#i have such a clear image in my head but lack the artistic talent to bring it to life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Okay rockstars, settle down

rockstar!bucky barnes x assistant!reader x rockstar!loki laufeyson / masterlist

summary; having previously worked for loki, it causes a heat to burn within bucky’s already accumulated hate towards the musician / warnings; threesome, smut, mxf and mxm sex, mentions of sex with other characters, oral sex (male and female receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, double penetration, degradation, swearing, orgasm denial, cum eating

“Can’t believe you worked for that wanker.” Snarked Bucky as an image of the well known, musically spread, and acoustically acclaimed, Loki Laufeyson was shown on the screen of the dressing room television, as the other artist stretched his clothing bare arms across the back of the couch. “Come here sweet cheeks.”

At his command, you dismissed the paper work for a moment, trailing over and straddling the inked hunk’s chain belted lap, digging your manicured set of nails into his shoulders, as you seated yourself over his crotch. “I’m happy I work for you now Buck, you treat me so good.”

Punctuating your words, you pressed your teeth into your bottom lip, giving it the appearance of being more plump, as you batted your dark eyelashes up at your employer. “I do, don’t I?” He rhetorically asked, skimming his fingers across the length of your arms, before moving them to sloppily cup your jaw, ensuring that you would not look away from his wild and dilated pupils. “Tell me what I do better than the lead singer of the god of mischief.”

At his words, a small yet peaceful contortion of uncomfortableness split a skin grafted line through the centre of your forehead, stating that you had no wish to do so. And thus, as punishment for your self aversive silence, Barnes braced his knuckles into your skin, causing you to keen out, and tap his shoulders in verification for surrender.

In turn, you lowered your hands, dragging the tips of your nails, absentmindedly running them down the expanse of his waxed chest, conveniently passing the silver hoops that were attached to his nipples on the trail to a less dominant ground. “I prefer the way that your songs have a heavier bass and-“

“Uh uh uh, not the music. Think of something that has you, let’s say, screaming, but definitely not in a crowd. Though, we may have to try that one sometime; show the world how hungry you are to assist me.”

“You, James Bucky Barnes,” he loosened his grip to your relief, which lead to you hugging in spite, “are the best fuck I have ever endured. Loki has nothing on you, he deems himself a god of the arts, but he doesn’t see how you paint me so perfectly with your cum, nor how you bend my body to your whim, as though I am a tool in the midst of your creations, useful, but disposable.”

“I like the sound of that doll. Disposable, now that really does you make you sound like my personal cum dump.”

“That’s was certainly interesting to listen to...”that voice had your body jolting in shock, and it appeared that Bucky too was surprised by the presence, though, he steadied his well versed hands on your hips, claiming you to the intimate spot.

“What the fuck are you doing in my dressing room you greasy haired weasel?” Bucky sneered, his nose turning up at the sight alone of his competition in the lyrical world. Loki, he had graced you with his presence, and you had to look away; he admittedly looked good.

His shirt was open chested, leaving you with the memorable impression of all the times that you had left crescent marks upon that particular surface, a few times you had even drawn blood, but that had only fuelled his mission to fuck you into a propeller of urgency.

“Our new album Laufey has just been released, I can confirm my dear, you shoulda stayed around and knelt in our success. The records are certainly going to have more sales than what was it called again? Ah yes, the red star. I could tell it was about this one, so much passion, a sultry tune, that did little to justify what it means to be with her.”

Loki’s hands waved around as he spoke, and you could only picture the past whence he penetrated your with those long and talented fingers of his. He had drawn orgasm after orgasm out of you, resulting you to be nothing more than a withering mess, as he digressed the option to simply stop. There was nothing simple about him, nor the time that he demanded that he shared you with his brother.

That thought alone had you mindlessly grinding upon Bucky’s covered cock, plucking at your lip with the keys of your teeth, though Bucky’s voice brought you back to reality, causing you to pause your movements embarrassingly, venting a clear out of your head to process the situation that was before you. The two were bickering like two teenage girls, and it was quite exhausting to listen to.

“Answer the question trickster, else I’ll have you fed to the infamous black panther, and let’s just say that he is the best bodyguard I have ever hired. So, are you going to speak, or will I have you dragged out of here like a damned serpent with a noose around its neck?” Bucky threatened, gritting his teeth together, his nose straining in frustration, drawing more attention to the small stud on the right side of his nose.

“Looks like she needs me Barnes, perhaps your reputation does not proceed you. But to answer in full, my band have made quite the rise, and I thought it would be... fitting to pay you a visit. Though I had no idea that this wonderful woman would be here, pining on your lap like some feline in heat. I see she’s fucking you now, after all my suspicions are never wrong. Or we’ll, Heimdall’s train of thought always ends up at the right station.”

“Can the pair of you stop, for one goddamn minute!” Your hands obscured a path into your hair, as you glared back and forth between the pair of rival rockstars. “I am here, dammit! Stop talking about me as though I am not here, a part of me wishes that I wasn’t so I didn’t have to listen to your bitching.”

Without any thought, you clambered from your perch on Bucky’s lap, walking towards the raven haired gentleman, pointing your finger in his face as you accused him. “You’ve got your point across, but I’ll tell you something. If you don’t leave, Heimdall will see me putting my foot up your ass.”

“Does she speak to you like this Barnes? I thought she had loosened up in more ways than one when I allowed Thor to stretch her cunt, but it appears that that mouth of hers has gotten a little out of hand also. You should do something about that, or else you’ll lose her to someone else like a did. Who knows, could be Romanoff, heard she has a thing for brats.”

Natasha Romanoff, a diverse woman in her ways and songs. She was the queen of the rock culture, tormenting her workers with her verbal abuse and it would undoubtedly be no different for her assistant. If you were to be under her employment, it was certain that you would not get out alive, nor work for another talented person for the rest of your life. To cross her, was a vow to sign your own death certificate, it was plain stupidity, yet people still hustled with her and her limits, resulting in their chances of ever getting hired for any job, vastly slim to none.

At the lack of defence that Bucky provided you, you felt small, your shoulders slacked as you were tortured with Loki’s cold and silky gaze, more so when the man stood up, pressing his bare chest against your back. You could feel the rings that hung off the buds that adorned his chest coil and dig into your back, shrouding your demeanour substantially.

A part of you wanted nothing more than for Bucky to abuse Loki’s face with his fist, specifically the right, since it was the bearer to a chunky silver ring. It’d leave quite the print, however, the unexpected unravelled as his enquiring tone was aimed not at you, but Loki instead.

“You let your brother fuck her, hmm. Maybe she should learn her manners by being shared, that way her retrospective spattering of bullshit may be contained, to a limit of course.” It was unbelievably, you could not believe that Bucky was conferring with the enemy! And not only that, they were talking about experiences of having you literally become speechless from their unprofessional administrations upon your body. “I’d get T’Challa in here, but I know she’s already fucked him. Can’t quite fire him for it though, because who could ever say no to those pretty eyes, and that mouth, god, it is definitely one of her most persuasive attributes.”

“Bu-“ you didn’t even get to finish imploring his name off your lips, about to defend yourself and your previous actions, though, you were interrupted, starved from the opportunity of coming up with an explanation.

“No.” Loki told you, the roles now reversed as he was the one with his index finger aimed at you. He tapped your nose with it, as he began to pace in the room, his wild locks remaining in their place as he spun, before facing Bucky, a sly tranquility of a truce veining out from the pools of his evergreen orbs. “You don’t speak a word to me y/n, not whilst I’m having a conversation with James here.”

James. It was too far a polite way for him to address your boss. They were all hot and ready to tear out each other’s throats a moment ago, and now here they were, having a silent conversation without your inclusion. It had you reeling your mind as to why, until Bucky gathered your hair in his hand to the side, sliding you y/h/c locks over your shoulder, and finally deemed it acceptable for you to hear his voice.

Though, he still was not directing his tensive words in your direction. “Since you had dealt with this subordinate behaviour from her, perhaps you’d like to join us; help me train her to become more...” His breath fanned your the top of your ear, making your skin crawl by not only his warm and inviting breath, but also the offer that he had supposed to the other man.

“Obedient?” Loki asked in turn of his wispy ended offer of optimism, his leather, sharp tipped boots taking a prominent, heart clenching step towards you. He reached his finger out, grasping a loose strand that had fallen out of Bucky’s grip and before your face, tugging lightly on it, as his lips came dangerously close to your own. “Rules aren’t your forfeit, are they my dear? The best assistant I ever hired, with all those unique ideas floating around in that independent head of yours, but you’ve always been troublesome. I remember the time that you bit my cock that day you had attitude. I reckon Bucky here could do a better job.”

“Then why doesn’t he?” You hissed as said man tugged on his handful of your hair, instantly making you regret your phrase in the moment. To a halting surprise however, Bucky released you, lightly shoving you to cause you to fumble forwards, and away from him.

“Maybe I will.” He dared, earning a nod from Loki, whom seductively began to unzip his loose trousers, as Bucky descended to the ground, his hands running up his rival’s thighs, as the material dropped around Loki’s ankles. It would seem, that he had gone commando, and as Bucky grasped Loki’s shaft, you felt a pull in your chest inherently demanding that you play some part in this fornication.

“Wait.” Your hand shot out, as though you had some force to stop them from continuing with their war path to exact all of their developed spit onto you. “What about me?” You were ss

“Oh no doll, you are not pulling any strings here, if you wanna do something useful, come here and warm my cock, you can watch me blow your old associate.” A slither of a whimper fell from your lips, it wasn’t exactly what you were prying towards, but you sure as hell were not going to refuse the contact that Bucky was obliged to give you.

Thus you wandered towards him, your pinkies curling around one another, as you sashayed to the ground beside him, watching as he paid Loki no mind for a moment, ruthlessly in a desperation fuelled motion, unbuckled his thick belt, and shoved the material of his leather trousers to be held accountable against his lower thighs, just above his tense knees.

He too, as their exteriors supposed, had forgone the extra layer that kept his cock tucked away, though it was exposed as he tugged those tight trousers down, and the sight of both his and Loki’s cocks bobbing in the same vicinity had you close to quivering.

It was somewhat of a dream portrayed in the viscous space of reality, the two men half undressed in then proximity of yourself, it was something that you had always imagined, even before you had left Loki’s side, and opted to work for Bucky, but the idea was definitely short lived. They hated each other, but apparently they were willing to put all their issues aside to prohibit you from freely running your mouth.

Bucky’s cock twitched as he patted his own thigh, ordering you without the aid of his voice to commence it as a servant’s throne, or in your case, a stool for you to rest on as he tended to intimate needs of the man that you had once worked for. Finally, with the decision of better judgement, you allowed your grey jumper dress to slide down your body, leaving you nude, and the aspect of the two men’s unforgiving and locked gazes.

“No underwear, and you wonder why your men have no difficulty in her allowing them to fuck her.” Bucky took ahold of his cock, squeezing his cock with one hand, whilst his other aided you in sitting on his muscular legs, as he lightly growled up at the opposing rockstar.

From the stiff grip that Bucky affirmed around his sceptre, Loki gasped, his pale lips instantly shutting once the sound wantonly abandoned him. The last thing that he wanted was for Bucky to see him in vulnerable poise, though with that said, it’d be rather difficult considering the smutty circumstances.

Bucky took Loki’s long, alabaster prick into his mouth, starting from the primrose tip and descending down, reciprocating the action that you did yourself as you sheathed yourself onto his cock, but instead with his lips. A grunt rendered along Loki’s length as the man bit back a whimper, the vibrations running through his veins like a transpiring pulse of sorcery.

Bucky opted for bobbing his head, as you endured the liberation of his very slightly gyrating movement inside of you. Though, despite him being almost completely still and leaving you full to the brim with his thick length, his balls resting against the partition where he was delved into you, you remained transfixed.

The motion image, recording first hand through your own eyes, of him blowing Loki was sinful, but you were drawn to it. If that made you a sinner, one endorsed by the graphic scene, licking your lips from the sight of Bucky running his studded tongue up the length of Loki, dipping the ball of silver metal into his slit, then so be it.

Your heart raced as you were met with an opportunity. A globe of saliva, strung by the lapping muscle of Bucky’s tongue dropped down; you practically saw its fall in slow motion. It was done before you could register your actions, you had leant forwards, catching the trickle of spit in your mouth, thinking not for a moment as you gulped the subjective liquid down.

Bucky’s pace increased, he gagged lightly as he jolted him further down his throat. Loki hummed, harshly grabbing Bucky’s dark brunette locks, biting his lip as he reimagined your little catch. It had him feeling close, and just as he was about to finish, precum furiously pooling out of his tip, Bucky pulled back, a smirk marking his features.

“You’re not cumming in my mouth, I don’t mind sucking dick, nor swallowing, but I have to practically listen to you jizz over your own talent, and prowl over my girl.” The name he labelled you with had your heart fluttering, but not nearly as much as when he lightly pulled out of you, infuriating you with the lack of any pleasurable esteem. “Don’t you worry babes, you can finish with me inside of you, like always.”

That used to be him, Loki thought with a brewing rage in his chest. Though he instead shrugged out of his dull patterned striped shirt that was already loose on his shoulders. The fabric hit the floor, leaving all of you barren to the subject of nudity.

“Always doesn’t suppose the past Barnes.” Loki stated, referring to all the various times that he had found refuge in your spongey walls, you willingly clenching around him, and pleading for him to hit a deeper spot within you. “And I do not prowl, I don’t need to. The evidence is there between her legs, coiling in juices surrounding her ever so willing folds, that are prepared to endure the harshest of penetrations.”

“What are you trying to do, write a fucking song about this?” Scoffed Bucky, rolling his crystallised orbs at the guts that this man had. If he so much as wanted to, he could stop this passage into a three way all together, but he did not, at least he had yet to. He was enjoying the way that you were squirming to yourself, thinking that he didn’t notice, squeezing the sides of your thighs together in an aroused matrimony.

“A fucking song would’ve the correct term - literally.” Was the affirmed words of Loki, as he shoved Bucky to be sat beside you, tilting his messy brush of crazed hair, his untrustworthy eyes drifting to you. “Who’d you want to fuck you, you fangirling slut?”

It was truthfully a difficult decision. “Both.” You admitted, your bones jumping as Bucky pinched one of your erect nipples, continuing to hold a sturdy clasp of his pads around the sensitive flesh; you couldn’t jut choose one of them. Not when they were both in such close range, bore in nothing more than their birthdays suits, talking about your quivering and diversely accepting cunt.

They knew that you couldn’t possibly refuse one or the other. You were vastly too hungry to be filled like you had never been before, shagged by two of three most well known artists in the industry, earnestly and mindlessly earning yourself a title within the circle of uptight yet simultaneously chill performers.

Perhaps, if Bucky we to ever potentially fire you, there would be another pursuer for your articulating talents on standby, awaiting for the moment that you walked out of his complex door to swoop you up as though they were a predatory falcon, flying off into a stationed sunset, those around seeing you as nothing more than a shadow of the ambient orb, but the one who had employed you finding you to be a sufficing inspiration.

Large hands swallows your hips, firmly controlling their angle as they grasped you in their strong, almost super human hold, lifting you so that you were tentatively tucked in a reverse cowgirl position on Bucky’s lap. It was the third time that you had been this close to him, it would almost be intimate, if your legs weren’t strewn in an open, all revealing splay, so that Loki could see your boss tease his tip around your entrance before sliding you down his length, extracting a strong wail from your churning throat.

Your own hand resented down, applying swirls of pressure down on your clit; it appeared that they were willing you to continue without interruption. Bucky lightly, despite the power that he was promoted to in this position, began to bounce you on his shaft, spewing small mewls out from your agape mouth.

Fisting his cock, Loki approached, Bucky reachin this seen hands down to spread te lips of your pussy, so that the other man was guaranteed a crude glimpse of you being stufffed. Though, you weren’t quite filled enough, for Bucky raised a brow and prompted Loki to allow himself to be pulled closer by your axed and whining aura.

He brushed his tip languidly against your buzzing clit, dragging through your slick and jab i at your delicate fingers before probing at the base of Bucky’s cock, and pushing inside, right along his rival’s length, the pair moaning out in a pleasured union. On the other and, you had tears falling from the crescents of your eyes, the stretch so much that it was a blistering pain to your cunt.

“Don’t go all meek dear, you and i both know this is far from the first instance where you’ve had more than one cock in this nasty, betraying cunt of yours.” Loki taunted, gripping the vulnerable expanse of your throat from behind, his icy glazed skin sending provocative shivers down your spine, making your pussy pulse from the chill that ran through your body.

And then, i a split instant, both cocks began to piston into your walls, as though you were nothing more than a rag doll, meant o be thrown around and handled in a disorderly fashion. They ere ruthless, groaning out symphonies in the cursive air around you, as your walls engulfed their pricks more than snugly.

You felt so wide down there, they were taking a pirating toll on your body stealing every breath that dared wither from your lips, tweezing their nimble fingered around various parts of your body, all in due retrospect or coerce you into fucking them back, making all actions in the mass of bodies a mutual effort.

Loki lowered his head down meeting Bucky for a sloppy, brash kiss. It was clear they were simply doing that part to fulfil a greedy desire in your stomach, but you were not one that minded. It was, like the rest of their frenzy of collaborations, a competitive mess. They nipped harshly at each other’s lips, ravenously all in the meanwhile ploughing your body with their har girths.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Your tongue dribbled, earning satisfied, lust induced smirks from both parties that were currently penetrating you, making you writhe harder against their lengths a new flow of moisture weeping out from your hole, lubricating their movements further, it encouraging them to do nothing more than continue what they were doing, despite their better judgements.

