NCT DREAM Chenle’s IDENTITY CARD
Name : Chenle
Date Of Birth : 2001.11.22
Hobbies : cooking,soccer,enjoying music
Specialities: singing,playing the piano
Favourite Subjects: physical education, math,English ( likes making use of his body and his body and likes studying foreign languages !! )
Least Favourite Subjects:social studies, science( to study up on other subjects he hasn’t been able to study on these subjects much)
Chenle’s Dream: to be a singer acknowledged by the world. !
MEMBER’S LOVE LETTERS
Mark:“ Chenle does not know Korean so it must be ydifficult for him , but fighting !! And ask Renjun hyung lots of questions ~just trust in the hyungs and follow us~
Haechan: ” the hyungs will take care of you well , so just trust the hyungs and let’s have fun together ~ ❤️"
Jeno: “ Chenle-yah your Korean has improved a lot since you came , your doing well, from now on lets continue to promote while having fun just like now !! ”
Jaemin -nana ( would you know who this is ? •_• )
Since now everything you do is cute,you can do whatever you want ~our cute chenle !! But let’s work hard !! That’s how we can catch up to our hyungs “
Renjun:"Jiayou !!! Let’s work even harder , for the world to know our name !
Jisung: ” Your only one year older than me but dongsaeng like chenle hyung …
Please study hard for Korean and don’t learn any bad things ^_^ “
ok so horrificsmut i wrote this earlier but holy shit the mobile app sucks.
this au has been bouncing around in my head for a while, but since i kinda have a hatred for food, i’ve been afraid i can’t write it. but maybe i can anyway:
geoff is a jaded food critic in new york, a town that chews writers up and spits them out, but fuck if everyone doesn’t just swallow his bullshit because. well, honestly, because he panders to his audience. he’s known for being a tough critic, a tense judge. he wishes he could be honest, could just eat good food and tell the world to give that restaurant business. but writing is its own business. he has to judge every little detail, has to slam a restaurant every now and then. okay, most times he slams them.
anyway, he’s jaded. just do the job.
and one day he walks into this little italian restaurant in brooklyn of all places, and he isn’t expecting much. ITALIAN, how CREATIVE. he doesn’t have a reservation, but as soon as the staff realizes who he is they’re apologetic and tell him he’d have a table right away. if they’d known he was coming it would be faster. here’s a glass of wine on the house.
it’s fast anyway, which is nice, and geoff settles in as his waiter helps him. he eyes the kid that stalks up to him, obviously forced to come do a job. he says hello, that his name is ray and he’ll be geoff’s server for the night. he reads off the specials, he points out the wines they have just for that weekend, and then he closes off and geoff knows he’s about to get some kind of bad news. an excuse, maybe. “hey, so, uh, i dunno if you knew this or not, but our head chef is out of town for the weekend. so if you wanted to, you know, come back next week it might be better.”
and geoff scoffs and orders a party’s helping of food, tasting each item once or maybe twice if it’s good. and it is good. he convinces himself that it’s just alright, despite the meat being perfectly cooked and the vegetables roasted on real fire for a smoky flavor. he picks out the minute details, because he won’t have himself writing one of his first heartfelt, excellent reviews on ITALIAN FOOD.
so he goes home and he writes his review and it isn’t scathing, no, but it isn’t great either. it’s just so-so. people eat it up, and geoff goes about his week. halfway through, though, he gets a call from an unknown number. he ignores it, and a few hours later he listens to the voicemail. it’s some kid, with a scratchy voice and a jersey accent, frustrated and requesting geoff come back to his restaurant - ohhh. geoff laughs it off and, yeah, he admires the kid’s spirit but he’s not going back.
and then one night, while geoff is at his favorite little hole in the wall coffee shop, he hears a commotion at the front. and he looks up to see this fiery redhead insisting he take two plates of foil covered food in, and they make eye contact and suddenly the kid is headed right for him. saying his name, setting food on his table, uncovering a steaming pile of lasagna. his voice matches the message geoff got earlier that week, and soon geoff is laughing out loud and setting his book down and asking how the HELL this kid found him.
and michael, he says his name is “michael jones, the guy you dissed behind his back, you know?”, tells geoff it isn’t exactly hard to find him. that asshole writer types like him are always in little shitty coffee shops, and that geoff has mentioned this one at least three times in reviews. he doesn’t have to be a detective to find him. and he tells geoff to eat.
