise he wouldn’t need you now.

“Okay… okay, I will help you,” you sigh theatrically as if you had the upper-hand in this situation even with your wrists tied and your body trapped.

Namjoon lets out a dry laugh.

“I didn’t really give you any other option.”

“But I can make your life hard… or easy. Your choice,” you are acting all charming now, fluttering lashes, sweet smiles but the hunter snorts dismissively mumbling something about being all bark but no bite.

Witches are basically elementals of nature, they can control most natural phenomenons and some are even gifted with special abilities like transforming into a certain animal. Any more than that requires years of practice so Namjoon isn’t really concerned about what a girl like you could do to him but like a wise man said once it’s better to be safe than sorry. He would rather not worry about you killing him in his sleep during your journey.

“Where’s the catch?” he furrows his eyebrows well aware of the tricks of cunning witches so he refuses to let his guards down.

“No catch, I only wish to walk without having to wear a leash, I’m not some animal for fuck’s sake,” you snarl raising your chin high, narrowing your eyes at him daring him to say no, to say something derogative so you can prove him how much it hurts when you really bite.

However, Kim Namjoon isn’t just another stupid huntsman and he knows better than to provoke somebody who bears magic. What a proud womenfolk you are, he muses and sighs.

“But if you are trying with anything…”

“Yeah-yeah, I know the drill: you kill me,” you grimace, voice dripping sarcasm as you watch his practiced fingers unloose a hook and let the metal fall to the floor. It leaves bloody spots behind where it rubbed against your skin but at least, you won’t feel the burn of it. Namjoon still ties your hands together but this time it’s a simple rope, one you can easily get rid of so you don’t complain, just roll your eyes and wait until he erases the witch trap from the ground around you.

The forest is watching, you can tell.

The deeper you go, the more aware you are. It’s warning you, urging you to turn back and leave if you only bring bad luck onto sacred ground. It’s getting angry, you can feel it in your bones, see in the leaves swirling and the weather changing. It’s cold, nearly frosty as dark falls upon you and Namjoon decides it’s time to pitch a camp for the night.

Neither of you talked much while walking except a few bitten back swear words and you don’t intend to change that, yet something has been bugging you for a while and you just have to blurt out:

“Why did you kill the princess? Was it a bet? A deal? Or just challenge?” you acquire further deep into the reasons of a mundane being’s life you have always found so fragile and pitiful. What could have possibly made him want to do such a stupid and dangerous thing?

It’s meant to be an innocent, curious question, however from the way Namjoon’s shoulders tense and the way he spits the words, it must be much more serious than a silly bet.

“You know nothing. Mind your own business,” he snaps at you and turns back to make a fire with the wood he collected from nearby.

You mock him behind his back by imitating his words back to him soundlessly and watch with your back to a tree and a raised eyebrow as he clumsily tries to light a fire. The air is dry, the wind is chilly and wild so the flame keeps flickering and he fails repeatedly. You don’t strain yourself to help him out; you don’t need the warmth anyway.

Your gaze shifts to the moon looming over you and listen to the secrets it tells you. Only a relieved sigh directs your attention back to the blazing fire in front of the hunter. You act like you don’t care but when he pulls out some canned food from his bag, your mouth waters. You haven’t eaten yet that day. However, you are more stubborn than to beg him for some left-overs so you stay quiet, nails marking crescents into your own palms.

It’s your stomach’s grumbling that gives you away at the smell of chicken soup boiling but it surprises you that the man cares at all. You’re prepping yourself for snarky remarks of your magic not helping you out now that you need it but instead the look on Namjoon’s face is simple disdain. He throws a can of vegetable tuna at your feet and you scoff.

“I am still not a dog for you to throw me a piece of bone.”

“Fine then leave it there, I don’t care,” Namjoon shrugs. Something dark flashing in his eyes and his nonchalant behaviour just makes your insides coil in fury.

“My hands,” you protest bringing your tied wrist in front of his face but you only get a headshake.

“Not a chance. Be creative,” he says firmly but you are not willing to dig your face into food like some animal would and you know exactly what can be a good exchange for this small favour.

“If you untie me, I can track your brother down and tell you if he’s still alive at all,” you are bargaining quite fairly in your opinion and the shift in the man’s eyes tells you that he’s also thinking about your offer.

“Can you really?” he suspiciously furrows his brows. “How can I know you won’t lie to me and take me into a trap?”

“You can’t but what place can possibly be more dangerous than the Castle itself where you were originally planning to go?” you remind him and he seems to agree as he gives you a short nod of approval.

“Okay, you can have it off for meals if you can tell me where he is. But if I catch you using any other magic, I will slice your throat,” his threat falls on deaf ears and you can’t fight the satisfied smile setting onto your face.

“Deal,” you consent to his condition and move your hands around a bit after he frees them. “I need something that was your brother’s and your blood. Since you are brothers, it will make the spell work more efficiently.”

Blood magic is one of a kind, really powerful and you are taken aback that the hunter doesn’t even protest or questions your motives. You could use his blood basically for everything, even to control him, yet he puts a little tiger pendant in your outstretched hand so carefully as if it was his most treasured property.

“If he’s dead, just tell me. Don’t play mind games with me,” he orders, or at least he means it as an order but it sounds more like a plea and when you nod, he nods back. You don’t ask what will happen to you if his brother really is dead and not because you’re afraid of the answer but because you know the Queen that much. She likes to play with her victims, to prolong the torment as much as she can.

“How much blood do you need?” Namjoon asks so driven by the need to know, so eager to get over with it, it leaves you a bit astonished.

“Just a drop is enough,” you tell him honest to the truth and watch with hungry eyes as he cuts his palm ever so slightly. You hear his sharp intake as carmine blood is pooling in his palm. “Alright, and now, hold your breath,” you give him a quick warning before putting your free hand palm-to-palm to his while your fist clenches around the medal in the other. Some spells need words, the powerful ones, but this is a fairly simple one, so you only have to concentrate, closing your eyes and finding that string in your mind that leads you to this boy.

Out of nowhere, the dark swallows you down.

You feel the dizziness overtaking you and your vision gets blurry as you search for his soul out there. You feel like running through the wildness bare-foot, the branches hurting your legs but you don’t stop, not until you reach your goal and then it’s getting faster and faster, an impossible speed you’re not able to keep up with and then it feels like falling and colliding into something solid like a wall or the rock bottom of your mind. When everything calms down, the darkness welcomes you and choking, you gasp for air.

“Hey, what is it? What’s happening?” the hunter shakes your shoulder desperately when after panting and mumbling to yourself, you just stop, your eyes popping open, facing the sky. Yet, there aren’t your eyes, there’s nothing from the universe he saw in them there anymore. They are completely white, lacking the rainbow or your iris and the black of your eye. No matter how hard he shakes you or what he tells you it doesn’t seem to reach you wherever you are. He can’t seem to pull you out of the trance that painted pure hurt all over your features. He has never seen anything like that before and it scares him.

“He’s alive but in a lot of pain,” you speak up, voice raw and hoarse, not really yours. The place you see is familiar like you have been there before. You look around but you realize you are not in your own body anymore. It’s a young boy, hands bloody and coughing. He shivers from the cold.

“He… is in a dungeon of some sort. It’s cold and wet. He can hear the water running. He…” your voice cracks at the sound of footsteps and the fear that rushes through the boy and then something pulls your stomach down and your lungs are hurting as if you have been kicked when the spell breaks.

You blink a few times before the haziness dissolves before your eyes and you can see again. The first thing that comes into your view is Namjoon’s worried face in front of you, so mature yet still has the lightest touch of boy-ish features that shouldn’t be possible for a coldblooded killer.

“He what?” he asks, almost begs to fill him out on details but you have nothing more, eyes back to just as normal as it was.

“I lost connection.”

“Then try again,” he demands spitefully, disappointed and desperate which makes you want to punch him or do something worse to him now that your hands are free but instead you just grit your teeth.

“I can’t. If I drain my powers with this I won’t have enough to get you there.”

Maybe it’s the hint in your voice or how confident you sound but the man before you falters a little.

“Do- do you know where he is?”

“Yeah. I know that place. It’s the canal beneath the Castle,” you tell him recalling why the dungeon was so familiar to you. The wet walls, the icy ground, the overbearing pain in the bones and the draining energy that keeps you there. No wonder why you know that place so well. You have been there too many times to count. “Where the Queen keeps the sacrifices.”

The night falls silence after that, both of you eating mindlessly, lost in your thoughts. When it’s time to sleep, the hunter ties your hands once again and you are ready to snicker but the look in his eyes, so out of it, makes you swallow back those words.

Each day you are getting closer to the Castle, crossing enchanted gardens, poisoned valleys on the way. Humans get easily distracted in these darker, magical parts of the forest, they tend to get lost and die out of starvation or dehydration as they are walking around in a circle. Some even go crazy in this labyrinth. That’s why Namjoon needs you: to be his compass, his eyes and ears in a place where nothing is as it seems. Lucky for him, the source of your own witch blood is calling you home to demean yourself before the Queen.

Most days are the same, silent and gloomy. But sometimes, like now, it’s full of laughter, at least on your part.

“It just pissed on me,” the hunter complains in a high voice just like a school girl would.

“You deserve it,” you tell him sharp-fanged as you watch him wiping off the bird poop off his coat in disgust.