The truth was, they were rockstars. They had no better judgement, which is why everyone like them needed someone like you. Their thought were clouded with one mission, and for once in their spent lifetimes, it was not to beat the others, at least not to a certain extent anyways. It was their assignment, delivered by their own hands, to bring you to the edge, and that’s physically what they reformed to do.

One of them were groping your nipples, whilst the other confined the same treatment to your ass cheeks. Loki found your Rocky enables of positive feedback to be icicles and they were beautiful, he stared at them, as though they were divine ploys extracted from the mythical kingdom of Jotunheim, their residence in the realm to be the peacemakers of all bountiful creatures, much like himself and Barnes.

A rich euphoric groan exuberated from Bucky as he allowed himself to spoil, but he tutted whence he watched Loki’s features suppose that he was to follow shortly behind. “Not inside of her.” Bucky growled, sufficing Loki to roll his eyes, and pull out, the man behind you furiously replacing your hand, rolling our clit in his grasp until a sinful scream enveloped the air, commencing them all to the fact that you had just came.

Loki found the show to be unfair, and instead, spilled his priceless seed onto the huffing skin of your stomach, you eyes fluttered shut at the warm feeling pooling onto you. You leant back, drawing your neck into a crooked angle as you swiped your tongue wordlessly over the piercing on Bucky’s right nipple, metal providing a relief to the heat that your body was and had been swarmed with. “ Last chance you’re gonna have t taste her sweet cunt.”

“You do certainly have some faith in this one Barnes, but I do doubt that it will be the last instance in which i am todo so.” His silver tongue pried at your cum soaked flesh, drinking up all the essence that you had to offer, onshore the flavour that Bucky had brought to the table, i the form of a succulent drizzling of Snow White cum.

As Loki finishes swabbing his tongue over your cunt, Bucky adoringly kisses you, much sweeter than he has before. It was sort, and almost chaste, but his blue eyes roamed your face, delicately observing the high points of your face, that were covered with a sheen of great force making you as he would put it, glow.

The pair of you weer exhausted, there was still some swollen was to his lips from where he had sucked off Loki. His hands cradled you around your waist, his feet kicking Loki back as you whimpered from opaque sensitivity. “I guess that was you bidding me a dew.” Sneered the trickster, fishing for his clothes, as he spared you a spark filled glare, to which you ignored.

Once he was situated back into his attire, he left the sex scented room,a hollow smirk chapping his lips as he strutted th a purpose out into the hallway, taking a left instead of a right, and creeping into barnes’ studio to see what the man was working on in the midst of his enduring tour/ He was always the trickster, and nothing different was to ever be expected out of him.

“That was good.” You mumbled, rubbing your ode lovingly across the scruff that coated his jaw. His fingers made small circles upon your tummy, humming contently as he remained sheathed inside of you. He had to admit, he preferred it when it was just him, but his lonesome, sheathed within your walls, feeling the small trembles of your walls around him. It was practically heaven, and he would say so if he believed in such a place.

A deliberate knock ruined the moment, as the man entered,he quarrelled with himself where her to casually look in the direction of the pair of you or to avert his sight around, and blankly at the all. “What is it T’Challa?” Grumbled the man inside of you, quirking a thin brow at the timing of his presence.

“Loki; he managed to get into ur data, and he’s leaked a whole bunch of your music.” Of course, Loki would not come here to simply gloat, there was alas something extra up his green sleeve, and now it was revealed.

“Son of a bitch!” Bucky made a move to stand, but instead prohibited a whimper out of you as hi ships jutted angrily tip on instinct. “Get Odin on the phone, we’re going to have a little chat about his slippery hands son!” Barked Bucky, prepared t do anything to bring his greatest threat down, compiling him into the put of hate industry, until he was forgotten about, unable to ever produce new music again.

“Talk to Sif.” You whispered, becoming the image of his assistant once more, even if his cum lathered cock was prevailing within a rut of required stress relief, growing in the conjunction of your wall with his body guard there. “She loathes him, and rightfully so. He got her kicked out and she has dirt on him that nobody else has ever heard. If you want to take I’m down, she is your in.”

The strict tone grammatically supported by your logical information was definitely turning Bucky on again. He could handle you more than fine without Loki’s aid, he was just a means to an end, as it was clearly shown in his priorities.

246 notes · View notes

iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

Text

When He Sees Me // Benedict Bridgerton

Request: Hey! I've just finished reading all of your Benedict fanfics and it's like, "let me have more!!!" *-* Could you maybe write something where the reader and Ben meet at Mr Granville's house? Where the reader is lower class and mocks him for with his lord manners, and eventually they get along well and all that? And he falls in love with her but she's just a seamstress and is scared he fetishizing her poverty and the "starving artist" lifestyle... Thanks in advance, love your writing xxx - anon.

A/N: Thank you so so much! This is such a sweet message. Thank you for requesting something from me; I can only hope I have done it justice. This is a really long fic, I know that - it really did get away from me. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy and I hope you are all well!

Title: Waitress - When He Sees Me

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and nudity, making out, amorous activities, light voyeurism (very light), class divides, pining, mutual pining, fluff, light angst, humour, Bridgerton family feels. HAPPY ENDING.

Word count: 6.8k (this is so long, I am so sorry)

“Bridgerton!” Henry Granville calls, a large smile spreading across his face as he spies Benedict by the front door. “I was hoping you’d make it.”

“Here I am,” Benedict laughs, spreading his arms wide in evidence.

Granville chuckles, grabbing a glass from a nearby tray and handing it to Benedict who takes a healthy sip immediately. “Come,” Granville gestures, “Let me show you around.”

Benedict follows the man he already classes as a friend. He hums at the appropriate time, eyes dancing around every room he is taken into, taking in the numerous pieces of art and the growing number of people.

Finally, Granville leads him to a room bathed in studious silence. Five people stand in the room; four stand behind easels – the picture of concentration as brushes scratching on canvas is the only sound in the room. The fifth person stands proudly before the back wall; posing elegantly, a lady stands completely naked save for an apple held delicately in the palm of her hand.

“This is Ariadne, our life model for tonight,” Granville introduces, smiling at the model without an ounce of care that she stands naked in his living room.

“Ariadne,” Benedict nods, doing his best to look anywhere but her naked body. He wasn’t usually this awkward around women, but the last thing he expected tonight was a life model. His usual influences for art came from clothed members of the public.

Granville takes a seat at an easel, studying Ariadne with great care before picking up a thin brush. As he runs it through the nearby oil paint, he calls to Benedict, “Join us!”

Benedict shakes his head, heading towards the door. Granville nods understandingly; it was a lot for a person’s first time at a soiree such as this. “Another time perhaps,” Granville says as Benedict leaves the room.

Closing the door, Benedict leaves the artists to their muse. His fingers twitch for his sketchpad, thinking of the images he could create; he had seen the empty seat in front of a spare easel, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit down and create the art he saw in his mind. Another time, he thinks to himself.

He turns away from the door where his attention is immediately tethered to a couple across the hallway.

The couple are in the middle of an embrace; connected at the mouth with hands beginning to wander clothing. The stays to the lady’s dress are loosened, the relieved gasp quickly swallowed by her partner’s mouth. Hands continue to wander; moans swallowed by joint mouths. It’s a sight to behold even as the position is changed; the woman straddling her partner, beginning to move her hips to the rhythm of music only they must be able to hear.

Unable to tear his stare away from the couple, Benedict feels his mouth drop open at the impropriety before him.

“Come now, Mr. Bridgerton,” A feminine voice teases, “Surely you’ve seen worse.”

Benedict bristles; unhappy with the tone of her voice and the accusation lightly punctuating the air. “Not that it is any of your business, but I have seen worse.”

Her eyebrows fly into her hair, clearly not expecting the rebuff. Benedict represses a smile at the expression on her face; his eyes dance around the hallway, not knowing where to look without fear of landing on the amorous couple. Benedict had never been one to shy away from love and lust and where it can lead you, but he had never been witness to such an event. The last thing he needed for himself (and his family) was to be classed as a voyeur.

“Follow me,” She announces, crooking a finger at Benedict before walking away.

Helpless and out of his comfort zone, Benedict follows the nameless lady. His eyes pour over her figure as he walks behind her like a lost puppy; her dress is finely made, the fabric clearly new. Benedict keeps his eyes fixed head, refusing to let his gaze drop any lower as she opens a door, standing to one side to let him enter first.

The room is adequately sized; enough room for a fireplace already blazing, a couch big enough for two and a small table and chairs. It’s comfortable; the room is well lit from the candles around the room and the large fire.

The well-dressed lady follows Benedict into the room, leaving him standing in the centre as she heads towards a drinks cabinet. She grabs two glasses and a decanter of liquid that Benedict cannot decipher. Scotch, whisky, brandy – all three would fare him well at this point.

Wordlessly, she hands Benedict a drink. A knuckle’s length of amber liquid swirls in the glass, lit up by the roaring fire. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Benedict starts, “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

She smiles; eyes crinkling from the force of it. “You can spy a Bridgerton by the colour of their eyes,” She snorts, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it, “I’m (Y/N).”

Benedict bows his head; the very picture of gentlemanly politeness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

If possible, (Y/N)’s smile grows larger, trying her hardest to repress the laughter bubbling inside of her. “This isn’t your usual scene, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict shakes his head. “I’m a friend of Henry’s and call me Benedict please. After being witness to the couple outside, I think we can forgo formalities.”

Laughter escapes her mouth, powerless to help herself. Benedict frowns at her reaction, but (Y/N) waves a hand in apology. “I remembered your face,” She offers in explanation, “You mentioned that you had seen worse, but you still looked so scandalised.”

Benedict huffs, crossing his legs, sipping at his drink before answering. “I didn’t know what to expect from tonight. Henry is an artist! I just never expected that.”

“We’re all artists, Benedict, in one form or another. We’re practically bohemian.”

“Does that happen often?” He asks, nodding towards the door where Benedict holds no doubt that more clothing will have been lost between the enamoured couple.

(Y/N) lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. “More often than not. The intimacy that is required with art combined with the amount of alcohol consumed tends to lead to such things.”

“Have you ever taken part in such things?” Benedict asks before realising the extent and implication of his words. “Forgive me,” He coughs, “I’m not usually so forward. You don’t need to answer.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” (Y/N) answers honestly, amused at the lack of filter from the Bridgerton. “Why don’t I ask the next question?”

“Please do,” Benedict responds, loosening the cravat at his neck, deciding to take it off altogether.

“Tell me,” She begins, eyes on the skin now bare to the room, “Do you prefer paints or pastels?”

“Neither,” Benedict answers, “I prefer graphite or charcoal.”

“Interesting…”

“Is it?”

“It is! But I cannot think of a reason why.”

Benedict snorts, draining the last few amber drops in his glass. Silent for a moment, Benedict hums before asking, “Do you draw?”

“Heavens no,” (Y/N) responds, “I’m a talented seamstress, but landscapes and watercolours are not for me.”

“Then why are you here?” Benedict asks; the words unintentionally sharp. He cringes before offering (Y/N) an apologetic smile.

“My friend invited me,” (Y/N) defends, “You met her earlier.”

“I did?”

(Y/N) nods. “You did. She was the life model you were trying your hardest not to ogle.”

Benedict flushes; heat spreading from his neck to his cheeks – partly fuelled by the alcohol in his system, partly fuelled by the knowledge of being caught out. Benedict clears his throat, unable to hide his embarrassment. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”

(Y/N) smiles widely. “They didn’t, but you don’t make it habit to frequent such parties. It was clearly a shock to your system.”

Benedict exhales with a laugh; all the while wishing he had another drink in his hand. “I’m not new to art,” He confesses, “But I am new to this… environment.”

(Y/N) leans forward in her chair; her eyes sparkling in the dim candlelight. A coy smile crosses her lips and Benedict idly wonders what she would taste like as she asks, “And what do you think of this new environment?”

Benedict drags his gaze away from (Y/N)’s mouth to look her in the eyes. Evenings like this are something he could quickly get used to so long as he had her company in the early hours of the morn. A wicked grin spreads across his face as he answers, “With your company, I’m fairly certain that I could come to enjoy this new environment.”

“Only fairly?” (Y/N) murmurs, sipping at her drink before continuing, “I think we’re going to have to turn ‘fairly’ into an absolute.”

Benedict tips his head to one side, wondering whether it would go against societal customs to offer his hand in marriage after only knowing someone for an evening. The thought lingers at the back of Benedict’s mind as he replies, “I have complete and utter faith in your ability to do such a thing.”

(Y/N)’s answering smile has Benedict wondering about marriage for a second time in less than two minutes. What would be the appropriate time to ask someone for their hand? He thinks. A powerful enough thought that Benedict has to look away from her; desperate not to ruin a newly budding friendship.

The clock strikes one; the chimes making (Y/N) jump as they ring through the tension-filled room. A sad sigh leaves her lips as she stands, placing her glass on a nearby table.

“I’m afraid I must go,” She declares, biting her bottom lip, lingering in front of the Bridgerton.

Benedict rises from his seat, his voice close to wobbling as he murmurs, “Must you?”

(Y/N) smiles wistfully. “Not all of us have family money, Benedict. I have two dresses to finish for tomorrow evening and I need to sleep.”

“Will I see you again?” He asks, unable to keep the hope from his voice as his mind spins all sorts of fantasies of their next meeting.

(Y/N) nods; Benedict’s heart soars.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Benedict Bridgerton. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Benedict replies a second too late. She’s gone and Benedict is left to wondering how many seamstresses there are in London.

-------------

If Benedict was thinking logically, he knew that there wasn’t thousands of modistes and seamstresses across London. He knew that the number was much closer to hundreds, but to him that was still too many. He thinks back over the interactions from that night, examining the conversations, trying to find a hint of whether (Y/N) had given him the address of her shop. The more he cross examines, the less evidence he finds.

At this point in his investigation to her whereabouts, Benedict was no longer thinking logically. He was thinking with his heart – desperate to see her again so soon. He didn’t want to have to wait until another party where she just might show up. No, he wanted to see her in her own environment where Benedict had no doubt she would flourish.

He makes himself wait three days before beginning the task of tracking her down. His first port of call was to Henry Granville, asking whether he knew anything of the lady accompanying the life model. Henry knew of her by face, but not much bar her first name. He leaves Benedict with a word of encouragement and a promise of another party soon; Benedict thanks the man heartily, knowing that Henry had tried his best.

However, it left Benedict in a predicament that meant he had to bring in reinforcements.

“I need your help,” Benedict pleads of his dear sister, Eloise Bridgerton a day after starting his hunt for her.

“Whatever for?”

“I need to find someone… a friend.”

“A friend?” Eloise asks sounding very much as if she didn’t believe a word leaving her elder brother’s mouth.

“Am I not allowed to have friends?” Benedict asks of his sister, exasperated at her curiosity. Eloise raises a single eyebrow, and it isn’t a minute later that Benedict begs of his sister, “Please do not tell mother.”

The laughter that leaves Eloise lasts for the next three streets, her chuckles grating on Benedict’s nerves. “Where did you meet her?” Eloise eventually asks, much calmer now that she had gotten the laughter out of her system.

“At Mr. Granville’s if you must know.”

Eloise doesn’t answer; she casts her gaze across her brother’s face, reading eh expression there and the hopeful look in his eyes. Whoever she was, she had done a number on her brother for him to be this desperate to find her.

“Why not wait for the next party?”

Benedict huffs, “She may not go to the next party, then I would be back at the beginning.”

Eloise falls silent again. She watches her older brother, watches how he fiddles with his fingers – a nervous tic he’s hand since he was a boy apparently, it happened more when he was itching to reach for his sketchpad in an attempt to keep his mind quiet.

“She’s really made an impression on you, hasn’t she?”

Benedict sighs, peering up at his sister as he calms his hands. “Please?” He asks quietly, not daring to voice the beg any louder than it needs to be.

Eloise reaches across the gap between them, covering Benedict’s hands with hers. For a moment, he isn’t the elder brother but a man in need of help. “I’ll help you, Benedict.”

“Thank you,” He replies; the relief in his voice evident as his whole body relaxes.

-----------

The tightness in his chest that has plagued him for the last week lifts as soon as his eyes land on her. She hasn’t seen him yet; too busy with another client gushing about their latest dress. (Y/N) looks flattered as she takes in compliment after compliment and Benedict can see why; she is clearly a talented modiste. If it didn’t raise suspicion on his end, he would suggest his mother come here instead of the seamstress just off Grosvenor Square.

The customer soon departs leaving Benedict and Eloise the sole clients in the shop. (Y/N) brushes down her dress, collecting herself before greeting her newest customers.

She freezes when she finds the tall stature of Benedict Bridgerton in and amongst the countless mannequins of her shop. Plastering on a polite smile, she steps forward, “How may I help you today?”

Benedict remains frozen; his stare solely focused on (Y/N). Eloise steps forward, nudging her brother in the side with her elbow. Eloise smiles at (Y/N). “From my brother’s reaction, we have found who we were looking for.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m in the market for a new dress,” Eloise states, elbowing her brother once more.

