✘ - I approached you once and it didn’t go anywhere
✧ - I can’t think of a way for our characters to interact
Grayface~ that’s valid. And I apologize our prior interactions didn’t go anywhere. Like most, this past year has been a Hell, and this site fell into a low priority for me. Frankly, it still is but I do want to keep reaching out to folks for rping attempts. This is why I state in my rules, more or less, that I’m low maintenance when it comes to rping on here. It’s not to discourage you or anyone else if you’d like to rp with me; I’m a distant individual who takes time in respond, so I don’t work the best with those who prefer writing fast-paced/daily/weekly. Nothing personal at all.
As far as interactions go, if we’re mutuals, you are more than welcome to send things in or tag me in starters. If you’re shy and want a more indirect approach, I do some have starter calls floating about somewhere. Nonetheless, thanks for sending this in !
Two reasons for my typical absence below:
^ If I remember right, this number was over 300 last year. I do not want to go near anywhere near that this year lmao
^ My brain’s been drowning in this bizarre little AU from the past couple of months that’s got things from *** and *** and it’s out of control, but I can’t stop until I finish writing it so there’s that. I’m a man possessed.
❧ (i swear, if/when i survive this month i'll reach out jdskf)
Why don’t we RP?
❧ - I want to someday but I’m too busy right now
Nat ! It’s no issue at all; this past year as a whole has been hellish and it’s ongoing. Take your time and when it’s good, I’ll be around (more or less- I’m on that lurk life these days lol)
✧ - I can’t think of a way for our characters to interact. I am sorely lacking details on my non-canon world verses for my muses :')
Why don’t we RP?
Vana !!!! First off, I appreciate you sending something in, so thanks for that. If you’re down with impromptu stuff, we can flesh out non-canon verses as we go. Some of my verses also draw from canon to some degree without actually writing in that world- my supernatural fantasy verse is probably the closest that’s aligned in terms of timeline and general world setting, so that could be something we can try ! Little steps and all.
why we don't rp: because i'm about to blast our discord with yet another plot and giant AU and we're gonna weep over 'kay?
Why don’t we RP?
Let me eat !!! Is this what the evil laughter was for from before? The AU you mentioned? I backflip aggressively. I see our already not RPing hours are about to intensify. And once I finish That Thing? 🔪 🔪
❧ /im not busy just full of excuses. just tie me up and drag me back.
Why don’t we RP?
❧ - I want to someday but I’m too busy right now
Me on the way to dragging you out of your house.
More seriously, I feel this. But I also get exhausted when I look at the dash so that’s a whole other thing. Come back, my Dickcharm and we can throw words one at a time somewhere. Or better yet, reblog some memes and let’s spam inboxes ✨
ϟ - your writing intimidates me
☽ - you don’t seem interested in me/my character
✘ - I approached you once and it didn’t go anywhere
✧ - I can’t think of a way for our characters to interact
☀ - I don’t like any of your verses
❧ - I want to someday but I’m too busy right now
☹ - I think you’re overpowering/judgemental/demanding
☂ - you write too much/too fast and I don’t think I can keep up
❀ - you write with another version(s) of my character already
❤ - I want to ship our characters but you don’t list them as a ship
♠ - we did once and I embarrassed myself; now I’m too shy to try again
✂ - we started plotting but I forgot to reply and it’s been too long
✄ - we started plotting but you forgot to reply and it’s been too long
☼ - I can’t find your rules/about/verses/etc.
✎ - other reason (please define)
Echt, his mirth evident in the muffled laugh, a crease of open amusement appearing in the corners of his eye as Nara shoves him back, Zoro clicks his tongue, tutting as if this is a rehearsed line. Scooting closer, chin perched on Nara’s shoulder while his grin climbs higher, grows crooked and delighted, he tilts his head in mock innocence.
“What? Don’t want me to the be the big bad wolf that eats you up? Thought you were askin’ for that a second ago, Na-ra. But, since you want me to shut up…”
Shikamaru mirrored the echo of a tongue clicking, but nonetheless allowed the close, closer proximity despite his brazen words. It was enough to draw out another laugh from him, one that shook his shoulders with the low sound. With it, he raised his arm, fingers carding through short verdant locks. They anchored at his crown, drew lazily circles akin to his drawl.