“I swear these birds hate me,” he mutters and you almost laugh out loud. Well, he isn’t entirely wrong about that.

“Come on, don’t whine! They are just birds,” you tease and smile sweetly when a sparrow sits on your shoulder in such a calm manner no normal bird would. It even takes the fruits you offer from your hands.

Namjoon watches the scene unfold before him and suddenly, all his unfortunate encounters with the animals and why they picked up on him makes more sense. He doesn’t comments on it and scrunches his nose persuading himself that he is not whiny, not at all. But it can be irritating when a dozens of birds fly by just past his head or even poop on him. Nothing serious, just bad pranks as if they were merely projection of the chaotic emotions of the witch whose name he still doesn’t know of and neither cares for.

You walk further into the right direction, only one more day trip away from the Castle, when suddenly, passing by a calm river, your steps halt abruptly and frantic you turn back to grab Namjoon’s jacket’s collar.

“Let me go!” you scream at him but in that moment, he doesn’t hear the panic in your voice, nor feels the ground shaking beneath his boots or the clouds darkening the sky.

“What? No! You just pissed an hour ag…” he huffs and this time you actually slap him right in the face which successfully makes him shut up.

“Not that, you stupid human. Something is coming for us, can’t you tell? It will kill us both if you won’t untie me… like right now,” you only add the last words urgently when both of you hear the unearthly wailing coming from the dirty water.

“What the fuck is this?” Namjoon gapes as the sounds of hooves clattering echoes through the area.

“A kelpie or maybe there’s more. And in case you can’t tell, I hate them,” you enlighten him as you both struggle to get that damn rope off around your wrists. “Oh come on!”

The hunter, finally understanding the seriousness of your situation, pulls out his jack-knife to cut the rope off of you while you look beneath his shoulders and see a horse-form emerging from the water.

“Hurry up,” you urge him a bit hysterically which doesn’t make you proud at all but you have quite a bit of history with these malevolent spirits and you don’t want the past to repeat itself. A kelpie’s bite takes months to heal and it hurts like hell in the meantime.

Before the knife could cut through the rope, you feel the full-force attack that sends both of you flying in the air before falling to the ground with a loud, painful thud. You stumble to your feet but the beautiful silver horse kicks you so hard, you can’t breathe for a second and there’s no way you can get a hold of its bridle to control it without the proper use of your hands.

Think, think, you groan, tasting grass and mud in your mouth as the kelpie keeps shoving you away with its body until you feel overly exhausted and your whole body is sore. It’s only then when this monster turns around setting its attention to the next victim being Namjoon with his knife pulled out ready for fight.

However, to his great surprise, the magnificent horse transforms into an overly gorgeous, completely naked woman right in front of him. His jaw drops and his grip on the weapon falters while the blonde beauty walks towards him so enthralling and captivating. He’s not against hurting the other gender, taken his job as a witch hunter, he also needs to be like that but there’s something about this woman that makes him speechless and unable to raise his hand to strike down when she steps in front of him.

“Brave human, you have come so far in the witches’ land. I haven’t seen a man in so long,” she whispers coyly, eyelashes flattering and with a soft hand, she caresses his face ever so gently.

“Who are you exactly?” Namjoon blurts out struggling to even speak with the lump forming in your throat.

“My name is Simona and I’m the spirit of this river, the guard of this border,” a spirit that seems to be absolutely shameless about the fact that she’s walking around naked, Namjoon almost chokes on his spit.

“What border?” he blinks not quite understanding what they are talking about or even why. It feels like every clearheaded and reasonable thoughts flew out of his mind leaving him dumbstruck and silly to stare at the stunning creature.

“The border of the Witch Queen’s Castle,” she answers with a lovely smile, stroking his jawline with a feather-like touch and adds a bit suggestive: “Do you want to cross the river?”

“Yeah, I…” the man blurts out clearly remembering his purpose of reaching the Castle for some reason. There must have been a reason why but he seems to forget that, it must have been important though, if he had come such a long way. Yet, his answer is quite uncertain as he faintly recalls he had a companion on this journey. But who? Gosh, his memories are so foggy.

“Let me,” Simona smiles lovely as ever and takes his hand leading him into the dark waters of the river.

Watching Namjoon, a most likely skilled witch hunter being hypnotized by another spirit leaves you in disbelief and if it wasn’t a life or death situation you might laugh but your throat feels dry as you still struggle with your handcuffs. You might have promised him not to use your power when he doesn’t allow you explicitly but you won’t die because of his stupidity.

“Oh screw it,” you mutter giving up on stupid, useless mundane methods and gather enough willpower to burn the rope into ashes. The flames only tickle your skin, it doesn’t hurt at all, the fire you create never hurts you. However, kelpies are a whole different story.

You act on impulse, not giving space for changing your mind, pondering over options, you simply lunge forward shooting fireballs to the woman’s form waist-deep in the water already. She howls as it burns her skin and flashes her sharp teeth turning around to face you. Her pretty features turn into something hideous, monster-like but you are not scared, not at all.

“Come on! Come and get me,” you provoke her sending a bunch of sparrows at her to peck her skin until she doesn’t have any other choice than to transform back into a horse. Just what you wanted.

“Namjoon, get the bridle,” you shout at the man you stands with one leg into the water, still dazed and utterly confused. You sigh, it seems you have to do anything yourself, nothing new.

The horse gallops towards you so fast, you jump out of its way in the very last moment. You giggle out loud at the sound of the animal’s annoyed huff. You repeat the same trick twice but the next time when it attacks, you use your levitation skills to helps you get on its back and grab the handle.

“Never mess with a witch,” you growl as the horse calm under you, unwillingly but giving you full control. Just like stories tell: a kelpie’s only weak point is its bridle, and if you can catch that, you can control the creature on your own accord.

You trot slowly towards the shocked hunter and pat the horse’s butt. “Get up big boy before I leave your ass here.”

“What happened? I think I totally blacked out,” he utters confused.

“The kelpie seduced you and she was going to lure you into the water to kill you,” you explain patiently because you know that the first meeting with a kelpie can be overwhelming. “Don’t worry, she means no danger anymore.”

Namjoon nods, trying to process what happened while he climbs up to sit on the horse behind you. His broad, solid chest presses against you back and his breath brushes your ear.

“Thanks. You could have just let me die,” you feel vibrations through his body as he speaks and when the horse crosses the river climbing out of the ditch, his strong hands grab on your waist to keep himself from falling.

"I’m not heartless, you know,” you bite the words tasting iron in your mouth. You would like to believe you really aren’t. Sure, you have killed before, you have hexed people, you didn’t care for what purposes others used your potions. This is what you are, a witch, and this is how you are expected to behave. Humans don’t expect more or anything better from you, they have already concluded that your kind is nothing but monsters. Why would you do anything to prove that? Why can’t you just live with it: not going against their prejudices, doing the monstrous things they will blame on you anyway?

The witch hunter hums from behind you as the horse sets a nice tempo towards the coldest and darkest part of the enchanted forest lacking natural sunlight filtered through the leaves.

"That’s why you are helping me?” he asks in a soft voice that almost pains your heart.

Trust, you recall the name of this stupid mundane thing, this mistake he’s making right now. People tend to see the good even in the devil himself if they showed they are capable of that. They foolishly think it will change anything but here’s the trick: the evil chooses to not be good. It’s a decision, not some aftermath of a series of events with unpredictable consequences. The evil chooses to not be good because they are selfish and always look out for themselves first.

“You didn’t give me much choice, remember?” you snort remembering his own words, using them against him. Yet, it doesn’t work the way you wanted. Namjoon doesn’t tease you about being so helpless completely at his mercy but contemplating on the chances.

“We both know you can easily find a way-out,” he says, so confident in his remark it surprises you. Yes, you really could have run away a long time ago if you really wanted to but chose not to because the outcome interests you and you have always been there for good drama.

However, it means Namjoon is well aware that you are a good liar and he sees right through it. He sees the ugliest parts of you, yet chooses to trust you with his life just because you saved him from an even meaner monster than yourself.

“Well maybe I don’t really fancy the court’s stupid traditions or the Queen herself for that matter,” you shrug nonchalantly, not caring whether he believes you or not. To avoid any further misunderstanding, you add: “You are not special, I would help anyone to piss off the Queen.”

It’s not necessarily true but he doesn’t need to know that. Even so you have that stinky feeling in the back of your throat telling you that he already knows you are lying, that there’s something else, something more behind your words, this confident facade you wear. Still, he doesn’t say anything, just gently holds onto your waist while you ride the kelpie through the forest.

The moon shines bright above by the time you reach a lake on the periphery of the ramous trees. The silver rays glimmer in the water as you sink down from the horse carefully tying its bridle to one of the strongest trees in your surroundings to make sure it doesn’t run away or attack you again. From here, if you look hard, you can see the grandiose tower of the Castle overlooking the whole neighbourhood. From here, it doesn’t take much to get there, and you know, by tomorrow noon, you will arrive.

"Wanna get cleaned first?” a rough voice jolts you out of your deep thought and when you turn around, you are faced with the messy haired, dirty handed but considerate eyed man. After thrown into the dirt, neither of you is the epitome of cleanness, although you’re sure you look worse than the hunter. After all, it was you who was kicked all over the ground.

“Uh… sure. Don’t look,” you clear your throat but only when you’ve checked everything, searching for traces of magic activity and that Namjoon is with his back to you, that’s when you begin to cast off your dirty clothes one by one: the corset over your ruined white shirt and leather pants tugged into worn boots.