“Yes!” Benedict coughs, brought out of his stupor, “Eloise needs a new dress.”

(Y/N) glances between the siblings; the awed expression on Benedict’s face combined with the knowing smile on Eloise’s doesn’t settle her nerves. Instead, it heightens them. (Y/N) turns to Eloise, flashing her a friendly smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, could I borrow your brother?”

Eloise snorts. “You may keep him if that helps.”

(Y/N) laughs, covering her mouth before grabbing Benedict’s hand, leading him to the back of the shop. “What are you doing here?” (Y/N) questions; her eyes wide as she closes the door behind them. This was a conversation to have in private; not one to be had in front of Benedict’s sister.

“Accompanying my sister to buy a new dress for an upcoming ball,” Benedict replies smartly, his tone innocent as he applauds himself for asking Eloise to join him on his mission.

(Y/N) fixes him with a flat look, not believing a single word leaving his lips. Benedict flounders for a second before smiling bashfully at the seamstress. It wasn’t often that Benedict was left speechless, but (Y/N) reduced him to such manners.

After a moment, Benedict sighs, deciding honesty to be the best policy. “I wanted to see you again.”

(Y/N)’s face softens at Benedict’s confession, unable to fend off the growing fondness for the Bridgerton. If she was being honest with herself, (Y/N) hadn’t stopped thinking of the man since leaving Mr. Granville’s party.

Just as quick as the fondness set in, so does the worry on Benedict’s behalf. Gesturing between them both, (Y/N) offers Benedict a sad smile. “Nothing can come of this, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“What do you mean? Call me Benedict, you did the other night.”

“There were no class lines the other night,” She all but cries, “Outside of Mr. Granville’s home, we cannot be friends, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict,” He emphasises, “To you, I am Benedict. Not ‘Mr. Bridgerton’.”

“Benedict,” She whispers, giving in to the pleading look in those blue eyes of his.

“Why can’t we be friends?” He asks quietly as if scared to voice such a question louder out of fear of the response.

“You’re the son of a Viscount. I am a seamstress. Outside of my making dresses for your female relatives, where do our paths cross socially?”

“I want them to cross,” Benedict protests almost childishly, crossing his arms as if they were the personification of the budding relationship blooming between (Y/N) and himself.

(Y/N) laughs without humour. “Think of the fallout, Benedict. You would lose friends and contacts. I would be reduced to the rumour of a mistress and lose clients.”

Benedict purses his lips; trying to find fault in her argument but he comes up empty. Class lines were so rigidly drawn in current society and Benedict knew that (Y/N) was more than deserving to be thrown to the vicious rumour mill of London ton.

“What about Granville’s parties?” Benedict offers as a solution. “You say we cannot socialise so openly so let’s meet there with every party.”

“You would go to that extent to win my friendship?”

He nods. “I had the most fun the other night than I had in a long time and I have a very strong feeling it was down to you. You say we cannot be friends so openly, so this is the next best thing. Do I feel go about keeping you a secret? Not particularly, but London society can be unforgivably cruel, and I’ll be damned if I see you suffer at the hands of it.”

(Y/N) blinks rapidly, ridding herself of the tears that grew throughout Benedict’s impassioned speech. “Mr. Granville’s it is, then.”

Benedict smiles; relief flooding his system at your words of agreement. Impulsively, he takes your hand, squeezing it once before letting it drop. The very action sets his veins alight with emotions he has not felt in a very long time, but he doesn’t not let them distract him as he whispers, “I’ll send a messenger with the date and time of the next soiree. Will I see you there?”

“You will,” (Y/N) murmurs, “I promise you.”

Benedict flashes her a handsome smile before returning to the front of the shop, knowing full well he has been too long to be acceptable.

Eloise greets him with a superior smile. Crossing her arms, she asks, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Turning back to face the back of the shop, Benedict smiles to himself. “Yes, I think I have,” He answers, offering Eloise an arm, departing the shop once and for all.

-----------

28th April, 9pm. Mr. Granville’s home. I hope to see you there.

The missive arrives not four days later. (Y/N) reads and rereads the small piece of paper, memorising Benedict’s elegant handwriting. Anticipation curls in her gut making it hard for her to focus on the task at hand; she had three dresses to finish all for next week. If she didn’t focus now, nothing would get done. She would end up wasting the evening by daydreaming of a Bridgerton and their handsome smile.

She hadn’t expected him. He had entered her life so suddenly. After their initial meeting, she hadn’t expected to see him again; had accepted that it was a one-off meeting that Benedict would soon forget, soon taken with the newest fascination in his life if he wasn’t married off by the end of the season.

That didn’t happen. Instead, he had shown up in her shop with his sister in tow. He had begged for a friendship, to see her again. He kept surprising her at every turn, kept startling her when she least expected it.

Yet, she knew she had to be careful. Not only of her heart, but of her reputation. If the two were caught and things misunderstood, it would not be Benedict to suffer. It would be her; she would be reduced to rumours of impropriety, labelled a ‘fallen woman’ whilst Benedict would most likely suffer a harsh word from his mother and a clap on the back from his brothers.

Society, in general, was cruel. London society, however, was punishing when it wanted to be.

--------------

The 28th April rolls around quickly. (Y/N) losing herself in her work, sewing until the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning to ensure that the gowns are ready and that she is free enough to attend the party.

Stepping out of the carriage, (Y/N) steadies herself for a moment, taking a deep breath to settle the butterflies exciting her. She felt ridiculous, letting herself be this affected by the man after only one meeting. Yet, he had shown up at her shop, after searching for her for however long.

(Y/N) felt in two minds. On one hand, she wanted the friendship of Benedict Bridgerton for the simple fact that he was entertaining. On the other hand, she despised the idea that she may be a project for the man – their opposite places in society becoming a barrier between them.

The atmosphere in Mr. Granville’s house is heady as (Y/N) enters the premises; the party very much in full swing as she sheds her shawl and leaves it on a side table. She smiles at those she recognises, waving quickly at Ariadne who she finds modelling for many artists once more. Ariadne smiles back but doesn’t move; her eye on a particular artist, a female she knew she would be going home with that night.

(Y/N) shakes her head fondly at the antics of her friend; having known Ariadne for years and loved her proclivity for men and women. (Y/N) admired Ariadne’s lack of shame for who she is, who she wants to be. She doesn’t let the law stop of her from loving who she wants to.

Arriving at the door she entered through last time, (Y/N) hesitates, feeling unsure of herself. A small flash of doubt lances through her mind as she reaches for the doorknob; how long was this going to last before Benedict got bored? How long did she have with the man that was no doubt going to change her world?

The very thought haunts her as she enters the room, finding Benedict in the same spot as last time. He stands when he sees (Y/N) standing the doorway; his suit elegantly rumpled as if he had been sat there for some time. His blue eyes sparkle in the dimly lit room; the only light coming from the fire in the grate. His smile brightens as he takes in her appearance.

“You came,” Benedict breathes, his voice relieved as if he was worried that she may not attend the party after all.

“I promised you I would,” (Y/N) replies, taking the offered glass from Benedict. Their fingers brush and (Y/N) tries exceptionally hard to ignore the jolt of electricity that passes between them. Friendship, she snipes to herself, nothing more.

“I know,” He whispers, “But I’m glad all the same.”

Something in (Y/N) melts at the stark honesty of his words; she found herself being knocked off her axis and it was only their third meeting.

“I have to know,” (Y/N) starts, her voice amused as she takes a seat across from the brunette, “How many shops did you go into before finding mine?”

Benedict averts his gaze, distracting himself from answering by taking a long sip of his drink. “Too many,” He eventually answers.

“You don’t know the number?”

“I know the exact number, I could even tell you their names, but I hesitate to tell you.”

“You have to tell me now,” (Y/N) prompts, leaning forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table. “Please?”

Benedict sighs a war-weary sigh; acting as if (Y/N) had worn him down to his very last nerve. With a light blush dusting his cheeks, Benedict admits, “I visited close to fifteen shops with Eloise before finding yours.”

“Fifteen?!” (Y/N) all but shouts, laughter soon falling from her lips as rain would fall from the sky. The very sound sets Benedict’s heart racing within his chest making him wonder whether it was going to run right out of his chest any moment.

“Eloise was very grateful when we found you. She despises dress shopping.”

“Yet she went to fifteen dress shops with you in order to find me.”

“She’s my favourite sibling, but don’t tell the others.”

“How many do you have? I’ve heard of the famous Bridgerton brood but never focused long enough to find out how many children there were.”

“Eight of us in total,” Benedict laughs at (Y/N)’s gasp, “We’re named alphabetically too. My father used to joke it was so he could keep track of us easier.”

“A wise idea,” (Y/N) murmurs.

“He was a wise man,” Benedict states, thinking of his departed father with a keen sting of grief. It didn’t matter how long his father had been gone, the wound would never heal. He would miss his father until his very last day on this earth; Benedict would spend the rest of his life trying to emulate Edmund Bridgerton’s life lessons.

A pensive silence descends only for a moment before (Y/N) asks, “Why did you look for me?”

The blush returns to Benedict’s cheeks. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you again?” He asks sheepishly. He had prepared himself for such a conversation but having it in real life was no comparison to the fantasy in his head.

“Why did you want to see me again? Why not wait for the next party?”

“I wasn’t sure you would attend the next party,” Benedict reasons, “And I really did want to see you again.”

(Y/N) smiles bashfully, ducking her head as his words wash over her. She fiddles with the stem of the glass in her hand before taking a long sip; the worries from earlier had returned with the conviction behind his words. She had to know; if she didn’t ask him, she would never know and she would never be prepared for the day he would inevitably grow bored and move onto the next project. “Can we be honest with each other for a moment, Benedict?”

“I thought we have been so far.”

(Y/N) smiles despite herself. Schooling her face into a mask of polite interest, she tries to cover the concern and worry steadily rising in her gut. “This isn’t a saviour moment for you is it? Befriending a poorer seamstress, getting to know her before eventually getting bored?”

“I haven’t thought of it as that for one moment.”

“You haven’t?”

“I haven’t, but the fact that you have says more about my character than I care to admit.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” She hurries to say, worried about losing the friendship that had only just begun and scared of hurting Benedict’s feelings.

“You haven’t insulted me,” Benedict promises with a small smile.

“I can’t help but worry,” She admits in a small voice.

“I would socialise with you in public, but you made such a sound argument the other week that I couldn’t find fault. You’re right, it could lead to all sorts of trouble, but I want you to know that I do not have a saviour complex. I just enjoy your company.”

(Y/N) relaxes, sagging further into the chair as she lets herself breathe freely since the worrisome thought entered her mind. Now that it was out in the open, she could smile more without worry. “I enjoy your company too,” She confesses, “You’re quite refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” Benedict asks, sounding close to laughter.

(Y/N) rolls her eyes at the older gentleman. “Yes, refreshing. I deal with meddlesome mothers and droll daughters all day. You make me laugh… it’s refreshing.”

“I’m glad I can provide refreshment,” Benedict laughs, his smile wide with his happiness.

Happy smiles are exchanged as the worries leave (Y/N)’s mind. She was wanted here by the man sat across from her; he had no plans to leave any time soon. For now, her mind is settled and as she raises her glass to the Bridgerton across from her, she briefly wonders whether her heart would soon be settled too.

------------

The friendship continues for weeks; neither of them the wiser to their growing feelings for the other. If they are, they remain silent, not wanting to disturb the status quo but rather, pine from a distance.

They continue to meet at Mr. Granville’s, sneaking away to their room where they talk for hours about anything and everything.

At one point, (Y/N) manages to convince Benedict to bring his sketchpad with him where he fills pages with drawings of her. She doesn’t realise it; she doesn’t know that the small sketch of hands holding a champagne flute is Benedict’s study of her.

Time passes and they become attached to the other; saving pieces of information and stories of friends and family for when they finally get to see each other. The time they have together filled with laughter; the class lines that separate them outside Mr. Granville’s home practically invisible as Benedict chokes on his drink at the scandalous nature of (Y/N)’s story, unaware such language could leave such a woman.

It’s easy, it’s natural. It’s all Benedict has to fill his time between the mind-numbing balls and luncheons set up by his mother in order to find him a wife. Little does Violet Bridgerton know that Benedict has found someone he would devote the rest of his life to but whether she would be willing, whether she loves him as wholly as he loves her is another matter entirely.

--------------

He starts to haunt her dreams from their very first meeting. The colour of his eyes combined with the brightness of his smile chased her from sleep much faster than she would have liked.

Sitting up in bed, she rests her chin on her knees, feeling the helplessness that often accompanies the swift descent into love.

In the short time she had spent in Benedict’s company, (Y/N) had to admit that she had fallen head over heels for the brunette. Sighing heavily, she tries to pinpoint the exact moment her feelings turned from platonic to romantic but finds herself unable to do so. At this point, she cannot help but wonder whether she had fallen for him the first instance she saw him. He looked so out of depth in his perfectly pressed clothes; it was adorable.

(Y/N) runs a hand across her face in an attempt to dispel the lingering tiredness but to also ride herself of thoughts of the man who had so readily captured her heart without knowing he had done so.

How could she explain this feeling? Her heart refused to calm in his presence, beating away in her chest as if ready to take flight. Benedict smiled in her direction and her mind ceased to form coherent thought. She didn’t tell anyone how in the darkest hours of the night, she stretched a hand across the empty blankets of her bed, imagining what it would be like to have Benedict lie next to her. Would he snore? Was he an early riser or did he prefer to sleep in?

Such questions would travel the expanse of her mind until the birds began to announce the arrival of a new day. Her mind creating daydreams that left her heart aching in her chest when she came back to earth, reminded harshly of the barriers that divided them.

What scent did he prefer? Did he favour scotch or brandy?

Endlessly she tortured herself with such questions. Spinning fantasies in which she woke up every morning with Benedict by her side. She would wake to find him already watching her, as if in disbelief that she would choose to love a man such as him.

A single tear escapes (Y/N)’s eye as she forces herself back to the present. Eyeing her small rooms, (Y/N) thought that she should be fortunate that a man such as Benedict Bridgerton would give her the honour of his much requested time. It would do her no good to fall in love with him now.

Straightening up and running a hand through her sleep plait, (Y/N) vows to rid herself of her feelings for the second eldest Bridgerton.

However, as the vow is sealed, a small voice in the back of (Y/N)’d mind casts doubt on her ability to do such a thing.

----------------

“Eloise has been asking after you,” Benedict comments; choosing the line of conversation for this section of the evening. At this point, they’ve been at Granville’s home for hours, covering all topics of conversation conceivable. (Y/N) had updated Benedict on Ariadne’s clandestine love affair with a daughter of a prominent member of His Majesty’s Navy to which Benedict spent over an hour trying to guess which officer and which daughter. (Y/N) delighted in announcing his incorrect guesses.

“How is she?” She asks, feeling a distant fondness for the woman who had shown up in her shop so many weeks ago.

“Distracted if I’m being truthful,” Benedict murmurs, “Her hands are always covered in ink. I think she has an admirer.”

“And why shouldn’t she?” (Y/N) demands, crossing her arms. “Eloise is a beautiful young woman. Any man would be lucky to have her.”

“She’s turned down the last three marriage proposals so I’m curious to see what type of man has captured her attention.”

“Siblings and their nosiness,” (Y/N) admonishes though there is no heat behind it.

“I want what’s best for her,” Benedict defends.

“I know you do,” She whispers, fondness for the man sitting across from her surging through her. It leaves her quiet; it leaves her breathless as she fends off the heart racing, stomach turning affection she feels for the second eldest Bridgerton.

Benedict closes his eyes, kicking up his heels and resting them on the table. A happy, content smile crosses his lips as he lets himself enjoy the moment they find themselves in.

I could do this for the rest of myself, (Y/N) thinks to herself, I could sit with him for the rest of my life.

It’s with that thought that (Y/N) knows she has broken the vow she made only a few days ago.

“You’re different tonight… quieter. Is something the matter?” Benedict asks, a note of concern in his voice.

(Y/N) shakes her head, refusing to look the man in the eye. Instead, she focuses her gaze on her glass, swirling the liquid around as if it were the most fascinating thing in the whole world.

Benedict sighs, reaching across the table, taking her glass from her hand and placing it on the table in front of them. He stops himself from covering her hand with his; that is a luxury for couples. As much as Benedict wanted more, he would settle for being her friend.

“You can tell me anything, (Y/N),” Benedict murmurs quietly, breaking her resolve clean in half.

“I broke my vow,” She whispers, voice close to breaking.

“What vow?” Benedict asks, panic beginning to rise internally. “Are you promised to another?”

“Nothing like that,” (Y/N) reassures, “I broke a vow that I made to myself which somehow makes me feel worse. I would rather I broke a promise of marriage.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

(Y/N) sniffles, wiping a hand under her eyes before laughing humourlessly. “A few nights ago, I made myself a promise and it seems that I am unable to keep such a vow.”

“Would you tell me that vow?”

(Y/N) sighs, seeing no point in lying to him. “I vowed that I would rid myself of my feelings for you.”

“And have you?” Benedict asks warily; he needs to know whether he has a chance to love her the way he wants to. He wants to be her everything; he wants to kiss her goodnight and then kiss her good morning hours later.

She shakes her head; wisps of hair flying loose from her updo. “I don’t think I ever really tried. I don’t think I want to lose my feelings for you.”