“Oh sure~ Eat me up before shutting up, so long as you get beneath me after that. That’s how this works, right?”
“Like I’d let you walk away unsatisfied. I got a reputation to uphold~” Triumphant, grin sly and one hand squeezed tight around Nara’s thigh, Zoro leans over, breath ghosting across his neck like a promise, and—sticks his tongue into his ear. Nice and sloppy.
Breath held for a split second, it petered out into a poorly stifled laugh at the slick sensation assaulting his ear, and Shikamaru stuck his hand out, palming the junction of his jaw and squeezed.
“Haha, enough, e-enough! Your reputation precedes you but you know what, you might be better at sucking instead.”
“How ‘bout you bend over and we get to the main event.” How’s that for asking nicely?
“Yeah? Ever the wordsmith, aren’t ya? Alright, pucker up, Roronoa. Don’t make me regret it.” He’s trying hard not to laugh, but this was too good to pass up.
The foundation was the same as others, save for the plaque that marked it. Carved in the stained bronze was a name, one of the handful registered by the Prefectural Public Safety Commissions, one that civilians ought not to associate themselves with. Despite that, Shikamaru knew it to be neutral ground. He grazed a finger over the lettering, taking with it a healthy layer of dust. Only empty ghosts wandered within its corridors.
Looking up, he followed the line of windows wrapped in marbled cream, neutral much like the rest of the industrial block, and in the fading day, the sun stained its face a pale wash of pink and red hues, becoming alive before the fall of evening. Shikamaru let his gaze linger a beat longer and his thoughts drifted, occupied, towards familiar hallways.
They traveled further, caressing the old doors, those palaces but a vague shape in his head, always retreating, refusing to be a burden. Now, he coaxed them open, fingering the gray hinges that were weary from the world, and let the doors fall aside. Inside it, a memory, cherished and old.
Shikamaru heaved after Asuma’s heels.
Sporting smoker’s lungs at 23, he barely kept up the pace after a simple scaling, except he also knew Asuma was a monster under that stupid beard. Lee and Kiba, full of red and fire, bounced on their heels, grinning ear-to-ear, but Shikamaru only endured an ache, one that leveled him to the ground.
Stationed atop a restaurant, hidden behind tall banners and the dead night, Asuma watched the line of buildings over on the next block. All the buildings looked the same then, too. They each proclaimed a name on its face, an unnecessary statement given their notoriety. Asuma sighed and it added lines to his frown.
“You don’t need to ever get involved with them, but it never hurts to protect yourself.”
Shikamaru huffed, huddling closer to the building wall to stave off the wind. His calves twinged from exertion and the cold cut through his meager layers without care, sending a chill down his spine.
“I’m hurtin’ plenty,” he muttered and it dispelled the tension out of the air. “Besides, who would ever wanna get involved in that mess anyway? You’d get stuck in a lifelong sentence.”
Asuma’s expression, he remembered, resembled storms, a brewing of clouds that edged into the horizon of his eyes.
“Remember this: we all must make due. So if you must become the flames, always nurture your temper.”
That had been the end of it. For he suffocated in his own grief, his own failure, and the flames fed themselves full.
Waking, his touch stiffened on the last character of the plaque before edging off onto the marble. Laws spoke differently a decade later, but he saw how slow they moved, if the appearance of the name was any indication. It announced itself clearly at night, highlighting to it the very real life and presence of its being, despite the ordinances to prevent it otherwise. The edge of his lips curled, mirroring his hand tightened in a fist. Even now, it was all about appearance—to match the other nails in the plank. Conformity. Uniformity. The country’s anthem. He supposed he planned to die that way, in one uniform or another, nailed in the plank.
Shikamaru finally pulled his hand away, regarding the building with one last glance, and it was only then he noticed the pair of officers on patrol nearby. In uniform, they were alike, and he bowed, apologizing for prying into bad business.
“It’s bad luck to touch it,” one officer said. He gestured at the closed off doors, wearing a grimace. “The city still hasn’t figured out what to do with it yet, but it’s not like they can just knock it down. It’s best to leave it up to them, okay? Besides, shouldn’t you be off celebrating now?”