You let out a pleased sigh as the fresh, clear water touches your bare skin and you have fun producing bubbles with your power in the river’s dead end when you’ve sunk neck-deep. You feel like a child playing in the pool at ease, forgotten about tomorrow when death can come for you.

“You can turn back,” you tell Namjoon quietly, admiring his gorgeous bodyline as he leans over a tree resting his head on his own shoulder. He looks taken aback by the offered opportunity but doesn’t make it a bigger deal than it is so he takes a hundred-eighty turn. However, what he sees, takes his breath away. You dark hair sprawling around you on the water’s surface like a grown completely embracing you. Only your shoulders and head stick out of the dark waters, everything else is hidden by the bubbling liquid yet the man can’t help but gulp, desperately and hopelessly trying to calm his suddenly racing heart.

What is this wicked game you are playing with his heart and mind? Why are being so gorgeous and irresistible even without trying? Why does he have to be attracted to you so much that he has to grab the tree for support? Why can’t he see you as the scratchy witch you were in his eyes only a few days ago? Why is it that when he looks at you, now he hears your giggles, the dulcet melody of your voice and sees deep secrets in chestnut brown eyes instead of the blood he used to associate with you? Maybe it’s because you are undeniable beautiful which is a siren skill of witches, so he swore he wouldn’t fall for that. And yet…

Yet, there’s something lurking in his heavy chest telling him you are different. But how so? He doesn’t quite know.

“What’s your name?” he takes a few tentative step towards the pool, towards you as you prop yourself on your elbows, resting your chin on the back of your hand, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

“My name?” you echo as if have never heard this question before which Namjoon finds ridiculous. You do have to have a name. He doesn’t want to call you ‘The Witch’ in his head anymore.

“Yeah. What do they call you?” he specifies as he sits down on a rock next to the water only two arm-lengths away from you.

For someone who is said to be one of the bests of his field and must have seen enough about witches to fill a book with his experience, but he doesn’t even know this simple thing. Maybe because he’s more like a ‘first act and then ask’ kind of hunter and he’s never had a chance before to ask the question.

“Don’t you know that witches’ names are powerful things? We don’t give them out to anyone,” you tell him truthfully. The thing about witches’ names, knowing the proper spell everybody could summon them whenever they wanted which could be quite inconvenient and you would like to avoid that.

“Oh,” he breathes as you find yourself wishing to hear him say your name even if you know it’s stupid.

So silence follows, a void lacking heartbeats, the music of the night and a confession stolen from your lips.

“You asked me why I killed the princess…” Namjoon starts, his gaze fixated on the silver reflection of the moon on the lake. The haunting grief and sadness in his eyes makes your throat close up so your interrupt him:

“And you were right: it’s none of my business. I don’t even really care about our royalty,” you rush to stop him from talking because you’re not sure you’re ready for the explanation. You suddenly don’t want him to tell you his reasons, fearing they would you feel things, giving your cold heart even more trouble.

“The coming-of-age ceremony. The first time when you spill blood. How was it?” he asks out of nowhere, catching you off guard with the intensity in his eyes as he looks over you.

Guilt trapped in your throat, you look away with piercing eyes. Murder poisons the mind, they say and this is exactly what you need. Witches are not necessarily born evil, but they can’t reach their full potential if they don’t kill. That’s why all of you have this morbid celebration on your 18th birthday.

“I… I don’t remember much.” The words stumble out of your mouth in a twisted way.

A lie.

You remember all too clearly. On wild nights you still have nightmares about it, about faceless people all screaming. The more you kill, the easier it is but it doesn’t make sleeping at night easier.

Namjoon nods seemingly believing you but the bitter edge remains in his voice as he continues:

“She did. She told me she enjoyed ripping my older brother’s heart out, that it smelled just as deliciously as he tasted,” he says and ah, so it has been a never-ending circle of bloodshed and revenge all along…

You want to say something but words die in your mouth. Sorry would taste sour on your tongue and like a white lie anyway. Killing is in your nature and you refuse to be sorry for what you are even if it means you are no better than the princess he killed.

So in the end you say nothing but it seems good enough. You stay as you are until you feel numb from the cold water. This time you don’t tell him to turn around when you emerge to the surface and you feel his eyes on you burning holes in your skin, deep to the core. You shiver and blame it on the chilly wind.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night because lying down by the campfire, you realize he hasn’t even mentioned that you should have your hands tied together again.

The difference about the next morning isn’t the silence, isn’t the thick and tangible tension in the air between you, it’s the feeling of the beginning of the end. Something will definitely change for good once yoou reach the Castle’s gates. There will be no more reason to stick together, it’s an every man for himself situation after all and you shouldn’t have joined this rescue anyway.

Namjoon was right, you could have easily left, you could have continued on living your ordinary life as a town witch casting spells and brewing potions. You could have left him alone to dive into the canal searching for his kidnapped younger brother. You had literally no reason to stay but you did.

Why? The question stuck in the hunter’s mind without any reasonable answer. Do you pity him? Do you want your own revenge on the Queen? Do you… ? He keeps asking himself without end but the thing is: he doesn’t know you, not at all.

"Namjoon…” you call his name softly and your voice resonates in the long canal along with your footsteps’ wet splashes.

“Yeah?” he says non-committedly, not even looking back until the next ambiguous words leave your mouth:

“Remember when I warned you that you can’t tell apart the truth and the lies I tell?”

“Whaa-”

The moment the hunter turns to you, he’s blown in the face with some glittering substance that makes him dizzy in the head and wobbly on the legs. He slowly blinks as the grounds sinks under his feet.

His head is pounding, all pain and stars on a cement ceiling, when he opens his eyes next. He feels like his head is swimming, body heavy, almost drowning and it takes a while to realize his position seated on a chair, head fallen back staring at the chandelier. The candles’ lights are flickering but there’s something else strange about them although the man can’t really put his finger on it. Until the very moment he feels blood drops dripping down and covering his face in crimson.

Then it all clicks and the hysterical laughter wakes him up completely.

“Well-well, Kim Namjoon, back into my Castle, just like how I wanted,” the Queen breaks into a fit of giggles flashing her sharp teeth between her Bordeaux wine coloured lips. The ginger of her hair falls onto her pale shoulders unhidden by her flaunting dress and her nails are ruby red like the blood she spilled and the apple she holds in one hand.

They are in the throne room of the Witch Castle, made of bones and blood, and Namjoon clenches his hands into fists but can’t move any further. He’s immobile, can’t even nudge an inch as if he was glued to the chair but he knows he’s under a spell, one he isn’t able to break out of, not if the Queen herself casted it on him.

“You wanted to see me here? Then why dragging my brother into this?” he growled putting all his hatred into the spoken words while his insides wanted to fight, to break everything in this damn place.

“Oh but you know why very well. Don’t act silly. I just wanted you to suffer like I did,” the witch replies tongue darting out to wet her lips that are pulled into a knowing smirk next, one that sends shivers down the now powerless hunter’s back.

“You don’t have a heart to suffer like this,” he spits and gulps back his questions about Taehyung and the girl that brought him here. What happened to her? Did they get her too? Or… wait! Was she the one behind this all the way long?

“Then should I say: I don’t like losing?” the Queen chuckles, crossing her legs in an elegant and lazy manner like she had all the time in the world. Maybe she does or she’s just enjoying the show he’s putting up. “You have no idea how much fun I had watching your pathetic attempts of finding a witch stupid enough to betray me. What did you think when all of them rather killed themselves than to help you?”

“They fear you,” the hunter rasps remembering all the agony he saw on the witches’ faces that willingly set themselves on fire just so he can’t force them to this impossible heist. You were actually the first one he caught who went along with his plan after putting up a bit of a fight.

“Right they do. I despise traitors especially after what happened. But you were so cute trying and not giving up, I sent somebody to lead you here, so we can finally meet.”

“Why didn’t you just come to meet me then? Why all the fuss about it?” Namjoon grunts, arms hurting from the force he puts into moving them without any result.

The Queen is madness itself as she claps her hands dramatically.

“Oh honey but I loved the show! Watching you falling in love with one of my kind, oh I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

The forest has eyes and ears, villagers warned him before he set a foot onto the unholy ground of the off-spring of seven devils, the Kingdom of Witches.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man mumbles, throat dry and lips chapped but the quickening in his heartbeat gives him away. You can’t lie to a witch. They are the best liars out there, they will know as soon as you open your mouth to speak.

“Ah of course, you don’t,” the Queen shakes her head kindly like an elementary teacher would react to a child’s naive answer. However, the lovely smile just like the sparks in her eyes disappear in a blink of an eye and dark shadows arise on the wall as the royal witch steps down from her throne. Her pupils are blown black with intent and her approaching steps are rigid as the coldest winter while a beautiful dagger with gilded grip forms in her hands.

“You have called, your Majesty?”

A door suddenly opens before she could make her way in front of Namjoon and his head falls forward at the familiar voice. He can’t believe his ears though, you of all people calling the Queen so formally, so polite? Where is the girl from the woods who said she didn’t care about their royals?

“Yes, I did. Bring the boy, too,” the elder witch commands with a knowing grin and the hunter’s heart clenches at the sight of his baby brother with ugly bruises over his face, teeth marks on his neck and bloodspots all over his torn, white shirt.