“I don’t often make grand declarations, I don’t believe in over the top displays of affection,” Benedict begins; his eyes fixed on her face, on every movement of her lips, “But I love you, (Y/N). I love you and if I need to, I will make a grand declaration, I will shout it from the rooftop of Buckingham Palace.”

“Please don’t do that!” (Y/N) gasps, an amused smile on her face. “I love you too, I love you with everything I am, but aren’t you worried?”

“Worried?”

“Of the fallout? It could never work, Benedict. See sense, please,” She pleads; eyes wide.

“Why wouldn’t it work? We love each other, surely that should be enough.”

“It is enough for me, Benedict,” She reassures quickly, “But it isn’t enough for the rest of society.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“My entire business relies on such things, Benedict! Whether I earn an income over the season is down to what the ton think.”

“It is so easy to get lost in the wealth, the titles and the balls,” Benedict whispers, “You bring me back down to earth; remind me that I could happily live without the grandeur because I would have the love of the woman I have come to adore.”

The words have her argument crumbling into ash before her. There was no arguing with that; he was prepared to live a simpler life with her.

“You would do that for me? Live a simpler life?” She asks because she has to know; she has to know that she isn’t something he would come to regret in the weeks, months, years that pass. She couldn’t live with herself if he harboured any resentment towards her for his loss of societal ties; the very thought terrified her.

“Darling,” Benedict states, “I would give it all up for you. As long as I have you, I do not need the life in London and everything else that comes with it. We can live in the country; I have a cottage there that I am sure you’re going to love.”

“What about your family?”

“They’ll love your almost as much as I love you.”

“They won’t hate me?” She asks, voice timid as she thinks of the matriarch of the Bridgerton family, knowing she was not a woman to cross.

“They could never.”

(Y/N) begins to nod; slow at first before growing more rapidly with a smile breaking out across her face. “Okay,” She breathes, “I love you, Benedict Bridgerton. I’m not scared anymore.”

Benedict gathers her in his arms, finally getting to hold her after dreaming of such an action for so long. Better than his dreams, he thinks to himself as he glances between her stare and her lips. Silently, she nods, smiling softly as Benedict takes that final leap, pressing their lips together.

(Y/N) sighs against his mouth; a noise he could happily hear for the rest of his life. Her hands grasp the lapels of his jacket, pulling him even closer. She feels like heaven against him as Benedict continues to taste the remnants of her drink on her lips.

Her hands leave his jacket, reaching up to card through his hair. (Y/N) tugs lightly at the dark brown locks, smiling into the kiss at the sound of the low groan in the back of Benedict’s throat. (Y/N) loses herself in the feel of the man against her; all hard lines and muscles, he feels like a Greek god and she a mere mortal getting to experience the heady passion written about in epic poems and plays.

Desperate for air, but not desperate to leave the arms of the man she loves so wholly, (Y/N) breaks the kiss. Panting, Benedict kisses her lightly once, twice, three times before pressing his forehead to hers. A moment of peace before the rush of the future began.

Boundaries, divides, lines really meant little when you had found the one who truly saw you.

****

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @janelongxox @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley @spideysz

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagines #Bridgerton #bridgerton imagines

256 notes · View notes

mauesartetc · 3 years

Note

So… do you have some personal beef with the HH/HB crew or something? Cuz you post about that… a lot…

Haha no, not personal at all. More like professional beef. And to be clear, the vast majority of the team are doing a great job with what they've been given. My issue stems mainly from the writing and character designs, which have problems that are too big to ignore.

The thing with the designs is, if you look back at Viv's previous characters through the years (or hell, just in the Hazbin pilot), you notice a clear formula. She recycles certain visual elements to the point that it's practically a drinking game. There are numerous characters with either huge eyes, hair bows/bow ties, spots, stripes, a dress jacket with lapels, shark-like teeth, one gold tooth, fingertips of a different color from the rest of the hand, a stick-thin body, or some combination of the above. This reliance on the same limited cluster of traits ends up making each design look more generic than unique.

Character designers: Do not do this. You want your characters to stand out as individuals with their own personalities rather than look like part of a hive mind.

For example, I'd understand if the different-colored fingers and bow ties served as some kind of symbol or uniform in Hell (similar to wearing a hijab for religious purposes or wearing a badge to be recognized as an employee of a company), but there's no evidence to bear that out. What's the specific, story-related connection between all these characters with bow ties? We have no idea!

And why do these guys look like quadruplets despite being unrelated?

Again, no idea.

Basically, the laziness and lack of research is what gets me. Once again, speaking directly to character designers:

Visual research is your friend. Pulling ideas from real life will serve you much better than adding random details from the top of your head just because you think they look cool. Ffs, take advantage of Google Images!

It seems like Viv has always prioritized style over substance, focusing on what’s easiest for her to draw and what the audience has come to expect of her rather than focusing on what’s best for the character. What the design says about them as a person. Much of her work comes off more like first-draft, knee-jerk reactions of how the characters should look, instead of polished final products that go deeper than appearances, and that went through multiple iterations. Chris Oatley has a great post on that.

As for the writing, this post sums it up well, so I won’t bother repeating myself.

The truth is, I want these shows to succeed. I want them to be great. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say a thing. I’d just grab some popcorn and watch it all blow up. But there’s some real potential for a good story here, and if Hazbin’s studio deal results in a critical and financial hit, it could open the door for many more independent animators trying to go mainstream.

However, speaking as an animator and character designer myself, it’s insanely frustrating to see these projects stumble into easily-avoidable pitfalls. It feels like staying loyal to a talented football team that keeps losing because of the coach’s decisions. Like damn, I’m rooting for you, but you’ve gotta take the ball and run with it.

But yeah, I acknowledge that venting these frustrations, while cathartic for me and hopefully educational for young artists, can get to be a pain in the ass for some. Sorry, dude. There are just a lot of teachable moments to talk about, unfortunately. Don’t worry, though; I plan to funnel in more of my own characters and animations, so the floodwaters have subsided for now.

#ask #anon ask #anonymous #character design #hazbin hotel critical #helluva critical #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #criticism #critique #art criticism #art critique

86 notes · View notes

celestialgaea · 3 years

Note

hello, noticed ur requests r open! is it okay if I could ask for a fic of Ezio/F!Reader with the theme of jealousy coming from Ezio? thank you if you accept my request! your works are amazing!

I have been wanting to fulfill this request for such a long time but I went through quite a rough period and I always felt the guilt of letting you wait linger upon me. I am so sorry for letting you wait. I have not forgotten you, your request was always in the back of my mind and I'm grateful for finally being able to write again!

I hope you enjoy the fanfiction!

(Request) Ezio Auditore x F!Reader // Jealousy

Warnings: (slight) mature content

Pairings: Ezio Auditore x (Female) Reader

summary: You are Leonardo's apprentice and have gotten the assignment to draw the naked male body from different perspectives. But when Ezio is paying a visit to Leonardo he doesn't seem very delighted with his lover drawing another man's private part.

You had underestimated the assignment. When Leonardo first told you about drawing a naked man you hadn't perceived the false comfort of your own assurance, who convinced you into thinking that seeing a fully bare stranger is nothing but the nature of a human being, as an illusion. Until the horrific scene of the young male, probably in his early twenties, slowly discarding himself off his clothes manifested itself behind a wooden changing screen.

Your mind kept replaying the former scene of the young male talking in slight shock to your maestro about how the apprentice was a women. A women that would create an image of his private part underneath the blunt end of her charcoal stick. During the open conversation, as the man was not ashamed of his shock whose cause leant more towards the fear of visible arousal than the mysogenistic side, his face and neck began to change into a more reddish skintone.

'Y/N,' Leonardo whispered, pointing towards his chest. 'Cover a bit of your chest, Ragazza. The poor man is quite...weak. I don't want you to get horrified.' You scoffed as you pulled up the fabric of the nightgown underneath your dress. 'Forgive me, maestro, for showing fertility.' You mocked. Leonardo shook his head, as if he were trying to remove his excessive thoughts to make more room for your shameless remarks. 'Ragazza, you know that I have no problem with your breasts, and i'm sure you know why, But this kid is as mature as the mosquitos that flied above Cleopatra's head during a scorching summer night. Be prepared that his "pride" might show itself."

Your heart began beating faster at just the mere thought of it, and the rustles of the male's fabric rubbing against each other as they fell onto the ground, entangled into one big flood of linen and leather, made his presence very clear and thus brought tension in the air that encircled you. 'Giovanni, Dannazione, are you almost done, boy? You're taking too long!' 'Maestro, no!' You whispered as annoyance took a hold of your voice. 'Ragazza, time is precious. And in these times of uncertainty I cannot lose any more.' And with that he turned his back to you and walked towards his desk not far away from your seat. You noticed how Leonardo's slouch has grown heavier over the past months, and his neck was more bent, as if it was bowing to his brain; the holder of his talent and geniusness.

Even though your eyes kept flickering through the various parchments filled with unfinished sketches and scrabbles you were still able to see the faint and disorted sillhouette of Giovanni walking from behind the changing screen towards the small wooden stage in front of you. His feet seemed humid as they loosened themselves from the floor with a sound similar to wallpaper being pulled away from a tacky wall. The boy slowly uncovered his private part, exposing a dark bush of intertwined curls, but when a knock on the door disturbed him he quickly covered himself again as the door was getting pierced by his anxious eyes. You regretted looking at it.

'Maestro, who is visiting?' You heard the sighs of parchment before Leonardo scurried towards the door.

'Ah. It's good to see you my friend!'

'It's good to see you too, mio amico.' The sonorous voice whose melodious words and promiscues groans swiftly danced towards you to embrace you in its tenderness was only able to come from one person only; Ezio Auditore. And it seemed that the young man wasn't fond of Ezio's presence.

'Maestro, I thought no one was allowed to disturb?' Giovanni's voice was a batter of shame and growing annoyance as he stood there with only his hands to cover his private part. Ezio glared at you. He saw you, he observed you, viewed you with spurned astonisment and the displeased look in his eyes made you grasp onto the understandment of why he was as fearsome as he was charming.

'I am unsure wether to turn to leonardo or you for an explanation, mia cara.' Leonardo had his hands up, almost touching Ezio's chest. 'Ezio, I have given her the assignment to draw a naked man.' 'Then why didn't you ask to draw me in nudity? There would be more flesh to capture than what that boy beholds.' Ezio surrenered himself uncontrollably to his impulses and attacked the poor Giovanni with his spit-filled words . 'Ezio, leave the boy out of this! He hasn't done anything and secondly; do not begin with the "Then why didn't you ask me", Because you know how scheduled you are. This is merely for educational reasons.' It felt sinful to get enraged with Ezio, but he had never behaved this attacking towards an innocent man. Along with his birth came his short temperance and even during the scorching season of maturing the searings left by his short temperance refused to heal.

'Educational purposes?' Ezio pulled at the leather skin of his gloves on top of his index finger as if he was planning on slapping the vulnurable model with it. 'Since when did looking at a cazzo become an educational enlightment?' The gloves were put on the table -Thank the Lord- together with his defected hidden blade. Ezio walked, no, he stomped towards a wooden chair that stood desolated in a corner collecting the flying dust and bits of dried paint that fell of a "failed", as the old man is still a perfectionist, da Vinci painting that towered above the chair.

Ezio let the chair ballance on its two front legs and allowed his dissatisfaction to guide his hand as it smacked the pieces of paint and dust particles off of its sitting surface. And how surprisingly odd it may seemed, you felt the muscles around your lower stomach contract in an ebb and flow that left trails along the flesh of your womanhood. He was angry, and so were you, and yet you felt aroused by him just uttering his jealousy to a lonely and motionless chair. For a few seconds you visualized those same rough hands whispering against the surrface of your weeping arse before turning them into a lovely shade of red. Ezio carried the chair and let its feet hit the ground next to you.

'Ezio, what are you intending to do?'

'Accompanying you.'

Oh, how he liked blending himself within the schemes of colours so his robes of red and white were the most appealing to look at.

'I do not need company. I'm doing very well on my own.' Ezio's fingers ran along your clothed thigh and gripped it sturdily. The lack of shame was transparant on him, removing the presence of Leonardo and Giovanni out of his realm of reality, as the humid warmth of his breath hugged your ear lobe.

'Ragazza, stop being hard-headed. I'm surprised that the boy is able to remain his excitement in custody. When I was his age,' 'Your cazzo had impregnated almost half of Firenze's youth. Not everyone is as rebellious as you were.' To your surprise, Ezio had remained silent. It seemed as though the sudden flare up of the middle aged consciousness had possessed him again and the teasing hand was removed from your thigh to fill in his crossed arms. His boyish teases were vanished. The man in his mid forties had appeared again; the outer corner of his eyes were folded into deepened curtains, the corners of his mouth were surrounded by the crescent-shaped smile lines which vitalized the apples of his cheek and if you looked at it with a certain view, not through the eyes of a classical artist, but through the eyes of a daydreamer, a madman, or a child you could play with the lines and follow it until his cheek slowly transfomed into a smooth segment of a rock being caressed by the spirals and curls of waves or maybe strands of hairs or whatever can be curly and spirally. Ezio grunted, focusing on the model, especially his croth area.

'Come one,' Ezio leant in to whisper in your ear, again.

'My cazzo is way more appealing to look at than his.'

'Ezio!'

#older ezio x reader #older ezio auditore #ezio auditore fanfiction #ac 2 fanfiction #ac 2 #assassins creed brotherhood #ac ii #ezio auditore da firenze

98 notes · View notes

blahkugo · 4 years

Text

Biggest Fan

DABI x HAWKS x READER

Music! AU inspired by THIS photo set...or, the one in which Dabi, Hawks, & Endeavor are a famous rap group, and the reader gets VIP treatment.

NSFW begins after the ~~~ for those of you who don’t care for plot!

Warnings: 18+!, SMUT, cursing, threesome, rough sex (? not sure what your definitions of the word are but they do be slapping you around…), just pure filth basically

You’ve been squealing into the phone for the past ten minutes. Honestly, you can’t believe the words coming from your best friend’s mouth, even after asking her to repeat them a fourth time.

“Babe, even if you weren’t my agent, I would have found a way to get you in,” Rumi scoffs into the speaker, unphased by your relentless questioning. Though she’s always been a bit impatient when it comes to your antics, she knows how big of a deal this is to you. “How could I not? You talk my ear off about them.”

“I owe you for the next thirty years!” Your screech turns the heads of a few other customers, and you can feel the irritation radiating off the glare of one particularly peeved woman seated near you. But who cares? You’re too excited for a few middle-aged drags to dampen your mood.

“Remember what you just said the next time I try to skip out on an interview,” her laugh echoes loudly; she must be at the studio.

“Yes! Whatever you want, Twinkle Toes. It’s yours!” She begins to grumble at the use of the old nickname,

“How many times have I told you not to-” You catch the scowling woman turning towards you.

“Got-to-go-text-me-the-details, love you!” The parting phrase comes out a hurried ramble. Unbothered as you are by a few stares, direct confrontation definitely isn’t worth the trouble. You’re out of the bistro and in your car before anyone can open their mouth.

The cup of iced coffee you press to your flushed face does nothing to curb the elation threatening to bubble over from inside you. Rumi really has outdone herself this time. Being that she’s both a long-time best friend and client of yours, you know just how hard she’s been working to book a job of this caliber. Images of the two of you icing sore feet after hours of grueling practices spring to mind, making your bad ankle throb. If you could tell your younger selves who they are now— an internationally acclaimed dancer and a talent manager with a novel’s worth of influential clients— they wouldn’t believe it. And the work was paying off in more ways than one. Soon, Rumi will be making her music video debut...and you’ll actually be in the presence of your favorite artists, Suns of Icarus.

The rap trio’s been all you can talk about forever. No, like really, forever. Even back at arts school, Rumi had to talk you out of choreographing dances to their music practically once a week. You can still hear her promising you that your 70 year-old ballet instructor did not, in fact, want to see you pirouette to a song that's chorus consists of Hawks saying the word “pussy” over and over again. Usually the memory would drown you in embarrassment (especially considering the story is Rumi’s favorite icebreaker), but now even that can’t hamper your mood. You sigh cheerily, pulling into your reserved parking space. Tomorrow, you’ll be surrounded by your idols.

“Are you sure I look okay?” You ask for the third time in an hour, tugging at the hem of your silk tank. Though you’re wearing your favorite suit, you can’t help but feel out of place in the large dressing trailer. After all, it’s not every day that you accompany your clients on their gigs. Your job is getting them the gigs, and usually you prefer it that way.

“(Y/N), quit stressing! If you looked any hotter the guys would have a heart attack,” your best friend bellows loudly. “Doesn’t she look smokin’?” She questions the hairdresser who, apart from a nod and reassuring smile, you can’t quite understand over the sound of the blow dryer. “Who’s the bad bitch that got me this job in the first place? Oh right, that was you,” she pumps a manicured finger towards you to echo the claim, “so woman up!”

She doesn’t put her finger down until she sees your face soften. It’s not like she’s wrong. “Professional smooth-talker” is basically your job description. In Hollywood people are afraid of you, the woman who can make or break a career. Who are you to let a couple of talents get you riled up? You allow your body to relax in your seat. Even if those talents are the group of boys that you’ve been crushing on since you were 16. Recalling that fact has you scrambling out of the trailer, face beet-red yet again.