Shikamaru hummed a noise of agreement, wishing them a good new year, and pulled the straps of his backpack tighter, finally moving ahead into the greeting night. A businessman working late during holiday was no strange sight, least of all as unmemorable as he made himself to be—expectantly polite, tone light, all manners of propriety slotted in place, and he appeared simply as another mild-mannered civilian swallowed by the city.
Nonetheless, the alley welcomed him, beckoned him to the quiet alcove away from the festivities blooming from block to block. Suit heavy and those troublesome shoes more so, he packed them away into his bag, redressed in black, and carried the weight up. Colors shattered in his view along the way, crashing into the buildings and windows, all bearing wishes of a good fortune and longevity, but the only blessing he cared for remained hidden in the depths of his own layers, nestled underneath sleek night, and this allowed him to scale the walls without worry.
Snagging the last rung of the ladder, he hoisted himself up and greeted the newfound quiet with cherished breath. Roronoa was present, framed in a distant firework, and if he stood still a second longer, basking in the gentle caress of another breeze, he thought he could taste the embers on his skin. Expression wry, pulling on the strings of familiarity, Shikamaru took no hesitation to draw closer, dropping the weight of his disguise aside.
“I guess if you had all day to do something, you would get here before I did, but why’s that? Isn’t your organization known for their parties? I figured they’d be in full swing now.”
Humorless, a little mean, and Roronoa knew that. Roronoa knew that he knew, which explained why he made no move toward the bait. The games they played—shedding skin until it all became bone and they were no longer recognizable to anyone. A bull of unwarranted attention, a chameleon of thousand names—all amounted to dead ends. Finally, Roronoa turned to regard him, unreadable under the moonlight.
“Like your workplace ain’t offer parties of their own for this kind of thing?... Guess we’re both hidin’ out for something.”
The words, when they drew close enough, sounded thin, borderline sharp enough that Shikamaru kept a wide berth. His gaze narrowed on the cup curled in Roronoa’s grasp, which he tipped back without warning. The air thickened with shochu and Shikamaru offered nothing. He broke contact instead to consider the landscape that opened up at the ledge, roofs dotted with splashes of fire, all competing for thought.
A building could not feel, no matter how much red it shed, but the thought of it now lingered in Shikamaru’s mind, had him regard Roronoa with a quick clinical eye. What would be etched in Roronoa’s foundation?
“Hey, humor me tonight, okay? Because you never answer me when I ask. Why do you still do it? All of this, I mean. Is it penance or debt?”
In the expectant quiet, he regarded the skyline as it lit up with bruises and clamors of cheer. The sight excited him once, long ago, but he closed the memory off behind heavier locks. When the cup appeared at his side, Shikamaru hesitated a beat before taking the proffered drink and took a cursory sip. A strong taste of barley coated his tongue and he grimaced, handing it back without looking over. Their fingers grazed at the tip and he said nothing of it, but it was enough to lower his gaze. Their eyes met.
“You know, mine’s not much of a secret. Personal grudges and all. Revenge this, revenge that, so it doesn’t really weigh anything. I’m guessing you have something heavier with the way your shoulders always slouch like that.”
With the lie, he made a show of slumping his shoulders to mimic how the weight appeared, becoming a bird-like silhouette in the shadows. It finally drew a noise from Roronoa as he refilled the battered cup.
“You gettin’ nosy after just one drink? That’s sloppy, Na-ra~”
Like before, Roronoa gulped the drink down all at once but this time, Shikamaru aimed a grimace directly at him. His look lingered and despite that, he missed the tremble of his fingers, minute in the dark.
“It’s not sloppy to ask a question. Don’t be troublesome.”
“Who the hell knows? Maybe I’m tired of holdin’ the weight… and maybe I’ll say this much. Someone has something of mine. And I made a promise.”
The heft of those words bore down his throat without warning. It sat there, low—waited to be measured. Did it travel to the brain or the heart? What could unravel from a promise?