“Taehyung!” He cries out but his sibling doesn’t pay him much attention, he probably doesn’t even hear him or he thinks it’s another just hallucination, a mind game of these witches. He seems overly fatigue as he rests most of his weight on you next to him. Namjoon is getting angrier every minute, thinking about your betrayal and what your kind had done to his brother. And maybe this is exactly what the Queen craved.

“I have a proposal for you, little hunter, and I’m very, very curious of your decision,” she whispers in a voice like silk and velvet as she places the knife into the man’s awaiting hands. Then she steps behind his chair, her fingers playing on his tense, sore shoulders, her tongue drawing a wet slide across his neck and her teeth tugging at his earlobe. “Kill her and I set your brother free. You two can walk away unharmed.”

“What? We haven’t agreed on this,” you shriek your ears catching onto the muttered words wide-eyed. You haven’t put up with all the trouble for this. “You told me if I bring him here, all charges against my family will be dropped.”

A handful of rebels, that’s your family, a few of them sitting down, in the canal cells waiting for their deathbed. You are their only hope and the solemn reason why you are doing this is to get them out of the trouble they caused. But looking face-to-face with death in the form of Kim Namjoon isn’t something you planned. Sure, you were ready for a cocky witch hunter with a desire to kill anything like you but being a freaking dartboard in the throne room is a whole other story. You didn’t sign up for this.

“And it will be done. However, we never discussed anything about your well-being,” the Queen answers in a honeyed voice, too sweet, too fake. You are just about to drop Taehyung’s faint body and run for your life because you can’t fight both the Witch Queen and a witch hunter but the crazy royal freezes you at your place with an elegant wave of her hand. "Ah-ah, nope. Don’t do anything stupid.“

You feel her magic draining yours making it absolutely impossible to fight back. You can only press your lips into a straight line and wait for your destiny to come and get you.

"Why are you hesitating, little hunter? Isn’t she just another one on your long list? Kill her,” the Queen provokes Namjoon nudging him out of his seat and you watch in fear mixed with awe as he’s approaching you with confident steps and an iron dagger in his right hand. His expression is unreadable but the way he tightens his hold around the weapon tells it all. He’s mad, he has every right but you can’t tear your gaze apart from him.

“So it was all a set-up, a plan to lure me here while I thought it’s my doing?” he asks coldly, looking straight into your dark eyes and his words are daggers the just hit the bullseye of the target.

“Sorry,” you mumble the only thing you can think of and even this taste like acid in your mouth.

“Yeah, me too,“ Namjoon simply sighs when he stops merely a step away from you. He spares a glance at his almost unconscious brother and then raises the knife face-level ready to strike.

The next thing you know is falling.

The pain only registers when your knees hit the granite ground, hard.

You watch with mouth open as the dagger thrown by Namjoon sinks deep in the Queen’s chest, burning her skin, making her scream. The shock of the attack makes her lose the intensity and control over her power and you feel your limbs moving again. The Queen is screaming and you can no longer tell apart her hysterical laughs and painful sobs as she tears the knife out of her burnt skin. The whole room shakes by her rage and you don’t hesitate to shove her against a wall with your will-power before she could do anything else.

The Queen is supposed to be the strongest out of all witches but she has her weaknesses: she’s arrogant, she thinks she’s better than anybody and she doesn’t like to share her victory hence the empty throne room except her, two hunters and a rebel girls. Too bad that the chances are not on her sides now.

"I will kill you all,” she sneers bleeding black onto the carpet crawling towards you and Namjoon cries out and doubles over as if he was in pain. It’s all in his mind but you know that’s the hardest to fight.

“Try better, bitch,” you snap at her sending a wildfire her way but to your surprise she blocks it easily. You expected her to be weakened more but the change of plans has you gulping nervously as she shoots shurikens at you. Luckily only one of them scrapes your arm leaving a sharp burn behind but the rest of the weapons stand still in the wall. You levitate them back to her at the same time Namjoon succeeds in overcoming the manipulation and stabs the Queen from behind, right in the heart or at least where it’s supposed to be.

You watch her crumbling onto the floor, rattling, eyes rolling back until nothing but dust is left behind and gasping you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?” the hunter rushes towards you, squatting before you, taking your face into his hands so gentle like you were made of the finest porcelain. The worry in his eyes and the cut on his face makes you feel unworthy of such a special treatment. No matter how lunatic the Queen was, she was right about one thing: you are just another witch. What makes you so different in Namjoon’s eyes?

“Yeah I’m…” you reply but the word ’fine’ is stuck in your throat and instead blood bubbles up from your mouth weeping down to the dirty floor as you feel your lungs collapse in your chest and it burns, the sudden lack of oxygen. The darkness dotted with white spots envelopes you and you can’t breathe.

“Tae, no!”

You hear Namjoon shouting but it all happens so fast. The iron pierced through your cold, old heart and as soon as the dagger is pulled out, your body is wearing away. Just like all witches, who lived longer than they deserve, do.

Taehyung, who is standing behind your lifeless remains, grey ashes, with the deadly weapon still in his hands and blood and sweat all over his clothes, blinks in confusion.

“She’s just a witch.”

“No, she…” Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, too shocked from the sudden turns of events but he can’t. How could he explain this to Taehyung? That you were so much more than just another evil witch of the town? “I didn’t even know her name.”

It’s sad, aching like the grief he shouldn’t feel but he doesn’t let it weight him down. He hauls Taehyung into his arms in a tight hug, glad he found him alive but they both know they have to go before other witches arrive and discover the mess they made.

As they flee, Namjoon fights the urge to turn back, conquering the useless hope of seeing you alive and he refuses to shed tears for the girl who saved his life in more than one sense.

Three months later

It’s been a while since the last time Namjoon walked around so freely in a forest. But this one is nothing like back there under the gloomy sky surrounding the pits of Hell. This one is calm, cheerful, the birds are chirping and squirrels run up and down the trees. This one is far and far away from that dark place he used to know as his home and now he’s building a new one here. He’s trying to lead a normal life, taking his brother to university every day and working in a bookstore, warning children who are fascinated by fantasy novels that those stories might turn out to be real so better be careful.

There’s nobody around, just him yet Namjoon doesn’t feel alone. It’s that phantom feeling of being watched but for once, it’s not creeping him out, he rather welcomes the odd sensation. He sits down on a bench covered by autumn leaves with a book in his lap and looking up he sees the sparrows that follow him everywhere, settling down on a tree. He smiles fondly at the tiny birds and turns back to his reading about a love that never happened.

#bangtan bookclub #sfwbangtan #angstykpopnet #bts writing squad #btswriters #namjoon one shot #namjoon scenario #bts scenario #bts oneshot #fantasy au #witch hunter au #i've wanted to write one for so long so thank you!#fun fact: heartbleed is actually a computer bug that attacks ssl protection #who knew my it knowledge can produce such an accurate title?#for connie ♥#i hope you like it #stories

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arplis · 4 years

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Arplis - News: Some Zombie Contingency Plan