“I’m going to grab something from the coffee cart. Be right back!” The door shuts behind you with a loud thud. Rumi should be spending this time going over the routine, not talking you down from the ledge you’re attempting to throw yourself off of over a few stupid guys. Besides, you’ll probably receive a polite greeting at best. The world’s favorite musicians have more important things to do than indulge your fantasies.

Having iced coffee and a bagel in your hands is all you need to feel the tension in your shoulders dissipate and your smile return; truly a working woman’s comfort meal. The spring in your step is restored as you walk back to the trailer, too entranced by the savory goodness to properly hear the voice that hollers from your right. You do, however, hear the scolding that follows the catcall,

“How many times have I told you not to hit on people that work for us, birdbrain.” Your entire body swings towards the familiar nickname and a piece of bagel nearly falls from your mouth. Not even a few feet away, Dabi holds your favorite vocalist in a one-handed headlock, attempting to ruffle the blonde’s hair while keeping a cigarette balanced between his own fingertips.

“Not the hair, man! The stylist’s already had to touch it up twice today!” Hawks’ shrieks are muffled beneath the bicep of his counterpart.

“Go apologize,” The lanky man shoves Hawks towards the spot your feet are now cemented to. Though he’s reprimanding him, you swear you detect a hint of amusement in his tattooed face. “I’m sorry about him, sweetheart,” he calls, lips contorting into a smirk that should be illegal. You feel your thighs press together on their own; the situation isn’t made any better by the pretty boy walking towards you, hands threading through his golden locks in an effort to fix the havoc Dabi wrought.

“My bad,” he flashes you an award-winning set of teeth you’ve previously only had the pleasure of viewing through your laptop screen; somehow they’re even pearlier in person. The glimmer of a tiny gem catches your eye and you notice one is sealed to his canine, only dazzling you further. “I meant what I said though, you’re gorgeous,” his hand moves from his own hair to twist a piece of yours between his fingertips. The lack of boundaries leaves you feeling stupefied, but he doesn’t let up, going as far as wrapping the lock around his polished index finger. God, even his hands are pretty...What if they were trailing the inside of your thigh and— Your mind shouts at you to behave, a fruitless undertaking when the object of your adolescent desires is touching you ever-so softly.

“Um- I- Thank you?” The stuttered phrase comes out confused. Where the hell is the professional smooth-talker side of you when you need her? “I’m Rumi’s agent and uh- I-I’m a big fan!” Heat blazes through your face and chest; you’d slap yourself for the outburst if they weren’t here.

“Oh, really? She told us all about you!” He waves a hand towards Dabi. “Oi! Matches! She’s not an assistant, she’s Rumi’s manager!” The gloomier man extinguishes his cigarette before making his way towards the two of you, smug expression wavering only when he glances at Hawks. A short wheeze leaves the blonde when his chest is smacked lightly by his partner.

“I told you not to call me that.” Dabi turns his attention towards you. “(Y/N), right?” He sticks a hand out to shake and you quite literally drop the remains of the bagel to reciprocate the motion, a move that makes you redden and him snicker. “Rumi told us you’re our biggest fan,” his sly grin tells you your loud-mouthed best friend had probably spilled too much information their way. Oh, she’s definitely going to get an earful later.

He doesn’t drop eye contact the entire time he’s speaking to you, and you find yourself enchanted by the deep sea-blue of his irises. You would literally swim in those pools if given the chance. Only when Hawks clears his throat do you realize you’re still shaking his friend’s inked hand. After dropping it rapidly, you urge yourself into composure out of pure distress.

“Sorry, I’m honestly a bit starstruck. I’m sure Rumi told you how much I love your music,” you finally sound a bit like your usual self.

“She didn’t really mention our music, did she Matches?” Hawks chirps, dodging Dabi’s fist this time.

“No, I don’t think she did, dipshit,” he spits the insult through gritted teeth as a final warning. “But I do remember her telling us something about being your first two crushes...or was it your ‘sexual awakening’? I can’t really remember the term she used…” Your knees almost buckle at the obvious teasing, and you silently swear to murder Rumi when she’s done shooting this video. It’s evident that the mockery is highly amusing to them— the glints in their eyes border on ravenous.

Because you’re not typically someone whose presence is taken lightly, the thought of being toyed with by a few arrogant men has your blood boiling. You’ve already dealt with too many pretentious assholes who don’t believe women, especially younger ones, belong in management; you didn’t claw your way to the top of the industry for all of that hardship to go to waste. Ever the more perceptive of the duo, Dabi seems to realize the shift in your mood.

“Relax,” he reaches a hand towards you before thinking better of it, choosing instead to tug at the thin, silver piercing adorning his bottom lip. “We’re only teasing. She didn’t say anything like that, obviously.” You stare at him incredulously, arms crossing your chest. “Why don’t we give you a tour?” Though he’s the one who makes the offer, it sounds as though he’d rather be doing anything else.

“We’re not really assholes, promise,” Hawks jumps in, crossing his fingers over his heart in a show of good faith. “This one just gets too big headed around beautiful women,” he points at the heavily-inked man, who simply rolls his eyes at the accusation. You’d thought the blonde was…well, nothing more than the stereotype his hair color implied, but he’s sharper than he seems. It appears that unlike Dabi, who comes off curt and ungenuine, Hawks’ wit stems from his charm.

You can’t help but think of how the two of them compliment each other beautifully. That’s probably why their entire fanbase thinks they should be dating. With that ludicrous thought, your exuberance returns. After Hawks assures you they don’t have to be on set any time soon, you find yourself taking them up on their offer. They seem to be a handful, sure, but how long have you dreamt of spending uninterrupted time with your favorite members of the group? Besides, it’s only a tour. What could go wrong?

It’s apparent only five minutes into your time together that Hawks (despite his insistence you call him Kiego, it’s difficult after years of referring to him by the stage name) does not know the meaning of personal space. He spends the better part of the tour hooking an arm through yours, touching your hair, or pestering Dabi. While some may take this over-familiarity as a sign of disrespect, it feels more to you as though he’s simply comfortable in his skin.

Rude or not, his bold actions do nothing but spur your heart to beat out of your chest. Every time he guides you towards an attraction with a cheerful comment, you swear his fingers purposefully dash under your layers of clothing, brushing faintly at the skin of your waist in a way that makes your heart (among other parts) flutter.

“And as I’m sure you know, we’re filming this music video mid-tour,” his hand flits away as swiftly as it skimmed you, prolonging the torture of wondering whether his movements are purposeful or a figment of your twisted imagination. After showing you most of the fabricated scenery— and even the gorgeous, cherry-red convertible that was rented— for the video, you’ve arrived at the group’s infamous tour bus. You once read that most of their concerts end with the vehicle being mobbed by ruthless fans, one of the sole reasons you’ve never attended a show. Someone as busy as you doesn’t have time for all the horrid traffic the mobs cause. “Wanna see inside? It’s actually pretty roomy.”

You nod, eyes trailing towards Dabi, who’s busy stomping out the most recent cig he’d been puffing on. Aside from the occasional chuckle at your flustered blunders or annoyed curse thrown towards Hawks, the taller man had kept mostly to himself. His indifference confuses you, makes you wish you hadn’t reacted so bitterly to the loose smile and banter he offered you upon first meeting. At the same time, part of you is irritated by his standoffish personality. From what you’ve seen so far, his remarks serve the single purpose of humiliating others for his own amusement— a stark contrast to the misjudged softy he’s portrayed as on camera.

You’re guided onto the bus and Dabi follows, cursing under his breath at something or other. Sociable as he is, Hawks begins to chatter again, seeing no issue in being the center of your attention. You realize the space is much roomier than it seems. State of the art technology allows the bunk beds to fold back with a press of the button, leaving room for a decently sized couch. It’s also much cleaner than you would expect three young men living on the road to allow.

“And the lowest one was my bunk, just in case you’d like to see it again later,” he whispers the sentence as though it’s his best kept secret, wagging his thick brows exaggeratedly to key you in on his joke. “Hey, why are you laughing? I’m totally seriou–” The doors swivel open and your giggles are cut off by heavy footsteps and a booming voice,

“Oi! Keigo! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You have to crane your neck to see the pillar of a man’s scrunched, stoic face. Endeavor, the pyrotechnic-obsessed “hype man” and third part of Suns of Icarus’s trio, stands a few feet from you, clearly exasperated by something his bandmate has done. Hawks must know precisely the reason for the bottle-redhead’s tone, because his face pales.

“Enji, we made a new friend!” He pulls you into his chest in an obvious attempt to shield himself from the giant, but your face heats at the close contact regardless.

“You were supposed to be on set for your solo scenes ten minutes ago,” he crosses his sculpted arms, “so let’s go.” The lively man is being whisked away by the larger one before he can utter a word of rebuttal. “Nice to meet you,” he calls casually to you over his shoulder.

“Dabi, keep (Y/N) company! I’ll be back!” Hawks shrieks with a dramatic flare. The man was truly born to be an entertainer.

An unbearable awkwardness envelops the two of you once you’re alone. Without his best friend around, Dabi drops any semblance of amiability, but it’s not as if he was trying very hard before. He plops down on the couch and pulls out his phone. You sit as far away from him as possible, but realize you don’t have your own device to keep you busy. After a few nervous minutes of twiddling your thumbs, you attempt to break the silence.

“So, Haw– Keigo and Endeavor use stage names, why don’t you?” You spout the first question that comes to mind, hoping it’ll spark an interesting conversation.

“Dabi is my stage name,” he answers curtly, without looking up from his cell.

“Oh...but– even your bandmates call you by it?”

“Yep. Don’t care for my real name,” his eye roll sends ice through your veins.

“Excuse me,” you snap, “have I done something to offend you?” The frustration in your tone wins you eye contact, at least.

“Nope.”

“Unbelievable….I’m going to need your publicist’s information.”

“Huh?”

“Well, anyone who can make you seem like the world’s most ‘misunderstood heartthrob’ on camera certainly deserves a pay raise, dontcha’ think?” His eyes drop to send a steely glare your way, but you’re too fed up to feel intimidated. You smirk at him, a single eyebrow raised in twisted satisfaction. There’s the bitchy self you know and love.

“You don’t know the first fucking thing about me,” he sits up, “but I know everything I need to know about you.”