Shikamaru returned nothing, pushed himself onto the ledge instead where the granite gnawed on his legs, sapping out the warmth. His thighs burned but he ignored it for the improved view, and sought the fireworks overhead.
“Well, I suppose that’s a bit funny because I’m looking for someone, but I’m wondering how selfish I am to look for him after all this time. He took... someone from me and I’ve been waiting to repay the favor.”
He refused to say what it was; he disliked the way it caressed his lips when he sounded out the syllables: revenge. A favor, on the other hand, appeared like a promise in its own corrupted way. He wanted neither. He didn’t deserve it.
“But I’ll be done after that. That’s all I want… to be done with it, but it comes back to selfishness when I put it that way, doesn’t it? Gods, at this rate, it’s gotten to the point where I look at the buildings and they all look red to me.”
The cup landed with a hard clack on the raised ledge and Shikamaru watched Roronoa gulp it all down again, liquor and stone to warm his belly. No answer was forthcoming, but Roronoa remained in his peripheral, braced between dying lights and night sky. His gaze lowered, watching the staccato tempo of his fingers drumming over his thigh chilled to the bone. He took the silence for what it was.
“I mean, some of ‘em are red. Not all of them. It’s the view that you take. Like here. Come here, look.”
With a lazy roll of his wrist, he gestured to the empty spot before him and Roronoa, begrudgingly, joined him. Like glacial water, he too remained cemented in the mundane gears of their chosen lives. Raising his arm, hand a parentheses, Shikamaru cupped one side of the city, and almost smiled.
“There. You see?”
Roronoa finished the open syntax with an echo of his palm cutting the air, curved in a closed bracket, and Shikamaru found himself smiling without wanting to. Without words, they formed a complete sentence and this time, when their eyes met, Roronoa broke contact first to scoff, the twist of his lips matching a down-turned curl.
“All you’re gonna see at this rate is red. Is that what you want if you get out of this? Wake up and see red every waking hour?”
“Ha ha, sure. What’s a good bribe if it doesn’t see a little red, anyway?”
Tone light, it grew wings in his teeth and threatened to fly, taking with it another blistering secret before he could finish. Ignoring it, lips pressed in a firm line, Shikamaru tugged his leg in closer, slipped his fingers under his knee to eke warmth back to the tips.
“I broke my tanto, by the way, a little while back. The bomb I put together went off earlier than I expected because my timing was wrong and it shattered, so that was… unfortunate. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t use it the last time.”
Shrugging off the uneasiness, the words, his gaze drifted back over the gaping abyss. Because of the mistake, his desk work grew exponentially, which distanced him further and further from wetwork and the pointed side of the edge. Roronoa never returned a comment, save for a measured look which he never saw, too absorbed by the pitch black.
Something pinched his thigh, hard.
“Don’t be so fucking reckless.”
The pain hadn’t registered, yet he winced, and the black receded.
Reflex finally shot him into motion, hand clapped over the offending pressure. Roronoa’s hand flexed under his grip and braced onto him, unyielding. An anchor. Shikamaru blinked; the darkness slipped lower and settled as he straightened back up, seconds away from tipping over.
Colors bled past him, livening up the heart of the city, and Shikamaru returned to the cold waiting on the pavement, bracketed by a warm hand. His own splayed out, covered a map of scars, and squeezed the living heartbeat underneath. Did you know that we live in a country with one of the highest suicide rates in the world?
Roronoa knew and he retreated, leaving Shikamaru to hold the chill, fingers laced with it until Roronoa wrestled the wind away and set the cup back into his hand. I know, this gesture seemed to say, so don’t become another statistic.
A lump grew in his throat, heady with indescribable emotion, but he gulped it down, refusing to put a word to it. The weight dropped somewhere under his collar and kicked at his heartbeat. It reminded him of life, of the fire that burned inside him. Curling the drink past his lips, shochu stained his teeth, his breath, and spread the flames further. It touched the cotton in his head, lightened the burden with its heat. Fingers against his temple, Shikamaru licked away the remnants on his lips.
“... This tastes awful by itself, by the way. You know that, right? You should add some hot water to dilute the barley in it.”
