The day has gotten better.
Why?
Firstly, because last night Tammy asked me to beta an amazing fic of hers. It's been so long since I read Maotsujun fanfiction-- it was quite the breath of fresh air.
And also because of an amazing picture of Mao/Nino that Mae posted. Do you want to see it? ...well you'll have to wait for Saturday and head onto maochan_a_day. <3
With that said, I hope Tammy doesn't mind that I'm posting a pretty large spoiler of something we've both been working on for ages. It's part of something bigger, so it's actually pretty stand-alone and won't give the "project" away at all. This is just an "idea" scene we had discussed a bit. This portion is written by me, and is a bit of a draft. I'm in a really good mood. Anyway, I haven't posted fanfiction in months.
Interested?
He smells like cinnamon. And apples. And oranges, and too much time spent in a room on a warm afternoon.
He smells like warmth, and clean laundry. Like sunny days, and days spent inside when the rain beats against the windows, shakes the drapery, but you're inside next to the fireplace, drinking cocoa, curled under the protection of his arm, his chest.
He smells like sunshine, and that first bite out of a strawberry.
And sometimes, when that light layer of sweat gathers at the nape of his neck and catches the light just right when he dances... he'd smell like the soap that she got him a few months ago. For jokes. But he used it anyway. Mao never told Nino she noticed.
He was sitting, cross-legged, at the foot of her couch, playing Nintendo DS. His guitar leaned on the table, forgotten for a moment. She was lying behind him, on her stomach, pillowing her cheek against his shoulder. This way, her nose pointed at his neck, and she would breathe in deeply-- strawberry, sunshine, warm, clean laundry-- pretending to sleep.
She had a feeling he always knew when she was awake. But they would always pretend she was still sleeping.
Sometimes, in the deep quiet only sometimes interrupted by the soft snores of Hug-chan a room away, she could feel him shift just slightly, so he could look at her.
He would examine her long eyelashes, her too-pink cheeks, and the soft part of her lips as she breathed slow. Mao didn't understand why, but he'd hold this position of just looking at her for quite some time... then she would feel the cool tips of his fingers brush some stray hairs out of her face, pause at her neck.
"You're going to get me sick too." He would murmur. And then he would press his lips, gently, against her forehead.
And that's when she'd stop pretending.
Firstly, because last night Tammy asked me to beta an amazing fic of hers. It's been so long since I read Maotsujun fanfiction-- it was quite the breath of fresh air.
And also because of an amazing picture of Mao/Nino that Mae posted. Do you want to see it? ...well you'll have to wait for Saturday and head onto maochan_a_day. <3
With that said, I hope Tammy doesn't mind that I'm posting a pretty large spoiler of something we've both been working on for ages. It's part of something bigger, so it's actually pretty stand-alone and won't give the "project" away at all. This is just an "idea" scene we had discussed a bit. This portion is written by me, and is a bit of a draft. I'm in a really good mood. Anyway, I haven't posted fanfiction in months.
Interested?
He smells like cinnamon. And apples. And oranges, and too much time spent in a room on a warm afternoon.
He smells like warmth, and clean laundry. Like sunny days, and days spent inside when the rain beats against the windows, shakes the drapery, but you're inside next to the fireplace, drinking cocoa, curled under the protection of his arm, his chest.
He smells like sunshine, and that first bite out of a strawberry.
And sometimes, when that light layer of sweat gathers at the nape of his neck and catches the light just right when he dances... he'd smell like the soap that she got him a few months ago. For jokes. But he used it anyway. Mao never told Nino she noticed.
He was sitting, cross-legged, at the foot of her couch, playing Nintendo DS. His guitar leaned on the table, forgotten for a moment. She was lying behind him, on her stomach, pillowing her cheek against his shoulder. This way, her nose pointed at his neck, and she would breathe in deeply-- strawberry, sunshine, warm, clean laundry-- pretending to sleep.
She had a feeling he always knew when she was awake. But they would always pretend she was still sleeping.
Sometimes, in the deep quiet only sometimes interrupted by the soft snores of Hug-chan a room away, she could feel him shift just slightly, so he could look at her.
He would examine her long eyelashes, her too-pink cheeks, and the soft part of her lips as she breathed slow. Mao didn't understand why, but he'd hold this position of just looking at her for quite some time... then she would feel the cool tips of his fingers brush some stray hairs out of her face, pause at her neck.
"You're going to get me sick too." He would murmur. And then he would press his lips, gently, against her forehead.
And that's when she'd stop pretending.