s by Kelly Link This is a story about being lost in the woods. This guy Soap is at a party out in the suburbs. The thing you need to know about Soap is that he keeps a small framed oil painting in the trunk of his car. The painting is about the size of a paperback novel. Wherever Soap goes, this oil painting goes with him. But he leaves the painting in the trunk of his car, because you don’t walk around a party carrying a painting. People will think you’re weird. Soap doesn’t know anyone here. He’s crashed the party, which is what he does now, when he feels lonely. On weekends, he just drives around the suburbs until he finds one of those summer twilight parties that are so big that they spill out onto the yard. Kids are out on the lawn of a two-story house, lying on the damp grass and drinking beer out of plastic cups. Soap has brought along a six-pack. It’s the least he can do. He walks through the house, past four black guys sitting all over a couch. They’re watching a football game and there’s some music on the stereo. The television is on mute. Over by the TV, a white girl is dancing by herself. When she gets too close to it, the guys on the couch start complaining. Soap finds the kitchen. There’s one of those big professional ovens and a lot of expensive-looking knives stuck to a magnetic strip on the wall. It’s funny, Soap thinks, how expensive stuff always looks more dangerous, and also safer, both of these things at the same time. He pokes around in the fridge and finds some pre-sliced cheese and English muffins. He grabs three slices of cheese, the muffins, and puts the beer in the fridge. There’s also a couple of steaks, and so he takes one out, heats up the broiler. A girl wanders into the kitchen. She’s black and her hair goes up and up and on top are these sturdy, springy curls like little waves. Toe to top of her architectural haircut, she’s as tall as Soap. She has eyes the color of iceberg lettuce. There’s a heart-shaped rhinestone under one green eye. The rhinestone winks at Soap like it knows him. She’s gorgeous, but Soap knows better than to fool around with girls who aren’t out of high school yet, maybe. “What are you doing?” she says. “Cooking a steak,” Soap says. “Want one?” “No,” she says. “I already ate.” She sits up on the counter beside the sink and swings her legs. She’s wearing a bikini top, pink shorts, and no shoes. “Who are you?” she says. “Will,” Soap says, although Will isn’t his name. Soap isn’t his real name, either. “I’m Carly,” she says. “You want a beer?” “There’s beer in the fridge,” Will says, and Carly says, “I know there is.” Will opens and closes drawers and cabinet doors until he’s found a plate, a fork and a knife, and garlic salt. He takes his steak out of the oven. “You go to State?” Carly says. She pops off the beer top against the lip of the kitchen counter, and Will knows she’s showing off. “No,” Will says. He sits down at the kitchen table and cuts off a piece of steak. He’s been lonely ever since he and his friend Mike got out of prison and Mike went out to Seattle. It’s nice to sit in a kitchen and talk to a girl. “So what do you do?” Carly says. She sits down at the table, across from him. She lifts her arms up and stretches until her back cracks. She’s got nice tits. “Telemarketing,” Will says, and Carly makes a face. “That sucks,” she says. “Yeah,” Will says. “No, it isn’t too bad. I like talking to people. I just got out of prison.” He takes another big bite of steak. “No way,” Carly says. “What did you do?” Will chews. He swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” “Okay,” Carly says. “Do you like museums?” Will says. She looks like a girl who goes to museums. Some drunk white kid wanders into the kitchen. He says hey to Will and then he lies down on the floor with his head under Carly’s chair. “Carly, Carly, Carly,” he says. “I am so in love with you right now. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. And you don’t even know my name. That’s hurtful.” “Museums are okay,” Carly says. “I like concerts. Jazz. Improvisational comedy. I like stuff that isn’t the same every time you look at it.” “How about zombies?” Will says. No more steak. He mops up meat juice with one of the muffins. Maybe he could eat another one of those steaks. The kid with his head under Carly’s chair says, “Carly? Carly? Carly? I like it when you sit on my face, Carly.” “You mean like horror movies?” Carly says. “The living dead,” says the kid under the chair. “The walking dead. Why do the dead walk everywhere? Why don’t they just catch the bus?” “You still hungry?” Carly says to Will. “I could make you some cinnamon toast. Or some soup.” “They could carpool,” the kid under the chair says. “Hey y’all, I don’t know why they call carpools carpools. It’s not like there are cars with swimming pools in them. Because people might drown on their way to school. What a weird word. Carpool. Carpool. Carly’s pool. There are naked people in Carly’s pool, but Carly isn’t naked in Carly’s pool.” “Is there a phone around here?” Will says. “I was thinking I should call my dad. He’s having open-heart surgery tomorrow.” It’s not his name, but let’s call him Soap. That’s what they called him in prison, although not for the reasons you’re thinking. When he was a kid, he’d read a book about a boy named Soap. So he didn’t mind the nickname. It was better than Oatmeal, which is what one guy ended up getting called. You don’t want to know why Oatmeal got called Oatmeal. It would put you off oatmeal. Soap was in prison for six months. In some ways, six months isn’t a long time. You spend longer inside your mother. But six months in prison is enough time to think about things and all around you, everyone else is thinking too. It can make you go crazy, wondering what other people are thinking about. Some guys thought about their families, and other guys thought about revenge, or how they were going to get rich. Some guys took correspondence courses or fell in love because of what one of the volunteer art instructors said about one of their watercolors. Soap didn’t take an art course, but he thought about art. Art was why Soap was in prison. This sounded romantic, but really, it was just stupid. Even before Soap and his friend Mike went to prison, Soap was sure that he’d had opinions about art, even though he hadn’t known much about art. It was the same with prison. Art and prison were the kind of things that you had opinions about, even if you didn’t know anything about them. Soap still didn’t know much about art. These were some of the things that he had known about art before prison: He knew what he liked when he saw it. As it had turned out, he knew what he liked, even when he couldn’t see it. Museums gave him hiccups. He had hiccups a lot of the time while he was in prison too. These were some of the things Soap figured out about art while he was in prison. Great art came out of great suffering. Soap had gone through a lot of shit because of art. There was a difference between art, which you just looked at, and things like soap, which you used. Even if the soap smelled so good that you didn’t want to use it, only smell it. This was why people got so pissed off about art. Because you didn’t eat it, and you didn’t sleep on it, and you couldn’t put it up your nose. A lot of people said things like “That’s not art” when whatever they were talking about could clearly not have been anything else, except art. When Soap got tired of thinking about art, he thought about zombies. He worked on his zombie contingency plan. Thinking about zombies was less tiring than thinking about art. Here’s what Soap knew about zombies: Zombies were not about sex. Zombies were not interested in art. Zombies weren’t complicated. It wasn’t like werewolves or ghosts or vampires. Vampires, for example, were the middle/upper-middle management of the supernatural world. Some people thought of vampires as rock stars, but really they were more like Martha Stewart. Vampires were prissy. They had to follow rules. They had to look good. Zombies weren’t like that. You couldn’t exorcise zombies. You didn’t need luxury items like silver bullets or crucifixes or holy water. You just shot zombies in the head, or set fire to them, or hit them over the head really hard. There were some guys in the prison who knew about that. There were guys in the prison who knew about anything you might want to know about. There were guys who knew things that you didn’t want to know. It was like a library, except it wasn’t. Zombies didn’t discriminate. Everyone tasted equally good as far as zombies were concerned. And anyone could be a zombie. You didn’t have to be special, or good at sports, or good-looking. You didn’t have to smell good, or wear the right kind of clothes, or listen to the right kind of music. You just had to be slow. Soap liked this about zombies. There is never just one zombie. There was something about clowns that was worse than zombies. (Or maybe something that was the same. When you see a zombie, you want to laugh at first. When you see a clown, most people get a little nervous. There’s the pallor and the cakey mortician-style makeup, the shuffling and the untidy hair. But clowns were probably malicious, and they moved fast on those little bicycles and in those little, crammed cars. Zombies weren’t much of anything. They didn’t carry musical instruments and they didn’t care whether or not you laughed at them. You always knew what zombies wanted.) Given a choice, Soap would take zombies over clowns any day. There was a white guy in the prison who had been a clown. Nobody was sure why he was in prison. It turned out that everyone in the prison had a zombie contingency plan, once you asked them, just like everyone in prison had a prison escape plan, only nobody talked about those. Soap tried not to dwell on escape plans, although sometimes he dreamed that he was escaping. Then the zombies would show up. They always showed up in his escape dreams. You could escape prison, but you couldn’t escape zombies. This was true in Soap’s dreams, just the way it was true in the movies. You couldn’t get any more true than that. According to Soap’s friend Mike, who was also in prison, people worried too much about zombies and not enough about icebergs. Even though icebergs were real. Mike pointed out that icebergs were slow, like zombies. Maybe you could adapt zombie contingency plans to cope with icebergs. Mike asked Soap to start thinking about icebergs. No one else was. Somebody had to plan for icebergs, according to Mike. Even after Soap got out of prison, when it was much too late, he still dreamed about escaping from prison. “So whose house is this, anyway?” Will asks Carly. She’s walking up the stairs in front of him. If he reached out just one hand, he could untie her bikini top. It would just fall off. “This girl,” Carly says, and proceeds to relate a long, sad story. “A friend of mine. Her parents took her to France for this bicycle tour. They’re into Amway. This trip is some kind of bonus. Like, her father sold a bunch of water filters and so now everyone has to go to France and build their own bicycles. In Marseilles. Isn’t that lame? She can’t even speak French. She’s a Francophilophobe. She’s a klutz. Her parents don’t even like her. If they could have, they would have left her at home. Or maybe they’ll leave her somewhere in France. Shit, would I love to see her try and ride a bike in France. She’ll probably fall right over the Alps. I hate her. We were going to have this party and then she said I should go ahead and have it without her. She’s really pissed off at her parents.” “Is this a bathroom?” Will says. “Hold on a minute.” He goes in and takes a