“Oh? Enlighten me then, sir.”

~~~

“You may think Keigo likes you, but he likes everyone. You’re, what, thinking you’re special because he’s throwing some attention your way?” Dabi inches closer. “Hoping he’ll get in your panties?”

“It’s not like that at all–”

“Don’t lie. The idea of being with someone you’ve idolized for years is thrilling, isn’t it?” The heat that rises on your cheeks is enough to confirm his suspicions. “He doesn’t like to see people for who they really are, but I know your type...just another tramp that’ll use him and move onto the next,” his smug expression returns after that little rant. Paired with the tattoos covering most of his face, he appears every bit as wicked as the skeleton his ink emulates— devilish, even.

“You’re wrong.” You can’t think of a proper argument when he’s so close to you, basically breathing down your neck.

“Am I?” His hand trails up your clothed thigh, and an unwelcome shiver crawls up your spine. “So you’re going to stop me when I do this, right?” Then, he kisses you.

It’s not at all soft, or compassionate, or anything resembling your naive teenage fantasies of the artist in the slightest. Rough, slender fingers wrap around your jaw and yank your lips to his. He doesn’t stop at a peck either, choosing instead to assail your mouth with all of his pent-up rage. The cool, hard metal of his lip ring strains against you, a pleasant contrast to the quick heat traveling the rest of your body. You want nothing more than to prove him wrong— to throw him off you, tell him to go straight to hell— but he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and- God, it just feels so good. Your mouth parts in a breathless moan and Dabi takes the reaction as an invitation to swipe his tongue against your teeth. With your bodies melding together violently, the make out feels simply a continuation of the intense argument you were having moments before.

Pulling you between his lap, he shifts you so that your back is flush across his chest. Nimble fingers make quick work of your clothes. You just barely raise your hips so that he’s able to take your pants off with ease, but you’re sure he notices the eager movement. When you’re left in nothing but your panties, you feel the rumbling of his solid body behind you as he laughs, the sound bitter and pleased all at once.

“Oh you really are a whore,” he chides. “Who’d you wear these for, hm?” He runs his fingers across the band of your red lace thong.

“Not you,” you bite back, feigning disinterest towards the dangerous position he has you in. The asshole’s not going to get to actually hear you admit defeat so easily. One of his hands kneads your chest and the other grabs your cheeks harshly, pushing them together so that you’re unable to speak.

“Not me? Take a good look at yourself, sweetheart.” He lifts your head upwards and your breath hitches; the entire ceiling of the bus is covered in a dark, reflective surface. “Who has you naked in their lap right now?” he whispers onto your neck, licking a long stripe upwards until his teeth graze your ear. You watch fervently as he strokes his digits across one of your perked nipples, tweaking the bud roughly. “Who are you being such a slut for?” He’s aware he won’t get a response because his left hand still grips your face, demanding you watch his every move.

Dabi then snakes his fingers down your midriff tortuously slowly, brushing lightly in a way he hasn’t touched you yet; as if the skin there is delicate, worthy of his valuable adoration. The ink traveling his arms makes him appear so ethereal, so sinister and compelling, that you can’t help but let out a muffled mewl. Once he reaches your panties, his fingers dart beneath the material and the tender moment is lost. An onslaught of pleasure wracks your body when he begins to draw quick circles on your clit. He lets go of your cheeks, now sore and reddened from both pressure and bliss.

“I’m going to ask one more fucking time,” his fingers glide against your soaked slit, “who are you being such a dirty slut for?” You contemplate not giving him the answer he’s looking for, and part of you is sinfully curious about what may happen if you enrage him further; however, that idea is put to rest immediately when he snaps his head up to look at you through the mirror, blue eyes pooling with lust and a hint of something animalistic. That stare, paired with the relentless strokes across your clit, provokes your moaned answer,

“F-for you, Dabi.” He uses his free hand to insert two, thick digits inside you.

“Say it again.”

“I’m- fuck– a s-slut for you,” you practically sob out. You press the back of your head into his shoulder harder, squeezing your eyes closed and biting your lip.

“Not going to keep your eyes open? Fine.” The fingers are removed from your clit and you’re about to let out an unsatisfied whine, only for him to grab the back of your head and mash your swollen lips to his once again. Then, after another brief caress of your abdomen, he’s back to touching your sensitive bud. All of your moans are silenced by his mouth, and you feel the vibrations of a low groan from his own throat when your ass grinds against his clothed member. When your stomach pulls taut you know you’re seconds away from feeling that all-encompassing pleasure, the tidings of an orgasm so close to washing over you.

“Oi, Matches! You didn’t throw her out did you?” Hearing Hawks’ voice call out from the front of the bus has you reeling your lips away from Dabi, and though he slows his movements, he doesn’t remove his fingers from your core. Rather than push you away, he takes the other hand off your clit to hold you tightly against him. “(Y/N)? Dab–”

For a few seconds, the only sound you can hear is your own heart beating out of your chest. Takami takes in the scene in front of him— your bare body splayed across his best friend in the lewdest of positions. You know your face is blooming in embarrassment as you wait for a reaction, for his face to drop in disappointment, anger, anything. Instead, he smirks.

“Starting without me? That’s no fair,” the golden-haired boy actually pouts, but there’s something deeper swimming in his eyes, something almost bloodthirsty. Though this is happening right in front of you, you can’t truly believe it. Dabi relieves the pressure of his arm from your chest.

“Look Kiego, the whore’s fucking drenched for us,” he lifts his fingers towards the beautiful man in front of you proudly, as if showing off a trophy or a new toy. Then he pops the damp fingers in his own mouth, humming at the taste of you. Hawks’ tongue dips out of his mouth, darting across his bottom lip.

“I want a taste,” he leers at your bright panties, now soaked through. You think you must have died and gone to heaven, what with the two Adonises staring at you as if you’re their last meal. Hawks kneels at the foot of the couch, brings his face right up to your navel, and licks a long, cold swipe. His digits toy at your waist like they were earlier, except this time the movements are decisive and fierce. Just as he’s about to tug your panties down and place his mouth where you want it most, Dabi seizes his jaw and pulls his partner into a long, sloppy kiss. You let out a sigh at the view and— teases that they are— the sound doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them.

“Is watching us turning you on?” Dabi taunts cruelly.

“Looks like she’s a bit of a pervert, hm?” Hawks retorts, sliding a finger across your clothed slit. The movement causes your entire body to quiver, your senses on high alert. Without another word, he leans down again, shifts your panties to the side, and takes your clit between his lips. The way he laps at you hungrily makes you believe your initial judgment of him was completely inaccurate, and when he inserts two lengthy digits inside you, the thought is confirmed. Hot, white pleasure consumes your body as your core clenches around his digits. He simply cocks an eyebrow at you and chuckles darkly, holding you tightly against him by your waist so that you’re unable to wriggle away. Gone is the lovable persona you were introduced to, replaced now by someone entirely foreign, deviously lewd.

“Fuck, Hawks,” you whimper, greedy for more.

“Thought I told you to call me Keigo,” he scolds beneath you, biting the inside of your thigh so that a sharp gasp leaves you.

“I-I’m sorry, K-Kei–” You’re cut off mid-moan when Dabi kisses you, wrapping one slender hand around your throat and squeezing. His other one threads through your hair and tugs harshly. A painful hiss leaves you but the sound only makes him pull harder, smirking against your lips.

It’s as though they’re competing for your attention. If one of the men evokes a sob or whimper, the other attempts to outdo him— and they have no regard for your body, becoming instead the battleground for their lascivious rivalry. You lose yourself in the intense sensations, unaware of time or its passing, instead focusing solely on the coil tightening in your abdomen. Every gasp, every moan, only pushes them further, and soon your legs are shaking as you feel yourself nearing the delicious edge.

Just as you’re about to let go, allow yourself the mind-numbing relief of an orgasm, Kiego withdraws his fingers. Rubbing your bruised thighs together is a desperate attempt at friction, but the momentum is completely lost. Your core clenches around nothing, and you cry out, hopelessly bitter at the emptiness between your legs.

“Sorry, princess,” his hair is sticking up, golden locks tousled from the harsh grip of your fingers. And yet he still looks perfect. He wipes your juices off his chin with a thumb, “but that’s for starting without me.” Despite the apology, he sounds absolutely delighted at your loss. You whine again, hoping it’ll change his mind. “What do you think, Dabi? Should we let her cum?”

Hearing his name, the tattooed man takes his attention away from your chest and the onslaught of purple marks his lips’ were just peppering on your throat.

“I don’t think so,” he tweaks at one of your nipples, eliciting a soft groan from you. “I want the bitch begging for it.” Dabi pushes you away from him and stands to unbuckle his belt. “Besides, don’t think she’s done enough to earn it.” You should be outraged at the way they decide your fate as if you’re not even present, but in reality it only thrills you, your clit throbbing at the lack of control.

“You’re right,” your idol sneers, canines bared and gleaming as he unzips his own pants, “and I wanna see those pretty lips wrapped around me.”

They switch places, shifting you so that your breasts are pinned against the couch between Kiego’s legs. Dabi grinds his hips against your clothed center, and you mewl at the long-awaited friction, hard member straining against his briefs.

“Get to work, princess,” Kiego calls to you, boxers down to his knees. You can only balk at the sight in front of you. His cock is thick and long, essentially everything you could’ve ever hoped for, but that’s not it.

Rather, it’s the shiny, silver ball pierced through the shaft and poking out from the top of his head that stops you dead in your tracks. He notices your eyes widen at it, but only snorts, wrapping your hair around his hand and yanking you roughly towards him.

“Oh, that little thing?” Now he’s shoving you against his length, using your face as nothing more than a means for friction. “Just a drunken dare from Matches.” The nickname provokes the other man into leaving a stinging slap against your behind. And just like that, the angered man drives himself into your cunt.

“I told you,” slap, “not to,” slap, “call me that.” With each thrust into you, Dabi releases an onslaught of pent-up anger onto your rear, the biting pain causing you to cry out around Kiego’s member.

“Yeah sweetheart, just like that,” he leans his head back against the couch with a deep groan. “Such a pretty little whore, choking on my cock.” One of his free fingers shoots out to wipe at your tears, hand moving ever-so-lightly to cradle your jaw. The gesture might have been sweet if his other hand wasn’t forcing you down further to swallow him whole.

“Mmmph–” you scrape carelessly at Kiego’s thighs in an attempt to secure yourself, moans coming out garbled with his cock down your throat.

“Not done with you yet, slut” Dabi still pounds into you relentlessly. You’re overwhelmed with the feeling of being stuffed from both ends, knees on the verge of giving out until he fastens his hands around your thighs, pulling you into him with even harder plunges. “Fucking take it.” Something hard and cold grinds inside you, and you’re acutely aware of the ridged piercings now pressing against that perfect, spongy spot in your heat.

When he reaches an arm around to rub furiously at your clit, you’re sobbing. Kiego’s deep, golden eyes watching you, Dabi’s unrelenting fingers and thrusts, it’s all too much.

And then you’re finally letting go. Legs shaking, mind wracked with white as you clench your eyes shut. Your mouth moves away from Kiego’s shaft, only concerned with riding out your high. The tattooed man behind you doesn’t stop his movements either, still pressed deep inside you until your tongue lolls out of your mouth and you’re tapping furiously at his waist. Kiego smiles, taking himself in his hand and slapping his cock against your cheek while he strokes himself.

“That’s it, baby,” he smooths your hair back, grunting. “You look so pretty when you cum.” He pumps himself a few more times before he finishes, sticky liquid spurting across your lips and into your hair. You reach around to grab at Dabi’s waist again, willing him to stop. He removes himself from inside of you only to flip you around and your cunt clenches at the feeling of emptiness.

Pulling you into a long, winded kiss, he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip to taste Kiego’s release. Then he’s pushing you to your knees once more, hands threading through your hair roughly.

“Suck,” he scowls down at you. Though you’re breathless, still reeling from your orgasm, the simple command spewed at you has your lips wrapped around him in a second.

He isn’t as girthy as Kiego, but just as long. A trail of piercings go down his length, and your tongue brushes against the cool metal while you wrap your fingers around the area you can’t reach. You stare up at him through thick lashes, piercing blue eyes ogling you as you take him further in. His hand is still perched on your head, but he makes no movement to push you down— instead, basking in your slow seduction.

You’re sure you look a mess, dried mascara down your cheeks and still covered in Kiego’s cum, but Dabi only revels in the power he has over you, positively thrilled at the way you no longer fight for dominance. He breaks eye contact only when the blonder man tugs him into a kiss, deep and passionate, and the sight only urges you to swallow him deeper.

“I like her with her mouth so full,” Kiego whispers against Dabi’s lips.

“Just as long as the bitch isn’t speaking,” the other man groans, rutting into your mouth so that you know he’s close.

Soon he’s pulling out of you to pump his shaft, your mouth wide open so that the head of his cock brushes against your tongue. Kiego reaches down to move Dabi’s hand, grabbing at his partner’s length so he can stroke it himself. It doesn’t take long after that for the brooding man to cum, head thrown back in a loud grunt while the tantalizing male next to him coaxes him through the orgasm. Kiego angles him so that his hot, white liquid gushes onto both your face and tongue; you suck at Dabi’s head until he forcibly pushes you off him.

“Fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his sweaty locks. “Knew you were good for something.” With that final statement, he turns away from you, pulling his pants back on and returning to his spot on the couch as though he wants nothing more to do with you.

Kiego walks away as well, and you’re sure you’re about to be kicked out now that they’ve had their way with you. A part of you is angered, but a larger part is still processing what just happened, savoring the earth-shattering orgasm the pair blessed you with.

You look for your discarded clothing, trying to compose yourself so you’re able to get out of their way as quickly as possible. Kiego walks back into the common area, wet rag in hand. He doesn’t speak until he pushes you into the couch, rubbing the clean towel over your face softly.

“So, you’re coming to our concert next week, right?”

---------------

Tags:

@mindninjax @rat-suki @bakatenshii @yukiimanic @theygottheircages @lookslikeleese

DM me if you’d like to be tagged!

1K notes · View notes

defdaily · 4 years

Text

‪[TRANSLATION] Nylon Korea Magazine June 2020 issue: JB's defined taste.

Translated by defdaily.

just JB

From GOT7’s leader to main vocal and even lead dancer… in other words, he is a multiplayer, and an all-rounder. We were in the midst of preparing the interview, and the editor who was researching JB could already come to know that all that was true even before meeting him. JB, who we meet on stage and on his own personal Soundcloud channel, really does well in everything. We were getting more and more curious about him before having met him. On the day of the cover shooting, we proceeded with the photoshoot first then had the interview after. Watching JB who was in the middle of his shoot, I could see that there are even more things that he is good at. While we talked about the concept and mood for the day, he faintly smiled and answered that he understood. And when he entered the shoot, we heard his answer even more clearly. He wiped the smile that he just had off his face and immediately showed through his actions that he understood what we talked about. In life, opportunities and good fortune are like a random game play but after seeing him we realised that it all came to find him. JB seemed as if he already knew that yet he was never impatient. I hope JB’s intelligent and sexy energy is relayed to Nylonias too.

“I’m doing music now, but be it vocals or dance, I’m not drawn to a particular side. They’re both similarly balanced, but the way I think about them is a little different. Singing is something I definitely want to do well, as for dancing, I want to have fun doing it. It’s good to be a good dancer. It would be really nice to be good at dancing, but since my aim for dancing is to enjoy it, rather than thinking ‘How can I dance better?’ ‘How can I dance more coolly?’, it’s more important that I enjoy myself and receive good energy while dancing.”

http://nylonmedia.co.kr/jb/#

Due to COVID-19, everyone’s daily lives have changed. How has JB’s life changed?

My time at home has expectedly increased. I play with the cats and sometimes go out for a walk. When I go out, I either go to my studio or even when meeting with friends, we try to choose places that are not crowded. It’s a period of time when we should all be careful so I think that we should do whatever we can.

Were you originally someone who spent a lot of time at home. There is a term “homebody” that reflects those tendencies.

There was a time when I stayed home and didn’t do anything for a few months, but I really felt stressed then. I realised then that being home alone too much isn’t good for you. But of course going out everyday is also tiring physically (laughs). That balance is important and when you’re at home, rather than lying down, collapsing and watching TV, it’s better to watch a film that you can relate to or read a book. I do those kinds of things at home.

When you were younger, you said all you did was dance. It could be a cliche question but what is dance to you? Isn’t the one thing that has been with JB or a long time.

The answer could be obvious but to me dance is something that feels like life and livelihood. Since young, rather than practising choreography that has already been set, it became a habit that I could dance freestyle to music that is being played. I don’t know, to me choreography is choreography and dance is dance, to me there is this distinction.

What standards do you think stand at the forefront of dance?

To me, I also consider nodding your head to music that is playing as dance. I think that’s my reply because I feel that dance is an expression of your current feelings. In the past, something like that happened. When I was walking the streets and suddenly heard a song that I know despite it not being me who played it. Then I would suddenly start dancing. It happened when I was young, but now that I’m thinking about it, it’s a bit embarrassing (laughs)

It seemed like you were enjoying the rhythms of the songs that were being played on set today too.

Music that is my taste played so I was having fun while listening.

To many people, music is a hobby. But for JB that has turned into a career, has there not been times when it has been stressful?

While making music, the times when I can’t seem to create anything are the times (when it is most stressful) or when I had a certain thought or intention while making the song but it is interpreted differently. At those times I think, “Ah that’s not really it?”. Rather than stress, it’s a bit closer to regret. When songs are not coming to mind, I often think, “Why can’t I think of anything?”, “Do I really not have any talent?” too. But you’re making something out of nothing so it can’t be helped that you collapse at times during the process. I also look back at myself. The stress I had at that time couldn’t be helped. I should put up with it.

What do you think about while working on your music these days?

Being unlike myself? That’s the part I pay attention to the most. If a song turns out to be unlike me but not over-exaggeratedly, I think ‘oh that’s pretty good’ and can accept it. I try to avoid songs that are too like myself since it can be predictable.

I thought you would be the opposite and make music like yourself instead.

Because it feels like I’m locked up, so I don’t like that.

Do you think you have shown enough of songs that are like yourself?

That is not the case either. As JB, I’m the type to make songs like myself when making music for GOT7. Rather than myself, it has to be more like GOT7’s colour, so I think about that a lot. It’s not that I don’t like music that is like myself.

You seem to be the type that makes plans to clear things out and get them done.

I also have a spontaneous side. But I generally am the type to make plans. If I set my mind and think, “Let’s do this” then in the end I will end up getting it done.

Many people like JB as a singer. You may not have started with singing from the beginning, but you are now the main vocalist of GOT7 and worthy (of the position). What comes to mind when you look back at yourself as a vocalist.

I like my tone but I also don’t like it. Actually, I do think my tone matches well with bright moods or intense music but personally I think it has lacking points. I think it‘s too strong and bright, so I work hard to balance that out.

Is there another artist's tone that you think is good these days?

I often listen to Crush’s music, and I envy his soft tone.

When I see JB's collaborations with various artists, it‘s interesting how a new tone comes out each time.

That’s because I tailor it to whatever is needed each time. Sometimes it's fascinating to me too, that I express things differently depending on who I work with and how I came to meet them. I think vocal tone can be seen as an instrument that makes the music.

Fair skin and cold eyes, sharp nose and jawline, large build, twin moles. As they say, the image of a simple country boy and a cold city man seem to coexist. What is something people around you tell you is really cool about you?

People around me would never say that. Honestly, friends don't really talk about what's cool about each other right? We just curse and get cursed. (Laughs) Well, I know what I think (is cool) about myself.

We’re curious about that too.

Sexiness. Actually it’s more so the thought that I should certainly move forward possessing sexiness.

Is this something you’ve decided that represents you?

If we have to say that, then let's go with cute sexy.

Aren't you being too ambitious?