so geoff eats and it’s fucking good, honestly. it’s really good. just enough ricotta to moisten handmade pasta, sauce that michael must have tried every two seconds to be sure it was cooked just right. he hums, watching michael watch him eat, and laughs. michael’s quick to dive into why he’s there, to tell geoff that he needs to reevaluate his food, that he needs to redact his review. and geoff almost chokes on his bite, shaking his head and leaning back into his seat.
he leaves michael there, still chuckling about it. he laughs about it for days, whenever it comes to him. as he writes his next review, he giggles. he just cradles the thought and the incident into the back of his brain, pulling it out whenever he hates his job and his life. whenever he thinks about the grumbling hum of the kid chef’s voice. whenever he thinks he might go back to that restaurant, just for the company. whenever he feels himself slipping out of the independent, successful, lonely as fuck lifestyle he’s cultivated for himself.
and as time passes he sees more and more of michael. he sees him at the grocery store, and michael comes up to him without any shame. he sees him at the coffee shop two more times, and he always goes back home with a plate of hot food. it’s fucking hard to forget the kid when he keeps poking his way into his life, keeps inSISTING that geoff give him a shot, that it wasn’t fair that he’d judged his restaurant when he wasn’t even there.
so geoff gives in a little. okay, he gives in a lot. he gives michael his address and one friday night, michael is on his doorstep with a huge tray, and with wine, and with a fucking caprese salad chilled so it won’t wilt. and geoff groans at the sight of the osso buco, and fuck if it isn’t the best meal he’s ever had in his life - better than his own cooking. better than any michelin star awarded restaurant he’s been to.
and michael’s funny and delightful and doesn’t even mention the review. he just pours geoff wine and eats his food and talks about his favorite episode of Always Sunny and about how he’s thinking of tripping over to italy for a real education. he asks geoff if he’s always liked food, if he’s a chef himself, if he cared more about the food or the writing. and geoff tells him. he finds himself gushing about writing, about how he doesn’t want to review restaurants anymore, about how he got into it to be an artist and he ended up some pseudo-celebrity with an ego he didn’t notice get too big.
they have a fucking good time, and it’s almost one in the morning before either of them notice, and geoff walks michael to his car for an awkward, mumbling goodbye. michael gets in his car, and before he heads on down the street, he rolls his window down to look at geoff with his brows raised and a dorky, almost-nervous smile on his face. and geoff shifts, glancing up the walkway to his house before back down to him, and michael laughs loud and shaky.
“jeez, geoff, how many meals do i gotta make before you realize i like you?”
anyway that’s all i got i’m sure they bang in the end
Summary: UnderDog is an ongoing webcomic about an adopted transgender 16 year old boy, Andres, and his adopted sister Oceana. When a new teen, Koray, at school brings on a lot more than the town can chew, Andres throws himself into the supernatural hell of werewolves, witches, sirens, zombies, and more to protect his friends.
Notes: Though it hasn’t really reached the supernatural stuff yet, this comic has been really interesting so far and I really like its sort of soft, grayscale art style. It’s good to have a teen comic with a transgender main character, and this one is a little different from anything else I’ve seen.
Imagine meeting Sam after he’s been cursed with Amnesia and trying to help him figure out who he is.
Author’s Note: I know I’ve been MIA as far as fics go for a while! I still have some old ones to catch up on (Brothers Grim part 3 I know) but I wrote this on a whim when I had a very short amount of free time. Plus, there hasn’t been a Sam fic in a while. Hopefully there will be more writing soon. Sam x reader based on this imagine. Little angst, little suspense, little fluff, little humor. Warnings: tiny angst, reference to death, amnesia,
I was racing down the highway when the clattering of hundreds of rain drops broke me from my thoughts. The windshield erupted into shattering splashes that forced me to ease back on the gas and flick my wipers on full speed. I squinted through the veil of water obstructing my view of the road ahead. Great. Just what I needed after another long day of work and pocket full of tips that would barely buy me this week’s groceries.
I sighed and reached over the seat to peek at my phone, but decided against it. Just as I returned my gaze to the road, I tried to focus my eyes on a distant dot on the horizon that seemed to be getting larger. I was grateful for not screwing with my cell when I realized the fast approaching figure was a person walking in the pullover lane. They had a rather empty looking backpack slung over one shoulder and their clothes were already soaked through. I cringed and instinctively slowed down my car. In the very short amount of time available I weighed my options.