piss. He flushes and when he goes to wash his hands, he sees that the people who own this house have put some chunk of fancy soap beside the sink. He sniffs the soap. Then he opens up the door. Carly is standing there talking to some Asian girl wearing a strapless dress with little shiny fake plastic flowers all over it. It’s too big for her in the bust, so she’s holding the front out like she’s waiting for someone to come along and drop a weasel in it. Will wonders who the dress belongs to, and why this girl would want to wear an ugly dress like that, anyway. He holds out the soap. “Smell this,” he says to Carly and she does. “What does it smell like?” “I don’t know,” she says. “Marmalade?” “Lemongrass,” Will says. He marches back into the bathroom and opens up the window. There’s a swimming pool down there with people in it. He throws the soap out the window and some guy in the pool yells, “Hey!” “Why’d he do that?” the girl in the hall says. Carly starts laughing. Soap’s friend Mike had a girlfriend named Jenny. Jenny never came to see Mike in prison. Soap felt bad about this. Soap’s dad was living in New Zealand and every once in a while Soap got a postcard. Soap’s mom, who lived in California out near Manhattan Beach, was too busy and too pissed off with Soap to visit him in prison. Soap’s mom didn’t tolerate stupidity or bad luck. Soap’s older sister, Becka, was the only family member who ever came to visit him in prison. Becka was an actress-waitress who had once been in a low-budget zombie movie. Soap had watched it once and wasn’t sure which was stranger: seeing your sister naked, or seeing your naked sister get eaten by zombies. Becka was almost good looking enough to be on a reality dating show, but not funny looking or sad enough to be on one of the makeover shows. Becka was always giving notice. So then their mom would buy Becka a round-trip ticket to go visit Soap. Soap figured he was supposed to be an example to Becka: find a good job and keep it, or you’ll end up in prison like your brother. Becka might have been average in L.A., but average in L.A. is Queen of Mars in the visiting room of a federal penitentiary in North Carolina. Guys kept asking Soap when they were going to see his sister on TV. Soap’s mom owned a boutique right on Manhattan Beach. It was called Float. Becka and Soap called it Wash Your Mouth. The boutique sold soaps and shampoos, nothing else. The soaps and shampoos were supposed to smell like food. What the soaps really smelled like were those candles that were supposed to smell like food, but which smelled instead like those air fresheners which hang from the rearview mirrors in taxis or stolen cars. Like looking behind you smells like strawberries. Like making a clean getaway smells the same as the room freshener Soap and Becka used to spray when they’d been smoking their mother’s pot, before she got home. Once when they were in high school, Soap and Becka had bought a urinal cake. It smelled like peppermint. They’d taken the urinal cake out of its packaging and put it in a fancy box with some tissue paper and a ribbon. Soap had wrapped it up and given it to their mother for Mother’s Day. Told her it was a pumice soap for exfoliating feet. Soap liked soap that smelled like soap. His mom was always sending care packages of soaps that smelled like olive oil and neroli and peppermint and brown sugar and cucumber and martinis and toasted marshmallow. You weren’t supposed to have bars of soap in prison. If you put a bar of soap in a sock, you could hit somebody over the head with it. You could clobber somebody. But Becka made an arrangement with the guards in the visiting room, and the guards in the visiting room made an arrangement with the guards in charge of the mailroom. Soap gave out his mother’s soaps to everyone in prison. Whoever wanted them. It turned out everyone wanted soap that smelled like food: social workers and prison guards and drug dealers and murderers and even people who hadn’t been able to afford good lawyers. No wonder his mom’s boutique did so well. While Soap was in prison, Becka kept Soap’s painting for him. Sometimes he asked and she brought it with her when she came to visit. He made her promise not to give it to their mother, not to pawn it for rent money, to keep it under her bed where it would be safe as long as her roommate’s cat didn’t sneak in. Becka promised that if there were a fire or an earthquake, she’d rescue the painting first. Even before she rescued her roommate or her roommate’s cat. Carly takes Will into a bedroom. There’s a big painting of a flower garden, and under the painting is a king-sized bed with dresses lying all over it. There are dresses on the floor. “Go ahead and call your dad,” Carly says. “I’ll come back in a while with some more beer. You want another beer?” “Why not?” Will says. He waits until she leaves the room and then he calls his dad. When his dad picks up the phone, he says, “Hey, Dad, how’s it going?” “Junior!” his dad says. “How’s it going?” “Did I wake you up? What time is it there?” Junior says. “Doesn’t matter,” his dad says. “I was working on a jigsaw puzzle. No picture on the box. I think it’s lemurs. Or maybe binturongs.” “Not much,” Junior says. “Staying out of trouble.” “Super,” his dad says. “That’s super.” “I was thinking about that thing we talked about. About how I could come visit you sometime?” Junior says. “Sure,” his dad says. His dad is always enthusiastic about Junior’s ideas. “Hey, that would be great. Get out of that fucking country while you still can. Come visit your old dad. We could do father-son stuff. Go bungee jumping.” The girl in the plastic flower dress marches into the bedroom. She takes the dress off and drops it on the bed. She goes into the closet and comes out again holding a dress made out of black and purple feathers. It looks like something a dancer in Las Vegas might wear when she got off work. “Some girl just came in and took off all her clothes,” Junior says to his dad. “Well you give her my best,” his dad says, and hangs up. “My dad says hello,” Junior says to the naked girl. Then he says, “My dad and I have a question for you. Do you ever worry about zombies? Do you have a zombie contingency plan?” The girl just smiles like she thinks that’s a good question. She puts the new dress on. She walks out. Will calls his sister, but Becka isn’t answering her cell phone. So Will picks up all the dresses and goes into the closet. He hangs them up. People clean up after themselves. Zombies don’t. In Will’s opinion, zombies are attracted to suburbs the way that tornadoes are attracted to trailer parks. Maybe it’s all the windows. Maybe houses in suburbs have too many windows and that’s what drives zombies nuts. If the zombies showed up tonight, Will would barricade the bedroom door with the heavy oak dresser. Will will let the naked girl come in first. Carly too. The three of them will make a rope by tying all those dresses together and escape through the window. Maybe they could make wings out of that feather dress and fly away. Will could be the Bird Man of Suburbitraz. Will looks under the bed, just to make sure there are no zombies or suitcases or that drunk guy from downstairs under there. There’s a little black kid in Superman pajamas curled up asleep under the bed. When Becka was a kid, she kept a suitcase under the bed. The suitcase was full of things that were to be rescued in case of an earthquake or a fire or murderers. The suitcase’s secondary function was using up some of the dangerous, dark space under the bed which might otherwise have been inhabited by monsters or dead people. Here be suitcases. In the suitcase, Becka kept a candle shaped like a dragon, which she’d bought at the mall with some birthday money and then couldn’t bear to use as a candle; a little ceramic dog; some favorite stuffed animals; their mother’s charm bracelet; a photo album; Black Beauty and a whole lot of other horse books. Every once in a while Becka and her little brother would drag the suitcase back out from under the bed and sort through it. Becka would take things out and put other things in. Her little brother always felt happy and safe when he helped Becka do this. When things got bad, you would rescue what you could. Modern art is a waste of time. When the zombies show up, you can’t worry about art. Art is for people who aren’t worried about zombies. Besides zombies and icebergs, there are other things that Soap has been thinking about. Tsunamis, earthquakes, Nazi dentists, killer bees, army ants, black plague, old people, divorce lawyers, sorority girls, Jimmy Carter, giant squids, rabid foxes, strange dogs, news anchors, child actors, fascists, narcissists, psychologists, ax murderers, unrequited love, footnotes, zeppelins, the Holy Ghost, Catholic priests, John Lennon, chemistry teachers, redheaded men with British accents, librarians, spiders, nature books with photographs of spiders in them, darkness, teachers, swimmming pools, smart girls, pretty girls, rich girls, angry girls, tall girls, nice girls, girls with superpowers, giant lizards, blind dates who turn out to have narcolepsy, angry monkeys, feminine hygiene commercials, sitcoms about aliens, things under the bed, contact lenses, ninjas, performance artists, mummies, spontaneous combustion. Soap has been afraid of all of these things at one time or another. Ever since he went to prison, he’s realized that he doesn’t have to be afraid. All he has to do is come up with a plan. Be prepared. It’s just like the Boy Scouts, except you have to be even more prepared. You have to prepare for everything that the Boy Scouts didn’t prepare you for, which is pretty much everything. Soap is a waste of time too. What good is soap in a zombie situation? Soap sometimes imagines himself trapped in his mother’s soap boutique. Zombies are coming out of the surf, dripping wet, hellishly hungry, always so fucking slow, shuffling hopelessly up through the sand of Manhattan Beach. Soap has barricaded himself in Float with his mother and some blond Japanese tourists with surfboards. “Do something, sweetheart!” his mother implores. So Sweetheart throws water all over the floor. There’s the surfboards, a baseball bat under the counter, some rolls of quarters, and a swordfish mounted up on the wall, but Sweetheart decides the cash register is best for bashing. He tells the Japanese tourists to get down on their hands and knees and rub soap all over the floor. When the zombies finally find a way into Float, his mother and the tourists can hide behind the counter. The zombies will slip all over the floor and Sweetheart will bash them in the head with the cash register. It will be just like a Busby Berkeley zombie musical. “What’s going on?” Carly says. “How’s your father doing?” “He’s fine,” Will says. “Except for the open-heart surgery thing. Except for that, he’s good. I was just looking under the bed. There’s a little kid under there.” “Oh,” Carly says. “Him. That’s the little brother. Of my friend. Le bro de mon ami. I’m taking care of him. He likes to sleep under the bed.” “What’s his name?” Will says. “Leo,” Carly says. She hands Will a beer and sits down on the bed beside him. “So tell me about this prison thing. What did you do? Should I be afraid of you?” “Probably not,” Will says. “It doesn’t do much good to be afraid of things.” “So tell me what you did,” Carly says. She burps so loud that Will is amazed that the kid under the bed doesn’t wake up. Leo. “This is a great party,” Will says. “Thanks for hanging out with me.” “Somebody just puked out of a window in the living room. Someone else almost threw up in the swimming pool, but I got them out in time. If someone