It’s just my own thoughts. (Laughs) In the past, I would have replied with ‘being free’. I thought that being myself without hesitation was a strength. But these days, it's more of a point that I have to fix rather than a strength. In reality I'm a very free-spirited person, but I don't think that is the right personality for celebrities or public figures.

Did something happen that might have made you feel that way?

I like being honest. But even I think I have a personality that can be misunderstood easily. Like peers my age, I sometimes talk without a filter when I'm excited. But I've been thinking, "Don't we need to manage our image?" Not a lot though. (Laugh)

You seem to be free-spirited, but with rules and such, you seem to be disciplined and have firm standards.

I always upkeep my own line/standard. I’m not always on the clouds. It's the same for myself and also my friends around me, even for the members, if they cross the line, I am the type to calmly tell them “don’t you think maybe you shouldn’t say/do that?”.

You seem to be the type to say “that’s not it” right away when something is wrong.

Well, I think if I wait to say something, they might feel worse about it. So I’m the type to just say it right there and then that we should be more careful.

I’ve seen an interview in the part where the GOT7 members did not hesitate to say “JB is our leader. There is no other candidate.” But to be honest, being a leader, you can’t not have many burdens and responsibilities.

(Laugh) In the past that was the case so I used to get a lot of stress, but nowadays it’s not the case. Now everyone takes care of themselves and they’re all reliable. At some point, I started thinking that continuously saying "Let's do this" and "Let's do that" is starting to sound nagging. I don’t want that so unless it’s something that needs to be stopped, I don’t say much. Once I was really out of it so I asked Jinyoung to take care of team matters, he did really well so I’ve been leaning on Jinyoung a lot since then.

It feels like a president and vice president.

Nowadays I’m the vice president. (Laugh). I reinforce what Jinyoung says, I don’t interrupt and pretend to act like the head of the group.

Since GOT7 is a team of multi-national members, it would not have been easy to agree on things because of language and cultural differences.

The members are all very good at Korean, so there have never been any times when problems arose due to language issues. When we talk about our opinions, we ask, 'Okay so how do you want to go about this?' And then we go with the majority. This method is the most simple and fair.

Outside of your role as JB in GOT7, is Jaebeom the type to lead in friendships?

Not at all. In a friendship group, there’s always that one person who’s so quiet you don’t know if he’s there or not, right? That’s me. (Laughs) If you call for me, I’ll go out and have fun. But I’m not the type to go “ya~~~” to lead and start up the mood. (My character) is a character that disappears quietly after having fun together.

The latest mini album received a great response. It ranked No. 1 on iTunes music charts in more than 50 countries around the world. Domestic music charts and record sales were also overwhelming..

Out of ambition, I did hope it would be better. It is important for my name and the team’s name to be more known, however I hoped our music would reach more people.

Looking at GOT7 onstage, everyone thinks you are a group that stands out with your performance.

We can be proud of that. It’s the thing we pay most attention to since we’re in GOT7. Now we also have some years of experience, so I think our skills should live up to that too. I thought that it’s a time when the team shouldn’t simply be releasing albums. I think we have to work hard so people go “ah great” when watching our performances.

Previously when we were doing the shoot, there was a cut that was a little revealing. Do you work out? There was a time when you were chosen as GOT7’s rep for having a “good body”.

These days I’m intending to start exercising again. And I usually don’t take things such as nutritional supplements, but I’ve come to think they’re important so recently, I stopped by a pharmacy to buy a variety of vitamins and probiotics etc and I eat them every morning.

Was there something that prompted that or did it just come to mind?

I’ve had a lot of interest in fashion, but I don’t really pay a lot of attention to my looks. I’ve come to realise recently that how you look is also part of fashion so I ‪want to take better care of myself. (Laughs) My body is the type to get big easily when I exercise so instead I tried to just lose weight by not eating. But I felt that my condition was starting to get out of control too so I told myself, “Ok, let’s combine (what we’ve done previously) with exercise as well and create a healthy body!”

How long have you been taking nutritional supplements for?

It’s barely been a week. (Laughs) I’m not sure if it’s because of my mood, but I already feel like I'm getting healthier. I woke up at 9 this morning. But I didn’t feel tired or anything, I felt so refreshed so I’m starting to believe more and more in the magic of nutritional supplements.

When we were talking about charms; you mentioned the term sexiness. What does JB think sexiness is?

How do I say this. Rather than forcibly thinking ‘I’m fatal’, true sexiness comes out in a natural situation or moment. Also when someone is working hard on what they do. I am also working hard on my job, and I especially pay attention to the atmosphere created by lyrics or songs. I think that sexiness comes to be when you naturally get caught in that kind of place.

Then what do you think being cool is?

When someone acknowledges their own weakness (problem) and knows how to take that in. Even if they can't fix it straightaway, they think about it once more, and are able to say 'I'm sorry’ or even discuss the issue more. That's what I think 'being cool' is.

Honestly when someone hears words that aren’t very kind, even though in your head you know what you should do, sometimes it’s hard to control facial expressions.

On the contrary, when hearing such things, if it was me I’d say ‘I fully understand what you mean. But to be honest, it doesn’t feel good.” After acknowledging what I did wrong, I am the type to honestly express how I feel at that moment. Then I ask for some time if I need it or find the cause (of why I feel this way).

You seem to be someone that hates ambiguity.

But there are times when I act ambiguous too. Despite hating things like that. (Laughs) Sometimes I think ‘Am I this hypocritical?’ And have a hard time because of it, but again I guess everyone is like that in a way.

Translated by defdaily.

#jb #got7 #jaebeom

601 notes · View notes

flooffybits · 3 years

Text

How Are You?

Idol: Kim Jisoo (Blackpink)

Forced into facing her past, Jisoo knows she promised to let you breathe. But fate had other plans for both of you that it just wouldn’t let her rest until it was satisfied with what it wanted.

A sequel to Hope Not

☕buy me a coffee☕

Jisoo sat stiffly at the side, watching as her members happily spoke to the production team and listened to the presentation when it began, each girls showing looks of determination and excitement as the time passed by.

But the eldest of the four couldn’t seem to relax or tear her eyes away from the person that sat a few seats ahead of her. The same person who currently had the maknae’s hand in their own and explaining the draft of the concept they had for the girls' new album.

After two long years of no communication, she found herself sitting in the same practice room, the exact practice room where she had broken your heart without remorse and lost all the love and support that she’s ever wanted and needed.

“So, if you girls have any questions or suggestions, Y/n and I are available whenever you need us.” Teddy explained after he wrapped up the presentation. “You already know my rules, but since Y/n is new to the team, I want you to get used to her when working. I know you’re friends but during work hours, be professional, got it?”

“We know, oppa. No need to tell us that.“ You waved the man off with a playful roll of your eyes, causing Jennie to giggle and Lisa to grin while Chaeyoung gave you an amused look.

Being someone who worked in the company for so long, it made sense that you were well acquainted with most of the people working in YG, and those who were new would eventually learn about you and, one way or another, you would befriend them as well.

It was the reason you had gotten so popular despite being a new producer. Artists and producers who have worked with you have nothing but nice words when it came to you that everyone eventually learned your name a little after your breakup with Jisoo.

When news of you finally becoming an official producer came out, people were ecstatic and many artist have shared the same sentiments in wanting to get the chance to work with you.

“I was just saying. I know you girls get into a lot of trouble when you want to.” Teddy stated and Lisa gasped in mock offense. “What are you looking at me like that for?” She yelled, making you all laugh and Jisoo can’t help the way the sound makes her heart flutter.

“We’ll behave. Don’t worry.”

“Be sure of that, L/n. This is your first big project, so be serious.” Jisoo catches the slight twitch of your lips before you were forcing a smile and nodding your head. “You got it, boss.”

When they’re done for the day and back at the dorm, Jisoo heads to her room and collapses on the bed, exhausted after the mental rollercoaster she had been on.

Seeing you again, all smiles and carefree as ever had sent her back to when you were happy together. She remembers waking up to your sleeping face or a cute little message when you didn’t spend the night together. Being able to be so close yet so far was such a torturous thing, she thinks.

She had to work with you despite your past, but it looked like her presence no longer bothered you, so she’s unsure how to approach because it was clear that she really wasn’t over you.

“You okay, unnie?” Jennie’s voice reached her ears, and as she looked over, she spots the younger girl standing at her doorway. When she’s allowed further into the room, Jennie makes her way to the bed and lays next to her, hugging Jisoo in a comforting manner whilst the older girl let out a sigh.

They’re quiet for a moment until Jisoo’s voice penetrates the silence. “She looked great today.” Jennie hums in agreement, knowing full well that this was something the other needed to let out. “She seemed happier. I’m glad her and Lisa are able to talk like they used to.”

Another round of silence before Jennie hears the hesitant question falling from the older woman’s lips.

“Do you think we could ever be friends again?”

And with the past they’ve had, Jennie answers her the only way she knows without lying. “I don’t think it’s impossible, but you’re going to have to show some effort.”

Effort.

The word rings in Jisoo’s head time and again when she sees you at work or in the company in general.

It was the one thing she lacked when it came to you and the sole reason of why she had lost you in the first place. While she put effort in everything else that she did, it seemed that her work put her personal life aside.

But with this new album and having you as their producer, she wants to think that she could make it work this time around, even if the outcome of it is different compared to when she first approached you.

“Jisoo?”

The call of her name snaps her out of her thoughts and she looks up to meet your kind eyes directed at her and her heart skips a beat since this has been the first time she was able to make direct eye contact with you over the past years.

You offer her a small smile, almost as if you never resented her in the first place, which you never really did. Even with all the heartache, she’s been a part of your life and you were still thankful for her.

“Sorry, what was that?” She asks carefully, embarrassed that she had been caught spacing out, but you shake your head in assurance before gesturing to the recording booth. “It’s your turn.” You inform her and the woman nodded her head before scrambling to her feet and making her way over.

Chaeyoung casts her a worried look, but she merely smiles before shutting the door behind her.

Setting the papers on the stand, she goes through it one more time before she hears your voice from the speakers. “Just give me the signal once you’re ready, alright?” Sucking in a deep breath, the woman shuts her eyes for a brief moment before she opened them again and gave you the thumbs up.

Working with you wasn’t as awkward as she thought it would be. The only awkward thing was on her part, because she often stumbles over her words when she’s around you and she realizes how distracted she is when you’re in her peripherals.

But you’re patient enough in doing this with her and the girls.

When Teddy said to separate your personal life with your professional life, she’s envious on how well you can detach yourself from everything when you’re working.

But then again, she realizes that she’s the cause of that as well.

This was her firsthand experience of the change she’s instilled in you from the breakup and she feels her stomach churn as she watches you work. So, she tries to do the same in hopes of distracting herself from that guilt and focuses on the album instead.

“You need to let up. They’re a Kpop group, Teddy, in case you’ve forgotten.” Jisoo pauses right outside the room when she hears your voice coming from inside. “I know that, but the girls’ popularity is bigger outside of Korea. It’s going to help boost that.”

“I know, but to only give them english songs?”

“Look, I know that you’re worried about Jisoo, but she can handle it.”

The sound of her name causes her brows to pinch together as she listens to the two of you continue. “I know that she can handle it, but you have to understand that she still struggles with it, too! And then what? You’re barely going to let her sing?”

“What we can’t give Jisoo in lines, we can always make up in the video.” Teddy tells you, but it wasn’t enough to calm you down. “Jisoo is a part of Blackpink, Teddy! She isn’t there just for display! You’re wasting her talents because all you think about is making your selfish vision instead of letting them properly grow!”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in charge of this project. If you step out of line, I can have you out of here and you can forget about working with any big artist out there.” Jisoo’s heart sinks as she holds her breath, fists clenched tightly as she hears what’s going on.

“If getting rid of me is what it takes to give her proper recognition, then by all means.” She hears footsteps coming closer and Jisoo quickly straightens before she took a few more steps back. But she was still close enough to hear your voice just as the door opened.

“And by the way, I don’t need your help to work with other artists, Teddy. You were the one who asked me because you wanted people to see you with a good image.”

Slamming the door shut, you let out a huff before moving to leave, only for your eyes to land on the woman standing only five feet away from where you stood.

“Jisoo, what are y- did you just get here?” You ask her and she sees the anxiety and frustration swimming in your eyes after what just transpired.

“Are you leaving?” She asks softly and your face falls when you realize that she’s heard your conversation with the other producer. “No. I’ve been working here for god knows how long. I’m not going to let someone, who has a stick up their ass, drive me out.” You say with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders.

Her eyes dart from your face to the door before she closed the distance between you and grabbed your hand, catching you off guard when she runs to the opposite direction of the recording room.

"Hey! Jisoo, wait!"

But your words fall upon deaf ears as the woman leads you all the way up to the company's roof, not at all stopping until you both arrived and the door closed, leaving the two of you alone and away from anyone who could possibly see or hear you.

"Why did you... what was that for?" You panted out while hunching over, gasping as you try to catch your breath and Jisoo does the same.

Truthfully, she wasn't sure why she dragged you all the way up here. All of her thoughts just told her that she should get you as far away from Teddy as possible, even for just that moment. So the first place that came to mind was the roof.

"You were..." She shakes her head before lifting her head to look at you. "Why did you do that?" She asked, and you know what she means already just by looking at her.

You knew her enough to understand what she was asking you, so clearing your throat, you stood properly before looking away. "I just think that you deserve to be treated properly in the group." You admit quietly.

"But you didn't have to."

"I know, but I wanted to. Everyone is asking for you, and they're right. They haven't been giving you the spotlight like they should be, and if-"

"And what about you?"

Her heart was beating a mile a minute as the words came out of her mouth. She wasn't thinking, but it was just her longing to find out that maybe, in some weird way, you still thought about her like she did you.

You're quiet as you refuse to look at her face, your thoughts being a mess as you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to make yourself seem small that Jisoo absolutely hates it.

"What about me?"

She sucks in a deep breath because it was now or never - make or break. "What do you think about me?"

Again, you take a while to properly gather your thoughts and Jisoo stays watching you, waiting for you to finally talk to her outside of work.

"I think you deserve more."

Jisoo doesn't speak when she sees that there's more you want to say. Running your fingers through your hair, you let out a deep breath. "They're working you to the bone, but they don't give you enough credit. You have talent oozing out of you, but they're keeping it under wraps for reasons I don't know!"

While you were so busy letting everything out, you don't notice as Jisoo takes small and slow steps toward you.

"It's just... it baffles me. They talk about giving you everything, but they don't give you everything. And it just hurts to see you be pushed aside and-"

With a gentle hand, Jisoo caresses your cheek when you choke up. Tears of frustration had subconsciously fallen from your eyes and she takes you into her arms when you release a shaky breath.

"You're getting so worked up over nothing, Y/n. This isn't anything new." But you shake your head roughly when you pull away to look at her. "That's my point! It shouldn't even be normal, because they should have been fair to you from the very start."

The idol fixes you with a stare before she asks, “Why do you care?”

Your stare right back at the girl for a few seconds before you let out a scoff. “Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you.” You tell her while wiping your cheeks. “Yeah, I was hurt and it sucked, but you were dealing with things completely different from me. The way you cope is completely different from mine.”

“But the way I love you has always been the same way you loved me back.” She counters, and this time you’re stunned while she licks her lips and inhales sharply.

“I know I never showed it, but Y/n, I have never once stopped loving you. You mean the absolute world to me-”

“Stop.”

“No. I want you to hear this.” She’s firm with the way she speaks, eyes hard and you can tell that she would not be backing out of this. “Yes, I said everything in present tense because... goddamit, I’m still in love with you! I thought I could leave everything behind because you obviously did, but then we started working together and I get to see you every day and I just... I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry that I never showed you enough how much I love you. I’m sorry I took you for granted. And I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Your expression softens as the woman before you crumbles into a vulnerable mess. You know that Jisoo was never one to cry, but seeing her now with tears freely streaming down her cheeks, you can’t help but feel sad at seeing the usually peppy woman in such a state.

“Jisoo... I already forgave you, even before I left that night. It hurt, it really did, but I understood and you made me understand that not everyone is going to give the same treatment we all give. In the world we live in, people are selfish, but I know deep down that you aren’t.”

You lift your hand up to her face, pausing to get a proper look at her, before sighing as you wipe her tears away. “I’m not telling you that we can pick up where we left off, but we could always start again.”

Your words cause her ears to perk up and her eyes widen. “W-What?”

With a smile, you pull back after making sure her face is free of tears. “I guess if time isn’t such a bitch, we could do things right, don’t you think?”

“I could work with that.” She breathes out, a smile finally beginning on her face when you offer her a hand. “So, how about we start by getting to work?” You ask teasingly and Jisoo rolls her eyes after giving you a shove, but she takes your hand afterwards.

“Am I supposed to watch out for Lisa though?” She asks playfully and you look at her from the corner of your eyes, chuckling as you shrug your shoulders. “I mean, who knows? She is cute and has a great sense of humor.”

“You’re such a player!” She laughs while you walk down the halls and back to the recording room, your own laughter joining in at the little joke.

But even with how everything went, Jisoo could tell that she put a lot more effort, both in this album and the relationship she’s trying to recover, whether it was just a friendship or more.

Because at the end of it all, you were alright. And that was what mattered.

#girl group #girl group scenarios #girl group imagines #blackpink #blackpink jisoo #blackpink lisa #blackpink jennie #blackpink rosé #jisoo #Kim Jisoo #jisoo scenarios #jisoo imagines #bp jisoo #blackpink scenarios #blackpink imagines

95 notes · View notes

louiseleblancdiggory · 4 years

Note

hey, once in twitter we talk about how much we love Castle, so i was thinking if you could write a rowaelin scene based on caskett ♥️

OI GIO!!!!!! Ok so I had so much fun writing this. I decided to start from the very beginning so everyone (even those who didn’t watch it) know what’s going on. If you never watched Castle, you MUST!!! Also, fyi, the warnings are NOT about Ro or Aelin, they are absolutely fine in here. No sad shit, I promise

Warnings: mentions of graphic death

Gone death

Aelin winked at the red headed man in front of her, a grin plastered on her lips.

She handed him back the book, waving off his thank you as he scrunched away to enjoy the rest of the party. She looked around, half paying attention to the hundreds of people who had come to the release of her latest book.

Since Aelin was a seven, she had had a deep fascination with mystery and horror. Thankfully, she was also a fucking amazing writer, which allowed her to transform that fascination into her job. Now, twenty six years later, Aelin was the bestseller author of several stand alone as well as a series of eight books, all of them following the same two main characters while they investigated a series of gruesome murders. She had loved the series, had started writing them at fifteen and published the first one at twenty five. She thought she could write about Sam and Lyria forever.

Until she realized she couldn’t.

Aelin felt a hand gripping her elbow, and had to hold in her sigh as she turned around to stare at her ex husband.

One of Aelin’s biggest regrets in life was marrying so early. Chaol had been her college boyfriend, and they got married few months after they started dating. Looking back now, Aelin could see how stupid she had been, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. They got a divorce less than a year later, and Aelin would have been happy in never looking at him again. Unfortunately, he worked with her publishing team, and if she added that to their past together, she could almost understand why Chaol always felt so entitled to know and control everything in her life.