Picking up hitchhikers wasn’t something I did, especially not at night when I was by myself. I had seen enough dateline television to know how often that ended up poorly. But at the same time, my chest was twisted with a pang of guilt. It was fairly cold outside, and that rain wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. A green sign overhead reminded me that he was still another 30 miles from the nearest town. I chewed on my lip in consideration. Another bad month at work and that hitchhiker could be me. Without another thought I switched to the break and brought the vehicle to a stop. As I unlocked the door my heart sped up a little. The drenched silhouette approaching the passenger side was much, much larger in person. I swallowed back apprehension and leaned over to throw the handle open with a friendly but nervous smile.
“Hey! You need a ride?” From my place in the car I could only see a man’s pair of faded jeans, and realized just how tall he was. I watched with a dry mouth as the backpack was removed and the figure bent down to meet my level. He made no motion to accept my offer initially, just to meet my wide eyed expression with his own. Long hair was slicked back behind his ears and he looked exhausted, like he’d been walking for days. He glanced at the open space beside me and then back up.
“I’d get your seat wet.” If his voice didn’t reflect true hesitation I would have laughed outright. I couldn’t believe this man was actually concerned about my aged upholstery.
“I don’t care about that, it’s probably the best washing it will have in a while.” The man gave a small smirk, but the action looked difficult to perform, as if his face had to strain against whatever heavy weight pressed his shoulders downwards. “It’s just a car.” My words caught him of guard, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly. He was deep in thought and far from reality for a long moment. Finally he shook his head, sending a small spray of water with his hair.
“I owe you.” He ducked into the opening and struggled to find room for his long legs in the limited floor space. His massive body made everything seem tiny in comparison. His ears perked up curiously when I stifled a laugh.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. You’re just a few feet too tall for my ride I think. Here, use this to dry off.” I retrieved a blanket from the back seat and put his bag in it’s place. He muttered a quiet thanks as I pulled back into the road and returned to driving. I watched him from the corner of my eye, my hands tight on the steering wheel. He was dressed plainly like any other man around these parts, but his clothing looked well worn and stained with use. His hands alone were calloused and scarred from hard work. He gently folded the blanket back into a damp square after scrubbing it over his rain streaked skin. A short layer of stubble shaded his cheeks and jaw, but it appeared more a result of negligence than intent.
“You shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers.” His mellow voice startled me from my silent examination. I could feel his dark eyes on me as I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat nervously.
“It’s not safe. You have no idea who I am, I could be anyone.” I tried to relax my white knuckles on the wheel. Is this how psychopaths talk? I forced a chuckle and played with the stereo dial.
“Well I guess there’s a risk in kindness, but I hope someone would do the same for me. Here, could you put some music on?” My attempt to change the conversation went without question, and the man began scanning the radio. He had an oddly pensive face as he paused on each station and listened a little longer than expected. I took another opportunity to soak up the scattered details of his cryptic behavior. The backpack in backseat was clearly half empty. I wondered how he could possibly be living off its contents. “What kind of music do you like?” He flipped through several more genres before stopping on a classic rock station that was just finishing up a track by Styx. I wasn’t adverse to the song, but his behavior made me uneasy. He wore a barely discernible smile and he sounded satisfied with his discovery.
“This. This sounds familiar.” Great, I picked up a complete lunatic.
We drove in silence, but our lack of conversation was made up for in road noise and the sounds of led zeppelin. Despite how strange some of the things he said were, my passenger seemed like anything but a threat. He was still and quiet, gaze locked on the asphalt ahead with more focus than I had. He didn’t seem uncomfortable riding shotgun, and I wondered if he was used to catching rides with people. His eyes had a certain darkness tho them though, one much more permanent than that of tiredness. He looked worn down mentally. It reminded me of the distant stare a few of the veterans I knew had. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was ex military, although I didn’t see any dog tags or identifying tattoos. Whoever he was, he had seen some shit in his lifetime, I just hope he had seen it and not caused it.
My few questions were answered curtly, and I soon realized he wasn’t going to be open to sharing anything other than his taste in music.
Clearly he didn’t have the money for a bus ticket, and I couldn’t imagine what would possesses a man to walk all this way. Suddenly I felt less unnerved and more compassionate considering what could have possibly brought him to this place in his life.
Once we got to Amarillo I stopped in front of my quaint, chipped-paint house and began to gather my things. “Thank you again. I’ll repay you sometime, I promise.” Before I could say otherwise the man at my side threw open his door and stepped into the rain.
“Hey! Wait!” I followed him as quickly as I could but his long strides were already taking him down the street in the opposite direction. My shirt began to cling to my frame as the cool rain slid over every inch of my body.