throws up on the piano, I’m in big trouble. You can’t get puke out from between piano keys.” Will thinks Carly says this like she knows what she’s talking about. There are girls who have had years of piano lessons, and then there are girls who have taken piano lessons who also know how to throw a party and how to clean throw-up out of a piano. There’s something sexy about a girl who knows how to play the piano, and keys that stick for no apparent reason. Will doesn’t have any zombie contingency plans that involve pianos, and it makes him sick. How could he have forgotten pianos? “I’ll help you clean up,” Will says. “If you want.” “You don’t have to try so hard, you know,” Carly says. She stares right at him, like there’s a spider on his face or an interesting tattoo, some word spelled upside down in a foreign language that she wants to understand. Will doesn’t have any tattoos. As far as he’s concerned, tattoos are like art, only worse. Will stares right back. He says, “When I was at this party outside Kansas City, I heard this story about a kid who threw a lot of parties while his parents were on vacation. Right before they got home, he realized how fucked up the house was, and so he burned it down.” This story always makes Will laugh. What a dumb kid. “You want to help me burn down my friend’s house?” Carly says. She smiles, like, what a good joke. What a nice guy he is. “What time is it? Two? If it’s two in the morning, then you have to tell me why you went to prison. It’s like a rule. We’ve known each other for at least an hour, and it’s late at night and I still don’t know why you were in prison, even though I can tell you want to tell me or otherwise you wouldn’t have told me you were in prison in the first place. Was what you did that bad?” “No,” Will says. “It was just really stupid.” “Stupid is good,” Carly says. “Come on. Pretty please.” She pulls back the cover on the bed and crawls under it, pulls the sheets up to her chin. Good night, Carly. Good night, Carly’s gorgeous tits. It was so small and it was so far away, even when you looked at it up close. Soap said it was trees. A wood. Mike said it was a painting of an iceberg. When Soap thinks about the zombies, he thinks about how there’s nowhere you can go that the zombies won’t find you. Even the fairy tales that Becka used to read to him. Ali Baba and the Forty Zombies. Open Zombie. Snow White and the Seven Tiny Zombies. Any place Will thinks of, the zombies will eventually get there too. He pictures all of these places as paintings in a gallery, because as long as a place is just a painting, it’s a safe place. Landscapes with frames around them, to keep the landscapes from leaking out. To keep the zombies from getting in. A ski resort in summer, all those lonely gondolas. An oil rig on a sea at night. The Museum of Natural History. The Playboy mansion. The Eiffel Tower. The Matterhorn. David Letterman’s house. Buckingham Palace. A bowling alley. A Laundromat. He puts himself in the painting of the flower garden that’s hanging above the bed where he and Carly are sitting, and it’s sunny and warm and safe and beautiful. But once he puts himself into the painting, the zombies show up just like they always do. The space station. New Zealand. He bets his dad thinks he’s safe from zombies in New Zealand, because it’s an island. His dad is an idiot. People paint trees all the time. All kinds of trees. Art is supposed to be about things like trees. Or icebergs, although there are more paintings of trees than there are paintings of icebergs, so Mike doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “I wasn’t in prison for very long,” Soap says. “What Mike and I did wasn’t really that bad. We didn’t hurt anybody.” “You don’t look like a bad guy,” Carly says. And when Soap looks at Carly, she looks like a nice kid. A nice girl with nice tits. But Soap knows you can’t tell by looking. Soap and Mike were going to be rich once they got out of college. The two of them had it all figured out. They were going to have an excellent website, just as soon as they figured out what it was going to be about, and what to call it. While they were in prison, they decided this website would have been about zombies. That would have been fucking awesome. Hungryzombie.com, lonelyzombie.com, nakedzombie.com, soyoumarriedazombie.com, zombiecontingencyplan.com, dotcomofthewalkingdead.com were just a few of the names they came up with. In Will’s opinion, people will go anywhere if there’s a zombie involved. Cool people would have gone to the site and hooked up. People would have talked about old horror movies, or about their horrible temp jobs. There would have been comics and concerts. There would have been advertising, sponsors, movie deals. Soap would have been able to afford art. He would have bought Picassos and Vermeers and original comic book art. He would have bought drinks for women. Beautiful, bisexual, bionic women with unpronounceable names and weird habits in bed. Only by the time Soap and Mike and the rest of their friends got out of school, all of that was already over. Nobody cared if you had a website. Everybody already had websites. No one was going to give you money. There were lots of guys who knew how to do what Soap and Mike knew how to do. It turned out that Mike’s and Soap’s parents had paid a lot of money for them to learn how to do things that everyone could already do. Mike had a girlfriend named Jenny. Soap liked Jenny because she teased him, but Jenny really isn’t important to this story. She wasn’t ever going to fall in love with Soap, and Soap knew it. What matters is that Jenny worked in a museum, and so Soap and Mike started going to museum events, because you got Brie on crackers and wine and martinis. Free food. All you had to do was wear a suit and listen to people talk about art and mortgages and their children. There would be a lot of older women who reminded Soap of his mother, and it was clear that Soap reminded these women of their sons. What was never clear was whether these women were flirting with him, or whether they wanted his advice about something that even they couldn’t put their finger on. One morning, in prison, Soap woke up and realized that the opportunity had been there and he’d never even seen it. He and Mike, they could have started a website for older upper-middle-class women with strong work ethics and confused, resentful grown-up children with bachelor degrees and no jobs. That was better than zombies. They could even have done some good. “Okay,” Will says. “I’ll tell you why I went to prison. But first you have to tell me what you’d do if zombies showed up at your party. Tonight. I ask everyone this. Everyone has a zombie contingency plan.” “You mean like with colleges, just in case you don’t get into your first choice?” Carly says. She holds an eyelid open, puts her finger to her eyeball, and pops out a contact lens. She puts it on the table beside the bed. She doesn’t take the other lens out. Maybe that eye isn’t scratchy. “So my eyes aren’t actually green. The breasts are real, by the way. I don’t watch a lot of horror movies. They give me nightmares. Leo likes that stuff.” Will sits on the other side of the bed and watches her. She’s thinking about it. Maybe she likes how the world looks through one green contact lens. “My parents keep a gun in the fridge. I guess I’d go get it and shoot the zombies? Or maybe I’d hide in my mom’s closet? Behind all her shoes and stuff? I’d cry a lot. I’d scream for help. I’d call the police.” “Okay,” Will says. “I was just wondering. What about your brother? How would you protect him?” Carly yawns like she isn’t impressed at all, but Will can see she’s impressed. It’s just that she’s sleepy, too. “Smart Will. You knew this was my house all along. You knew Leo was my brother. Am I such a bad liar?” “Yeah,” Will says. “There’s a picture of you and Leo over on your parents’ dresser.” “Okay,” Carly says. “This is my parents’ bedroom. They’re in France building bicycles, and they left me and they left Leo here. So I threw a party. Serves them right if someone burns their house down.” “I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time,” Will says. “Even though we just met. For example, I knew your eyes weren’t really green.” “We don’t really know each other very well,” Carly says. But she says it in a friendly way. “I keep trying to get to know you better. I bet you didn’t know that I want to be president someday.” “I bet you didn’t know that I think about icebergs a lot, although not as much as I think about zombies,” Will says. “I’d like to go live on an iceberg,” Carly says. “And I’d like to be president too. Maybe I could do both. I could be the first black woman president who lives on an iceberg.” “I’d vote for you,” Will says. “Will,” Carly says. “Don’t you want to get under the covers with me? Are you intimidated by the fact that I’m going to be president someday? Are you intimidated by competent, successful women?” Will says, “Do you want to fool around or do you want me to tell how I ended up in prison? Door A or Door B. I’m a really good kisser, but Leo is asleep under the bed. Your brother.” Jenny and Mike used to go off and kiss in the museum where Jenny worked, but Soap never kissed Jenny. Once, in college, Soap kissed Mike. They were both drunk. Men kissed men in prison. White men made out with black men. Becka used to make out with her boyfriends out on the beach while her brother hid in the dunes and watched. In the zombie movie, a zombie ate Becka’s lips. You don’t ever want to kiss a zombie. “He’s a heavy sleeper,” Carly says. “Maybe you should just tell me what you did and we can go from there.” Soap and Mike and a couple of their friends were at one of the parties at the little private museum where Jenny worked. They drank a lot of wine and they didn’t eat much except some olives. Jenny was busy and so Soap and Mike and their friends left the gallery where the wine and cheese were laid out, where the docents and the rich people were getting to know each other, and wandered out into the rest of the museum. They got farther and farther away from Jenny’s event, but nobody told them to come back and nobody showed up and asked them what they were doing. The other galleries were dark and so somebody dared Mike to go in one of them. They wanted to see if an alarm would go off. Mike did and the alarm didn’t. Next Soap went into the gallery. His name wasn’t Soap then. His name was Arthur, but everybody called him Art. Ha ha. You couldn’t see anything in the gallery. Art felt stupid just standing there, so he put his hands straight out in front of him in the darkness and walked forward until his fingers touched a wall. He kept his fingers on the wall and walked around the room. Every now and then his fingers would touch a frame and he’d move his hand up and down and along the frame to see how big the painting was. He walked all the way around the room until he was at the door again. Then somebody else went in, it was Markson who went in, and when Markson came out, he was holding a painting in his arms. It was about three feet by three feet. A painting of a ship with a lot of masts and sails. Lots of little dabs of blue. Little people on the deck of the ship, looking busy. “Holy shit,” Mike said. “Markson, what did you just do?” You have to understand that Markson was an idiot. Everyone knew that. Right then he was a drunk idiot, but everyone else was drunk too. “I just wanted to see what it looked like,” Markson said. “I didn’t think it would be so heavy.” He put the painting down against the wall. No alarms were going off. The gallery on the other side of the hall was dark too. So they made it a