Roronoa let the words hang from his fingers, staring at the cup once it was returned to him, until finally, he hefted it over the edge. It clattered somewhere in the dark, the vague abyss coveting it as one of its own and Shikamaru balked, unable to respond at the seemingly childish response. Genuine confusion overtook his features but Roronoa grimaced in return, his hand a spear jabbing at the black.
“That right there? That’s you. You’re the cup making useless noise. You keep making a racket, then disappear into the night. What the hell are you even doing, Nara?”
Stunned, Shikamaru stared. Frustration rose from the depths and unfolded on his tongue.
“Wh… What the hell am I doing? What the hell are you doing? Sulking? You haven’t stopped drinking since I got here, and me? I have been trying to at least make some small talk. Is that a crime?”
Without anything in his grasp, it became a reflex for him to lash out with words—the liquid layers a sharpened bite with each syllable. His breath drew in quickly.
“Or would you like to talk about the corruption of our prefectures, and that’s why we’re actually here? You know I’m right about that. Here, there,” he spit, angry hands like angry beaks biting at fireworks, “anywhere else. Gods, if your honor was half as strong as your promise, then maybe you’d get something done by now. But what then, hunh? Noble Roronoa-san is gonna keep lappin’ the blood off his hands until his fingers fall off? Do something about it.”
Roronoa looked up and it was not anger directed at him, but rather something steady—a measurement. A tally on his belt. He scoffed, finally baring his teeth.
“Yeah? And what the hell are you doing about yourself? You still have no idea. Your revenge story’s not sappy enough, so you make a mess and take down other scum to feel better about yourself. Like any of that’s justified? Wake up. You’re worse than I am!”
A plaque on a building read Property of the Yakuza, but that did not stop Shikamaru, for he was both civilian and killer, one with personal cause, and it was an old, selfish truth that flayed open into a fresh wound, stinging under Roronoa’s onslaught. The knot returned, this time forming fingers in his neck to suffocate the very air, the very truth out of him. He was right. He knew that, but it in no way comforted him.
Instead, the murky depths of that wary emotion, the one that took him by the hand and led him down the dark, shadowy road, wearing a face none other than his own, lunged forward and shaped into the ridges of his teeth, made him smirk.
“Do something about it, you damn lap dog.”
The punch, when it landed, cracked him square across the jaw and Shikamaru choked on the deceptions lined in his mouth, on the cumbersome fingers hoping to drown him. Staggering from the ledge at the force of it, he cupped a hand to his ear, thinking he heard bells ringing in alarm. Or maybe Roronoa cursed in his ear. He couldn’t be certain of anything anymore, save for the sure movements of clothes rustling, following after him.
“Sometimes I think you’re more troublesome than you’re worth.”
He groaned once the pain registered, a sharp throb, but he nonetheless moved, nerves alight, and swung into a kick that landed short of Roronoa’s ribs. With a curse, Shikamaru anchored his weight back, pulling his hands up in defense. Movement slow, liquor-thick, Roronoa tore through it with well-placed punches and parries, and when he finally fell on his back, overwhelmed, the stars rocked up to meet him. They winked from their untouchable dais, which elicited an ache, deep, deeper than the initial throbbing when Roronoa landed astride his lap, hard thighs clenching around his hips. He groaned again from the pain, the twisted tongue, and the irony of this position. It was neither lost on him nor Roronoa, who squeezed tighter and curled a hand around his throat, slotting his fingers into the prime place. He couldn’t find his breath.
“How’s this for doing something about it, Nara, you pain in the ass?”
The words carried with it a threat and Shikamaru tasted it down to the infuriating twist of his smirk. He felt it too, that rising danger, the livewire dance. It became a bite that made it too easy to counter, to fall into his waiting role. His body coiled into those nerves, into that song, a private cadence for them, but he shut his eyes, closing himself off from the thrill. His heartbeat stuttered.
“You know you can’t break someone’s neck like that. You’re only threatening me with a good time.”
It was easy like this, dangerously so, and all the more reason why he refused to decipher the look on his face, to dig out the tell-tale consideration that proved his downfall. A rummaging. A cut in the dark. The hand retreated and Shikamaru exhaled, grappling for a semblance of better warmth until something colder touched him, sharp and unyielding. Breath stuttered back inside him, throbbing against the knife. His eyes snapped open.