“Stop! You can’t just sleep on the street tonight!” I grabbed the flannel sleeve in front of me in a last stitch attempt to keep him from escaping. Finally he paused and turned around, his face bent with confusion and slight aggravation.
“You don’t have anywhere to stay tonight, right?” He looked surprised that I spoke so plainly about what he was trying to hide.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to explain. I think I picked you up for a reason, call me crazy, but maybe it’s a God thing.. or fate or karma.., I don’t know.” I pushed back the wet hair that slipped into my face and fumbled around in my pockets for my cash. The crinkled bills I retrieved made me red with embarrassment.
"I don’t even have the money to give you for a motel room… I’m not exactly rolling in it right now.“ I shrugged and stuffed the small change back into my jeans. He was already raising his hands in a gesture of refusal but I cut him off.
“But I do have a couch. And yes, it is much too short for you, but hey, it comes with a roof over your head.” He sighed and looked up to the raging sky, causing his face to be riddled with water droplets. I had the feeling he much rather take his chances with a park bench than “inconvenience” me any further, but I wasn’t going to let him get away so easily.
“Look you said you owe me one. I need someone to help me do some work on the house, and I can’t afford it. Maybe you could lend me a hand or two? Just until you can get yourself back on your feet?” The stranger searched me with a stare that made me feel exposed and under dressed. It felt like he could see through every bit of me and my frantic attempts to justify my favor, but something about his eyes was soothing. I was willingly being taken apart by his gaze, reduced to the skeleton of my intentions.
“Please, let me do this for you.” He considered my words for a long time before turning his attention to my humble home. He shrugged shyly and did his best to smile.
“Well, I guess it could use a bit of paint.”
“I know it’s not much, but it keeps the rain out and the heat in. Here, I brought some blankets for you. There’s a shirt and some pants there too.” The man lifted a skeptic eyebrow at the possibility of clothing possibly being his size. His eyes flicked to my left hand in what I now know was a search for a wedding band.
“Your boyfriend’s?” I laughed and busied myself with tidying up the living room. I didn’t have guests over very often anymore. If anyone needed me, they just showed up at the diner. I was there longer than I was ever at home.
“Afraid not. They’re my brother’s. He’s tall like you.” I smiled at the thought of my elder sibling and tried to imagine what he would look like now. Probably something like the man in front of me. Suddenly I was sobered by the photograph on the wall, propped against which was a crisp red, white, and blue flag folded into a triangle. My brother wasn’t a month older than 22, and he never would be. I cleared my throat and ran a hand over the shirt before passing it over.
“Was. I should say, he was tall like you.” There was no hiding the slight crack in my voice. My body felt much colder than it had before, the damp fabric worsened by my shivers. I was still staring down at the grey Henley in my outstretched arms when a hand laid atop mine gently. Rough fingers smoothed over the hills and valleys of my knuckles with hesitant kindness.
“I’m sorry.” Those dark eyes were made soft by understanding. I could tell this stranger knew my pain, maybe better than I did. I sniffed sharply in an effort to maintain my composure and self respect.
“Don’t be. It’s been over a year now. He died a hero. Afghanistan.” I forced a smile and pushed the shirt into my guests arms. “He would want you to have these. He was always giving the shirt off his back, if you know what I mean.” The man across from me didn’t accept the gift immediately, but let his fingers rest over mine in a gesture of silent gratitude. When color began to rise to my cheeks I withdrew my hand and rubbed the back of my neck.
“Go ahead and change up, and I’ll wash your clothes for you.” He nodded and placed the pile of blankets on the couch reverently. I was leaving to go to my own room when I remembered that I didn’t even know the name of the man who would be sleeping in my house.
“By the way, I guess I should introduce myself. My name’s Y/N. Yours?” By the time I turned back around to face the living room again, the man was already pulling his wet shirt over his head. My jaw went slack at the sight of his toned chest, but he didn’t seem to notice my shock. For a homeless guy, he had the body of a model. He wouldn’t be unemployed for long if he walked into any one of the many outlet stores nearby.
“It’s Sam.” Sam… I repeated the name in my mind. It suited him. I forced down a dry swallow when he started buttoning the new shirt over his broad-shouldered frame. The fabric strained slightly, but I wasn’t disappointed. Finally I snapped myself out of my reverie and folded my arms in feigned casualness.