game. Everyone went into one of the galleries and walked around and chose a painting. Then you came out again and saw what you had. Someone got a Seurat. Someone had a Mary Cassatt. Someone else had a Winslow Homer. There were a lot of paintings by artists whom none of them knew. So those didn’t count. Art went back into the first gallery. This time he was slow. There were already some gaps on the gallery wall. He put his ear up against some of the paintings. He felt that he was listening for something, only he didn’t know what. He chose a very small painting. When he got it out into the hall, he saw it was an oil painting. A blobby blue-green mass that might have been water or a person or it might have been trees. Woods from very far away. Something slow and far away. He couldn’t read the artist’s signature. Mike was in the other gallery. When he came out with a painting, the painting turned out to be a Picasso. Some sad-looking freaky woman and her sad-looking freaky dog. Everyone agreed that Mike had won. Then that idiot Markson said, “I bet you can’t walk out of here with that Picasso.” Sometimes when he’s in houses that don’t belong to him, Soap feels bad. He shouldn’t be where he is. He doesn’t belong anywhere. Nobody really knows him. If they did, they wouldn’t like him. Everyone always seems happier than Soap, and as if they know something that Soap doesn’t. He tells himself that things will be different when the zombies show up. “You guys stole a Picasso?” Carly says. “It was a minor Picasso. Hardly a Picasso at all. We weren’t really stealing it,” Will says. “We just thought it would be funny to smuggle it out of Jenny’s museum and see how far we got with it. We just walked out of the museum and nobody stopped us. We put the Picasso in the car and drove back to our apartment. I took that little painting too, just so the Picasso would have company. And because I wanted to spend some more time looking at it. I put it under my coat, under one arm, while the other guys were helping Mike get past the party without being seen. We hung the Picasso in the living room when we got back and I put the little painting in my bedroom. We were still drunk when the police showed up. Jenny lost her job. We went to prison. Markson and the other guys had to do community service.” He stops talking. Carly takes his hand. She squeezes it. She says, “That’s the weirdest story I’ve ever heard. Why is it that everything is so much sadder and funnier and so much more true when you’re drunk?” “I haven’t told you the weird part yet,” Will says. He can’t tell her the weirdest part of the story, although maybe he can try to show her. “Did I tell you that I used to be on my school’s debate team?” Carly says. “That’s the weirdest thing about me. I like getting in arguments. The boy with his head under my chair, I kicked his ass in a debate about marijuana. I humiliated him all over the map.” Will doesn’t use drugs anymore. It’s too much like being in a museum. It makes everything look like art, and makes everything feel like just before the zombies show up. He says, “The museum said that I hadn’t stolen the little painting from them. They said it wasn’t theirs, even when I explained the whole thing. I told the truth and everyone thought I was lying. The police asked around, just in case Mike and I had done the same thing somewhere else, at some other museum, and nobody came forward. Nobody knew the artist’s name. So finally they just gave the painting back to me. They thought I was trying to pull some scam.” “So what happened to it?” Carly says. “I’ve still got it. My sister kept it for me while I was in prison,” Will says. “For two years. Since I got out, I’ve been trying to find a place to ditch it. I’ve left it a couple of places, but then it turns out that I haven’t. I can’t leave it behind. No matter how hard I try. It doesn’t belong to me, but I can’t get rid of it.” “My friend Jessica does this thing she calls shopleaving,” Carly says. “When someone gives her a hideous shirt for her birthday or if she buys a book and it’s not any good, she goes into a store and leaves the shirt on a hanger. She leaves the book on the shelf. Once she took this crazy, mean parakeet to a shoe store and put him in a shoebox. What happened to your friend? Mike?” “He went to Seattle. He started up a website for ex-cons. He got a lot of funding. There are a lot of people out there who have been in prison. They need websites.” “That’s nice,” Carly says. “That’s like a happy ending.” “I’ve got the painting in the car,” Will says. “Do you want it?” “I like Van Gogh,” Carly says. “And Georgia O’Keeffe.” “Let me go get it,” Will says. He goes downstairs before she can stop him. The guys on the couch are watching somebody’s wedding video now. He wonders what they would think if they knew Carly was upstairs in bed, waiting for him. The dancing girl is in the kitchen with the boy under the table. The girl in the dress is out on the lawn. She isn’t doing anything except maybe looking at stars. She watches Will go to his car, open the trunk, and take out the little painting. Out behind the house, Will can hear people in the pool. Will hasn’t felt this peaceful in a long time. It’s like that first slow part in a horror movie, before the bad thing happens. Will knows that sometimes you shouldn’t try to anticipate the bad thing. Sometimes you are supposed to just listen to swimmers fooling around in a pool. People you can’t see. The night and the moon and the girl in the dress. Will stands on the lawn for a while, holding the painting, wishing that Becka was here with him. Or Mike. Will takes the painting back upstairs and into the master bedroom. He turns the lights off and wakes Carly up. She’s been crying in her sleep. “Here it is,” he says. “Will?” Carly says. “You turned off the light. Is it the ocean? It looks like the ocean. I can’t really see anything.” “Sure you can,” Will says. “There’s moonlight.” “I only have one contact lens in,” Carly says. Will stands on the bed and lifts the painting of the garden off its picture hook. How can a painting of some flowers be so heavy? He leans it against the bed and hangs up the painting from the car. Iceberg, zombie, a bunch of trees. Some obscured and unknowable thing. How are you supposed to tell what it is? It makes him want to die, sometimes. “There you go,” he says. “It’s yours.” “It’s beautiful,” Carly says. Will thinks maybe she’s crying again. She says, “Will? Will you just lie down with me? For a little while?” Sometimes Soap has this dream. He isn’t sure whether it’s a prison dream or a dream about art or a dream about zombies. Maybe it isn’t about any of those things. He dreams that he’s in a dark room. Sometimes it’s an enormous room, very long and narrow. Sometimes there are people in it, leaning silently up against the walls. He can only figure out if there are people or how big the room is when he stretches out his arms and walks forward. He has no idea what they’re doing in the room with him. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do, either. Sometimes it’s a very small room. It’s dark. It’s dark. “Hey, kid. Hey, Leo. Wake up, Leo. We gotta go.” Soap is lying on the floor beside the bed, holding up the dust ruffle. He has to whisper. Carly is asleep on the too-big bed, under the covers. Leo uncurls. He wriggles forward, towards Will. Then he wiggles back again, away from Will. He’s maybe six or seven years old. “Who are you?” Leo says. “Where’s Carly?” “Carly sent me to get you, Leo,” Soap says. “You have to be very, very quiet and do exactly what I say. There are zombies in the house. There are brain-eating zombies in the house. We have to get to a safe place. We have to go get Carly. She needs us.” Leo stretches out his hand. Soap takes it and pulls him out from under the bed. He picks Leo up. Leo holds on to Will tightly. He doesn’t weigh a lot, but he’s so warm. Little kids have fast metabolisms. “The zombies are chasing Carly?” Leo says. “That’s right,” Soap says. “We have to go save her.” “Can I bring my robot?” Leo says. “I’ve already put your robot in the car,” Will says. “And your dinosaur T-shirt and your basketball.” “Are you Wolverine?” Leo says. “That’s right,” Wolverine says. “I’m Wolverine. Let’s get out of here.” Leo says, “Can I see your claws?” “Not now,” Wolverine says. “I have to go to the bathroom before we go,” Leo says. “Okay,” Wolverine says. “That’s a great idea. I’m proud of you for telling me that.” Some things that you could try with zombies, but which won’t work: Panic. Don’t panic. Remain calm. Call the police. Take them out to dinner. Get them drunk. Ask them to come back later. Ignore them. Take them home. Tell them jokes. Play board games with them. Tell them you love them. Rescue them. Wolverine and Leo have a backpack. They put a box of Cheerios and some bananas and Leo and Carly’s parents’ gun and a Game Boy and some batteries and a Ziploc bag full of twenty-dollar bills from the closet in the master bedroom in the backpack. There’s a late-night horror movie on TV, but no one is there to watch it. The girl in the dress on the lawn is gone. If there’s someone in the pool, they’re keeping quiet. Wolverine and Leo get in Wolverine’s car and drive away. Carly is dreaming that she’s the President of the United States of America. She’s living in the White House—it turns out that the White House is built out of ice. It’s more like the Whitish Greenish Bluish House. Everybody wears big fur coats and when President Carly gives presidential addresses, she can see her breath. All her words hanging there. She’s hanging out with rock stars and Nobel Prize winners. It’s a wonderful dream. Carly’s going to save the world. Everyone loves her, even her parents. Her parents are so proud of her. When she wakes up, the first thing she sees—before she sees all the other things that are missing besides the oil painting of the woods that nobody lives in, nobody painted, and nobody stole—is the empty space on the wall in the bedroom above her parents’ bed. [End] http://www.johnjosephadams.com/the-living-dead/free-stories-excerpts/some-zombie-contingency-plans-by-kelly-link/ SOME ZOMBIE CONTINGENCY PLANS BY KELLY LINK Kelly Link is the author of many wonderful short stories, which have been collected in two volumes—Stranger Things Happen and Magic for Beginners—with a third, Pretty Monsters, due out shortly. Her short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Conjunctions, and in anthologies such as McSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales, The Dark, The Faery Reel, and Best American Short Stories. With her husband, Gavin J. Grant, Link runs Small Beer Press and edits the zine Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet. Grant and Link also co-edit (with Ellen Datlow) The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror annual. Her fiction has earned her an NEA Literature Fellowship and won a variety of awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, Stoker, Tiptree, and Locus awards. “s” first appeared in Link’s collection, Magic for Beginners (which, incidentally, also includes another great zombie story called “The Hortlak”). As this story illustrates, a zombie contingency plan is an important thing to have, so before we progress any further in this anthology, you should have a look at this tale so that you can stop and consider a plan of your own. In fact, you may want to think about that now; although this book is a rather weighty tome it probably wouldn’t make a very effective weapon against the living dead. THE LIVING DEAD #KellyLink #Writers #ShortStoriesByKellyLink #AmericanWrites #ShortStories

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