Roronoa’s gaze caught a hold of his, a pinprick of light against the moon.
“And now?”
Shikamaru nearly bucked up to meet him. He swallowed the urge instead.
His words did not cut deep, but the pointed edge uncovered a raw sensation that beckoned a voice, a name, to surface. He struggled with it on his tongue and set his jaw, refusing to let it slip. In doing so, the light faded out of the nightly gold and Roronoa’s expression carefully discarded the banter, cutting back into a frown. It lacerated him.
With a flex of his hand, becoming a vine, it slithered up to wind around Roronoa, closed fingers over his, tightened around his wrist. It was enough to tug and draw his grip away until the knife laid against his chest. Hand fastened on a hold of scars, Shikamaru raised an empty palm skyward, reaching for a collar and pulled in. And the pull with it evoked a growl, but the kiss was soft, welcoming, with lips chapped and dry from the cold. Neither spoke a word.
Shikamaru sighed. Careful, he licked the seam of Roronoa’s mouth, begging entry, and when his lips parted, tongue touching, the name fractured. A breach cascaded into interstice.
“Hidan.”
A curse. A self affliction.
He repeated it, expelled it into his mouth as though he could rid himself of the weight entirely, almost believing Roronoa could handle the burden. And Roronoa took it. He took and continued to take like he had always done. Between each slide of their mouths, he slipped the onus from his tongue. And then Shikamaru heard it, another name in the space of stolen breath. This one, a promise.
A favor. A borrowed life.
“Wado Ichimonji. Wado-”
Encumbrance passed at intervals of their shared breath, a trial unlike any other, and he leaned up, kissed him harder. Sorrow and punishment skittered in the wake of their distraction and the moment Roronoa angled his head, deepening the kiss, Shikamaru bit back a lament. He tightened his grip, an anchor around Roronoa’s hand that held the blade. The only place they could meet was the flat side of a knife but sharper still was this kiss. One that bit, one that drew blood.
A fresh explosion nearby broke their contact, the pair of them snapping to attention as they sought out the interruption. Overhead, bright red and orange clusters of fireworks scattered, bringing with it a light, and like a reflex, Shikamaru dragged his gaze over Roronoa’s profile, gauging his reaction from the noise. Their hands remained linked over the knife as he pulled it to his mouth, lips resting over a valley of scarred knuckles. It bit, drew blood. The irony of it compelled Shikamaru forward, had him laugh before he could help himself, the sound a muffled, somber thing against their entwined hands.
“Who am I kidding? We’re already red.”
Grip tight, Shikamaru leaned into the foundation that was Roronoa’s frame, stock-still and darkened in the faded light. He stroked a finger over the dusty surface, drawing from it shredded crumbs of duty. Painted pale. Hoarded ghosts.
Perseverance is/ and only ever was red/ like luck, like blood-like
I’m so delighted by this pun that it’ll entertain me for the months coming. In any case, it’s the Year of the Ox and that means hard work will get paid its dues. Celebrations are very much subdued this year, but nonetheless we’re working through it in the only way we know how.
To those who celebrate it, be well and prosperous, and if need be, I’ll be your uncle gifting you red envelopes of good fortune 🧧🧧🧧
"You are always looking at me," Zoro murmurs, fingers curled over his mouth with an unlit cigarette. The bridge over the park was empty for once. Quiet in the middle of the city save for the static echo of advertisements beyond the block, and he leans closer, the outline of his features softened by the fire of Nara's lighter—shielded by his calloused palm. "Got a problem with my face? Y'can say it, what's the harm in bein' honest for once, Nara?"
What a Life! Starters
Two men in suits stood on a bridge framed by the moon, its shy slice buttoned behind the clouds. The circuit of air grew chilled so far from festivities going on elsewhere, but neither took notice, involved in their own vice.
One of them stood tall, figure imposing but calm, rigid in the way he relaxed. Shoulders back, legs a little too far apart, there were particular edges of him that appeared unpolished compared to a typical businessman on the street; a yawning maw lined in the seams besides a sharpened point that hid monstrous, perhaps exhausted, intent.