“Well nice to meet you, Sam.” I loved the way it sounded rolling off my tongue, especially when it was directed at the man only a room away. “Do you have a last name?” His eyes shifted to the carpet and wandered for a moment. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his hesitation was failed recollection. Teeth raked over his lip before he answered.
The first few times I passed the living room, I couldn’t help but be startled. Seeing an attractive man reclining on my couch was unnerving and out of the ordinary. I chided myself for being single for so long… it was making me skittish when I should have been excited. I anxiously grabbed the folded wet clothes from the arm of the couch and did my best to avoid any unnecessary eye contact, but Sam had to smile and thank me before I could escape. I returned the congeniality with a stutter and retreated to the laundry room.
While I opened the washer I couldn’t help but notice that his clothes smelled amazing. It wasn’t at all characteristic of a hitchhiker to smell like ivory soap and musk. I resisted the urge to move the fabric to my nose, but did get close enough to recognize the many rips and stains. Each tear was stitched without any real pattern. I chuckled to myself; it was obviously the work of his own huge, less than graceful, hands. Looks like there’s no female figure in his life to do his mending. I felt strange satisfaction at the thought.
I had almost tossed the jeans into the machine when a full pocket came to my attention. I narrowed my brow curiously at the worn wallet that fell into my hand when I turned the denim over.
“Just like a man to forget to…” In an action that was more instinctive than nosy, I splayed the leather pouch open. I flipped past a few business cards and receipts to find a license. After all, was it wrong to know who I was offering my couch to?
“Ah, here it is. Sam… Sam Smith. That’s a nice name I guess. Wait… whats this? Sam Frehley, FBI?! Sam Fisher… Sam Perry… Johnson…” I gasped in horror as varying and unrelated identities unfolded before me. There must have been dozens of licenses and ‘federal’ identifications. My hands began to shake as I read each alias.
“You found my wallet.” A deep voice made me flinch and I swung my knee into the dryer with a loud thud. When I spun around the contents of the wallet fluttered out onto the floor by my feet. My heart was racing and my free hand gripped the wall for support. I couldn’t help but feel like I was in the intro of a low budget horror film, as the opening-scene girl. And I knew well that those girls only ever get hired for their screams. Sam shook his head at the falsified papers covering the carpet and stepped towards me to scoop them up.
“Don’t get any closer! I’m calling the cops!” My threats were empty and high pitched with fear. The man put his arms up and frowned in shame, his eyes still effortlessly persuading my soul.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Y/N.” I was speechless. He looked like the most genuine thing I had ever seen. If this was all a charade, he deserved an Oscar. All 6′4 of his solid muscle seemed soft and inviting as could be.
I had to remind myself of the precarious situation I was in, and the murderer or psychopath he could very well be. “They all say that!”
He wrinkled his nose and looked around in confusion. “Who does?”
“All of the… you know what never mind. What is this?! Who the hell are you?!” I threw the half emptied wallet in his direction and backed into the wall in a failed attempt to distance myself. He rolled his eyes when my aim barely skimmed his shoulder. There was a long pause filled with my panting and his loud thoughts. I could see the contemplation on his face creating new lines and shadows. When he found the words to speak they were low and tinged with anxiety.
“That’s just it. I dont know.” He heaved a pained sigh and massaged his forehead, long fingers pulling down over his face. I could feel my eyes widen.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” He hooked his hands over the back of his neck and paced back and forth from his place across the room.
“Two days ago I woke up in a shitty motel without a dollar to my name… or any of my names for that matter… and without a single memory.” I tried to envision his retelling of events and it didn’t take much imagination. He certainly looked as though his story was true. His “amnesia” would explain some of the strange mannerisms, but so would being high or drunk.
“I know you’re scared because you don’t know me… but neither do I.” Sam, or whatever his name really was, stopped his pacing and faced me with sober seriousness. His eyes begged me for whatever trust I had left.
“Y/N, you have to believe me. I have no idea who I am.”
Buttoning her jeans a little lower on her hips she slipped into her boots before she moved out of their closet and back out into their room to find her wife, looking for her and calling to her as her eyes moved to the sound of little feet in the hall and she smiled scooping up Cade into her arms. “Nyx……wanna head to the store and get some things?” She calls, humming at Cade as she wrapped her little legs around her at her hip to let her rest there, little hands going to her tummy to touch her littlest sister’s home with a string of soft babbled words and Marley’s free hand brushed through her wild curls before she pressed kisses to her cheeks. “Baby in there?” Marley hums, watching Cade smile and nod as Marley swayed gently with her.