The other stood taller than average, but one would not make it out given the too comfortable slouch that curved his back, made him unfitting for his own suit. He looked like every other businessman who toiled endless hours at the hours, briefcases in tow, save for that overgrown mess of hair fighting against a measly hair tie. The man’s hand tightened around the leather handle of his case, lightly worn, no ring on his finger. He stared, said nothing over the rise and death of flame bringing to life to yet another one of the other man’s cigarettes.
30-something, he thought. He had lit at least 30 of them now, give or take, and the number sat heavy in his throat, heavier than intended, for it never should never have sat that long. He went by Nara and that nickname bubbled like an overgrown weed in the other man’s mouth, both intimate and strange in a single breath.
“I don’t have a problem with your face, Roronoa,” the one named Nara admitted eventually, turned away to lean his elbows of the railing. Watching the brighter-than-life lights suffocate the shopping districts, more than a multitude of blocks from they were met, he added for tonight, “you troublesome idiot.”
"But next to you, I probably look more dishonest, right? What a sight we must be,” he continued and with it a smile, one untucked from his jacket packet, casual and lingering. “You’re not bad to look sometimes, that’s all. No problem with that, is there.”
Conversation elsewhere filled the white noise of the city breathing. If he held his breath, maybe he would float long enough to join it.
“Slow night,” he eventually commented, canting his head to the left and watched the street become a kaleidoscope of color low in the distance. “I wonder how long it’ll take for patrol to find you this time. You know this spot’s a no-smoking zone.”
@tctidem || Drop of gold, drop of earth, become pearls in the water
Therein lies a phenomenon, a burning. And Pica sees it in the sun.
He knows the word, can bear it upon the healthy girth of his shoulders, but never dare him to speak it, for voicing it aloud will crumble the stone cold perfection of his indomitable affection. It is hard. It is heavy. He does not feel lightly. All of it becomes a mountain, a spectacle, so he must move, undetected under supernova clusters, lest he be skewed through the heart, through a vulnerability he does not know he possesses.
Sometimes he imagined it. The fragile hollow of her throat opening up with laughter, bright as bells, claiming him in her mouth, a yielding hunt to which he gladly coiled in her grasp. He shuts his eyes, covers the distinct tic of a frown marring his expression and it deepens when he thinks he hears it. A wingbeat, tawny and true.
He almost does not want to see. Behind the grey view, he pictures the sharp edge of a wing, arched over his severe brow to bid him shade. It’s unnecessary but she does not ask, simply does—wayward as a storm, wielding sharp teeth. There is a smell of flowers and he thinks they are blue. He thinks this because her eyes are blue, lively as ocean water, deep and murky, encased with secret. And he is but the mountain range, looming over its ephemeral surface, hoping to catch a glimpse of her gaze in the dark depths—Scritch, scritch. He opens his eyes.
There, tawny and true, sharp and gold, a pointed curve of a wing arches into his eye line, curled over his brow, brushes stone and steals with her another small piece of him, gravel of his heart which he wears obliviously. Her dress is blue and it’s better, so much better than he imagined—the fabric slices the sky, turns it into ocean and he drowns, an overgrown pebble tumbling closer to her watery embrace. But a flash of red—danger!—flourishes from her hand, wicked pointed thing, spinning as though it weighs nothing in the air, a harmless lure. Her touch is a cashmere-scratch, soft as a lover pulling the rubble from him, leaving him bare. He recognizes this flower.
Freshly dressed, he had just gotten them clipped and pruned before her arrival, thanks to a certain, abrasive man who he had given begrudging thanks. It paid for companionship in the end and for but a private, most brief moment, he hoped that man found what he was looking for, in the end.
The petals dance but he watches her twirl, her thanks brightening the old ragged boon of his chest, swelling his heart until he burst. Bit by bit, his foundations weakened, softening on the sides, becoming polished. The crags deepen, the lines clean themselves, sporting symphony where she might draw a clever claw. She moves closer and he finally catches the malty, sea-tinge smell of her, the spicy floral that exudes from this flower, and when she laughs again, he tastes the sun in his mouth.