It was fucking distressing and annoying.

“If it’s not my money sucking ex husband. What did I do this time?”

He had a fake smile on his lips, looking at her as if he didn’t dislike her. “You killed your golden goose, Galathynius. You fucking killed your main characters.”

Aelin shrugged, taking a sip of her white wine. “It was time.” She started walking away, and had to hide her scowl when she realized Chaol was following her.

Some people couldn’t get the fucking hint, could they?

“Why would you do that? Sam and Lyria were making you filthy rich, and everyone loved them.”

“They got boring, that’s why.” Aelin stopped in her tracks, turning back to Chaol. She crossed her arms, raising her chin. “Writing The Guild used to be fun, used to be exciting. Writing Sam used to be interesting, but since the seventh book it has just been work. I don’t write for money, Chaol. I write because I love it. When I stopped loving it, I decided it was time to move on from them.”

“Wow, and God forbid you ever have to actually work like an adult, right?”

“It. Was. Time. Besides, Sam and Lyria are not the golden goose, I am.”

She said the words loud and clear, ignoring the frown on his face. Aelin always knew that Chaol saw her writing more as a job than as a passion, and it pissed her off endlessly. She turned around again, walking to the bar where her cousin and son were sitting. Her heels clinked against the marble floor, and the sound was almost loud enough to hide the fact that Chaol was following her. Again.

She sighed loudly as he began speaking. “You could have made them retire, could have made them get married and leave the force. Hell, you could have made them join the goddamn circus. But no, Aelin Galathynius must be dramatic and put two bullets on her main characters’ heads.” When she ignored him, he just kept talking. “What the hell are you going to do now, Aelin? You permanently ended The Guild with your stupidity, and we both know you don’t have any other ideas.”

At that, Aelin spun on her heels, clenching her fists to stop herself from physically attacking Chaol. The photographers would love seeing her getting into a brawl, and most of the rest of the party would probably find it immensely entertaining. Lysandra, however, wouldn’t find it so amusing. Her PR and best friend loved some mischief, but she also worked hard enough to make sure Aelin’s public image was a good one, so Aelin wouldn’t mess that up by fighting her ex.

“Who says that?”

Chaol snorted. “The nine week delay to publish the eighth book should be indication enough.”

“Can’t rush talent.” Aelin said, a nasty smile on her lips.

“I won’t say you’re not talented, Aelin, but you are out of ideas. You weren’t bored, you had a writer’s block and freaked out.” Chaol said, oblivious to Aelin’s rising temper. He looked at her, giving an infuriating shrug. “You have a month to hand me the new idea. A full and useable idea. The first manuscript, preferably. You’re famous, write any shit and people will eat it up.”

“Fuck off.” Aelin said through clenched teeth.

Chaol merely smiled as he walked away. “A month, Aelin.”

Aelin wanted to go after him and smack his face against one of the piles of books in the room. Fortunately for him, Aelin was stopped by several people who wanted her autograph in the newest and last book of The Guild. It probably took her an hour to get through everyone— talking and giving every single person her full attention— until she finally managed to make her way to the bar.

She spotted Aedion’s head first, his broad figure standing up against the bar and talking to a pitch-black haired boy, Nino, sitting down near him.

“Who does homework at a party?” She heard Aedion asking.

“I have a test next week.”

“So do I. It’s called dealing with your mom while she contemplates hitting her head against a wall to force an idea to come out.”

Nino laughed, looking at his uncle. “She’ll come up with something, she always does.”

Aelin smiled at her son, his words warming her. She had had Nino extremely young— had only been seventeen at the time— and he became her friend along with being her son. She approached her cousin from behind, listening to him ask for a glass of champagne.

“Make that two, please.” Aelin said and Aedion’s eyes immediately snapped to her as she approached the boy sitting down and passed an arm through his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey, mom.”

Aedion grinned, raising his glass and gesturing around. “Built yourself an empire, Aeae.”

Aelin smiled in return, winking at her cousin. “Always said I would. But tell me, Aedion…”

“Uh-oh.” The boy Aelin was half hugging said, a humorous smirk on his face. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Cut it, genius.” Aedion snapped, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “What’s up, Ae?”

“Did you tell Chaol I was having trouble writing?” Aelin smiled sweetly, even though she wanted to strangle her cousin right now. The look on his face was enough to give her the answer.

“I told him nothing of the sort.” Aedion replied quickly, defending himself. Aelin only raised an eyebrow at him. “Ok, I— I might have let slip that for the past nine weeks you have been walking around the apartment with either a cup of coffee or a bottle of wine while you curse the Gods for lack of creativity.”

“I am going to kill you.” Aelin said, a smile still plastered on her face as she noticed some cameras pointed at her. It was always like this whenever she went out with Nino.

“Ae, that’s ok. You’re an artist, that sort of thing is expected.”

“I can’t believe it, Aedion! The deal for you to live with us was plain and simple.”

“No meddling on her work.” Nino reminded Aedion, the boy looking immensely pleased at his uncle’s doom. “And no Chaol.”

“You know how things are with Chaol. No. Talking. About. My. Work.“ Aelin said, temper rising once more.

“What is there to talk about anyways?”

“Uncle!” Nino said exasperatedly.

“Whatever there is or isn’t to talk about,” Aelin was saying, jaw clenched. “I would appreciate if you didn’t share it with my ex husband.”

“Oh, I think I hear Lysandra calling me.” Aedion interrupted, absolutely ignoring Aelin. She narrowed her eyes, knowing damn well that Lysandra would never be calling Aedion judging by the brunette’s deep dislike of her best friend’s cousin. Aelin tried to stop him, but he just started walking away faster, shouting that they could talk at home.

It was just a fancy way of saying they wouldn’t discuss at all.

She turned around, looking at Nino. He had a smirk on his face as he looked down his physics book, a pen on his left hand.

“You should have stopped me.” Aelin grumbled.

“Letting uncle Aed move in?” Nino asked, looking up at his mom. “Nah, I think it’s sweet. Besides, I like him.”

Aelin only grumbled more, taking the two glasses the barista had put in front of her. She smiled in thanks, holding one of the glasses and placing the other in front of Nino. He smiled humorously, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’m only sixteen, right?”

“You’re an old soul.”

“Well me and my old soul can wait until I’m twenty-one.”

Aelin smiled at her son, all anger and tightness leaving her body. Nino had always been her steadying rock, since he was a baby his presence had always been enough to calm her down. Differently from her, however, Nino was extremely serious and responsible, always following the rules, studying and making sure everything was right.

Most times Aelin found it immensely funny to see how different from her he had turned out.

“When I was your age—“ She was saying, a grin on her face. She immediately stopped, frowning. “Can’t tell you that story. Too inappropriate for your innocent ears.”

Nino snickered, pushing the champagne glass away.

“Don’t laugh, boy, this is exactly my point. Don’t you want to have wild, law-breaking, inappropriate stories that you can’t tell your kids one day?” She rested her elbows at the counter, a smile on her lips.

“You’ve lived enough of those for both of us now, mom.”

Aelin snorted, taking a sip of her champagne. “You’re studying physics at a party. At your age I would have been drinking.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were pregnant.” Nino said slowly, a winning smirk at his face.

“Damn it.” Aelin muttered, earning a laugh from Nino. Despite her crazy stories, Nino knew very well how responsible she had been during her pregnancy with him. Nino, since before birth, had been the one thing capable of making her act like a serious adult. “You want to know why I killed Sam and Lyria?”

Nino raised his brows at the change in the topic, but nodded just the same.

“Because life should be an adventure, sweetheart. It should be full of unexpected turns and plot twists. It should be full of funny stories, embarrassing stories, inappropriate stories.” Her smile became soft, and she grabbed one of his hands. “I had to kill them because it wasn’t an adventure anymore, it wasn’t surprising. I knew exactly where they would always go, what they would always do. If my own characters weren’t surprising me, how could I hope they would surprise anyone else?”

“Mom…”

“I’m not telling you to be like I was when I was younger, it’s definitely not your type. I just want to make sure that you know you can make mistakes every now and then. That I don’t expect you to be like me, but I also don’t expect you to be perfect.”

He matched her soft smile, squeezing her hand slightly. “I know, mom.”

“Good.” She straightened, taking her champagne glass and looking around. “You know what else is boring? These parties. After having sixteen of these, the seventeenth seems rather dull.”

Nino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, people praising you seems awfully boring, mom.”

Aelin grinned, resting her hips against the counter as she turned fully to him. “It’s always the same thing. ‘Oh my god, I’m such a big fan’, or maybe the ‘Where’d you get your ideas?’.

“Let’s not forget the fully adult men asking you to sign their chest.” Nino’s face crumbled in disgust.

Aelin laughed out loud, drinking from her glass. “I don’t mind that one very much.”

“Well, I do, if you’re interested in knowing.”

She snorted, putting the now empty glass down. “I don’t know, Nino. I just wanted for someone to surprise me once. I want something new to give me inspiration, to be my new muse. For the past eight years I have been hearing the same thing over and over again. I just want someone to catch me by surprise, to say something so shocking I won’t have a reaction, so surprising that I will—“

“Ms. Galathynius.” She was interrupted by a brisk tap on her shoulder. Nino raised his eyebrows at the person standing behind her, trying to get her attention in such impolite manner.

She forced a polite smile on her face, taking a pen from her bra. She turned around, raising the pen. “Where do I sign?”

A broad shouldered man was now standing in front of her, and even in heels Aelin had to tip her head back to stare at him. His arms her hanging by his side, his clothes extremely casual for him to be part of the party. His white button down and leather jacket hugged his arms and torso, and if his face wasn’t so enthralling, Aelin would probably have had a hard time not staring at the rest of him.

His features looked somewhat tense. His hair— probably blond, but looked so light that it could only be described as silver— a mess, almost as if he had ran his hands too many times through it. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and his pine green eyes were stuck on her face with such intensity that Aelin felt her face heating.

“Detective Whitethorn, OPD.” He said, voice grave and words rolling out of his tongue with a lovely Scottish accent. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight.”

Aelin registered his words, but didn’t have any reaction. She just stared at the man, her eyes looking quickly at the Orynth Police Department badge he was holding.

Nino laughed quietly, reaching over his mom to take the pen out of her hand. “Well, this is new.”

Only then she turned slightly to her son, a scowl at her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”

—-----

Aelin had always written about this, but she never thought that she would herself be like one of the characters from her story.

Honestly, she wasn’t nervous at all, just curious.

Hundreds of people had seen her all afternoon and night at the party, and she knew that she hadn’t killed anybody, so fear was off the table. Now, why the police thought she had any knowledge about the crime at all was what made her so damn curious.

Upon arriving at the precinct, detective Whitethorn had left her at the care of two identical men. Both had the exact same face, but where one seemed to radiate light, the other one seemed to suck it. As they took her to wait in the interrogation room, she thought that they would make great main characters.

“Whitethorn will be back shortly, ma’am.” The serious twin said, walking out of the room as she sat down. The other twin, however, lingered.

He was staring at her, his head cocked to the side just like a wolf seizing his prey. Aelin stared right back, raising one eyebrow at him. Despite knowing she hadn’t killed anybody, something inside of her was tensing at his staring. Did they think that her involvement with the murder was more serious than she had initially thought?

“You killed your main characters.” He said, and the air rushed out of Aelin’s lungs. She scowled, suddenly pissed that he had made her so tense and it was actually just about a goddamn book.

“Yep. Bullet right through the head.” She made a finger gun and put it against her forehead. “Disappointed?”

He shrugged, resting against the threshold. “It was brilliant, but I adored Sam and Lyria. After eight years following the series, seeing your favorite characters being killed makes you want to kill the author.”

Aelin smiled when he winked at her. “Pardon. If it makes you feel better, I have already been scolded by my ex husband. Said it would have been better if I had just made Sam and Lyria join the circus.”

“Sam would have been a shit clown.”

Aelin nodded. “You’re right. Should have told that to my ex.”

The detective laughed, but was immediately interrupted when Whitethorn’s voice sounded from behind him. “Fenrys.”

“Sorry, Rowan.” Fenrys grimaced exaggeratedly, and Aelin grinned. “See you later, blondie.”

Aelin just nodded, her eyes immediately on Whitethorn when his figure approached the door.

“Ms. Galathynius.”

“Detective Whitethorn.” She eyed the manila folders he was holding. Some papers and photos were sticking out, but Aelin couldn’t really tell what they were.

He sat in front of her after closing the door, opening one of the folders. His eyebrows rose as he read, and he eyed Aelin quickly before sighing and putting the open folder at the table. “You have quite the history with the law for a best selling author, Ms. Galathynius. Public disturbance, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest…”

Aelin shrugged, a small smile on her lips. “Living all your adventures through paper seem a little too nerdish for me.”

Detective Whitethorn rested his forearms on the table, inclining himself forward. Aelin did the same, and his eyes narrowed at her.

“You stole a police horse once.”

“Borrowed.” Her smile widened. Detective Whitethorn, on the other hand, didn’t seem to find it funny in the slightest.

“And you were,” he looked down at the folder before looking at her again. “Nude.”

Aelin shrugged once more. “It was springtime.”

“And every time the charges were dropped.” He drew back, resting against his chair. “Care to explain?”

“The mayor enjoys reading The Guild.” Aelin sighed dramatically, propping on her elbows and resting her face against her hand. “You know how people love to bond over mutual interests. And he loves my son, there’s that too. But that’s besides the point.”

“Oh, is it?” For the first time, the detective seemed entertained.

“Yes. I don’t think you’re here to talk about my college prank of a decade ago, detective.” She half smiled. “So why don’t you make your murder questions so I can go home and convince my son to stop studying so his eyes won’t fall out?”

“Ms. Galathynius.” He said, smirking at her. Aelin didn’t think it was a good smirk, though. “I fully believe that the cocky, irreverent, hot girl slash genius act makes people eat out of the palm of your hand in your glamorous world, but I work for a living, so why don’t you cut the bullshit because in my world, you can be only two things.”

“You think I’m hot, detective?”

Whitethorn’s smirk didn’t waver. “You can be the person who makes my life easier and goes home quickly, or the person who makes my life harder and stays handcuffed here until you decide to be the first option.”

“I could make so many inappropriate jokes right now, you have no idea.” Aelin said, and she could swear his smirk turned more playful. She smirked back, crossing her arms. “I supposed I shouldn’t want to be the one making your life harder.”

He didn’t answer, just let go of the manila folder containing her information and opened the other one. He took out the picture of a brunette woman. Dark hair, brown skin and big black eyes, the girl couldn’t be older than twenty five.

Aelin grabbed the picture, analyzing it. “Hum, pretty.”

“And dead.”

“Gods, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

He didn’t reply, just took another picture out. This time it was a man, probably at the same age, but instead of bright and soft features the girl possessed, his skin was pale and blue eyes glassy.

“Recognize them?”

Aelin shook her head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She sighed, letting go of the pictures. “I’ve been to dozens of signings, events and parties, detective Whitethorn. I can’t possibly recall every face.”

“Not what I meant. Do you recognize their features?” He asked, tapping the pictures.

Aelin looked back down once more, looking at those faces until something hit her fully. “Sam and Lyria. They look like my characters Sam and Lyria.”

Detective Whitethorn seemed satisfied with her answer, because he took other two pictures and placed in front of her. One of them showed the girl, her body dressed in a series of white cloths, wild flowers surrounding her whole body. Where her eyes should be, two big daisies laid, and looking more carefully, Aelin could also see daisies stuffed in her mouth and nostrils.

The other picture showed the boy, his body laying inside a casket, instead of white cloths hugging his body, his were blood red. The floor around the casket showed a series of markings drawn in white chalk.

“Holy fuck.” She breathed.

Detective Whitethorn was eyeing her carefully. “Her name was Mandy, his was Felix. He was found dead two weeks ago, but we only made the connection after we found her today. The deaths look exactly like the ones described in chapter six and twenty two of your book Gone Death.”

“A fan?” Aelin asked, a humorous smile on her lips.

“Yes, a really deranged fan.”

“Oh, you don’t seem deranged.”

He looked up from the pictures, frowning. “I’m sorry?”

“Detective Whitethorn, I am a best selling author and yet I can count on my fingers the amount of people who even know that Gone Death exists.” She smiled when he rolled his eyes. “It’s ok, I always thought it was a terribly underrated book. Only hardcore groupies ever read that one, though.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you enjoy constantly praising yourself, ma’am?”

“Oh, you have no idea, sir.”

He snorted, crossing his arms. “Does any of these groupies ever write you fan mail?” She just stared at him blankly. “Disturbing ones.”

Aelin shuddered, and this time it wasn’t for show. “Oh, try being a murder mystery writer. Every fan mail I receive is disturbing. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“It’s because sometimes, in cases like this, we find that—“

“The killer attempts to contact the image of his obsession, yes.” Aelin completed his sentence, earning a questioning look back.

She looked back at him, and curiosity beyond this case sparkled inside of her. She could feel an idea brewing, and the more he talked, the more interesting he got.

“I write murders for a living. I’m well versed in psychopathic methodologies and the process of murder. Another occupational hazard, I guess.” She inclined herself forward. “And has anyone ever said you have pretty eyes?”

He stared at her, mouth open as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He finally rolled his eyes, pulling the pictures back to him. “And so I assume you won’t have any problems with us going over you mail, Ms. Galathynius.”

“Be my guest. I have thrown some out, however.” When he looked at her, she just shrugged. “My son lives in that house, detective. And as much as I’m not a strict mom in the slightest, there are things I will not allow my son to be near. Middle aged man sending naked pictures and blood vials is one example.”

He nodded, getting up. Aelin looked up at him, jerking her chin in the direction of the manila folders.

“Can I get a copy of that?”

“A copy?” He asked dumbfounded.

“Yeah. I have poker night with other best selling authors and you have no idea how jealous this would make them.”

He hesitated for a moment before slowly asking. “Jealous?”

“In my world, detective, having a copycat is like wining the fucking Nobel.” She said, half surprised at the complete incredulity on his face. “So?”

He threw the folders at the table, placing his hands down and bringing his face inches away from hers. “People are dying, Ms. Galathynius.”

“I’m not asking for the bodies.”

He rolled his eyes, drawing back. He took the folders from the table, walking to the door. “I think we’re done here.”

Aelin stared at his back, seeing him leave the room. Once he was out of sight, she took her phone out, looking through her contacts until she found the one.

“Good night, Rolfe.” She greeted the current mayor of Orynth. “You have a direct say in the OPD business, don’t you? Because as you know, The Guild just ended but…”

Aelin looked at the door once more, and even though he wasn’t there, she smiled.

“…but I think I just found my new inspiration for a new series.”

Tags:

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @abookishfreak @faerie-queen-fireheart @maastrash @morganofthewildfire @queen-of-glass @jlinez @courtofjurdan @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ladywitchling @lexflame @sleeping-and-books @annejulianneh111 @perseusannabeth @linshryver @mu-si-ca-l @camilamartinezdunne @dank-queen7 @minaidss @starborn-faerie-queen @booksofthemoon @loveofbooksandwine @jesstargaryenqueen @bluejaberry @yesdreamblog @multifandommessblog @heirofthenightcourt

120 notes · View notes

hoochy-coo · 3 years

Note

For you & WS Anon- do you ever hear of any other movies having the same drama/set backs like DWD is rumored to be. Not even about HO getting together onset while she was still with J but with the editor quitting, the push backs of the release, no trailer, no release date even, doubled budget, etc.

Every DCEU film ever is muddled with the same problems and even more publicized. But then again these films are more relevant than DWD so their problems will be more known.

Okay I’m gonna ask, does WS anon know if hs is actually packin (I’m talking 7+)? Apparently he got weak stroke game though..

I think my lack of attraction for this man has prevented me from ever asking this question. I do know one of my friends claims (I can never verify this claim but she does work with models) one of her friends is one of Harry's regular hookups and says he's just ok. But they said he's nice though but doesn't really share anything too personal. Again I can never verify their claim cause our friends kept asking for the name but she never tells us who. I'm sure he has a lot of people he hooks up with but that seems to be my closest connection to that part of his life.

To you & WS anon: apparently Deuxmoi got banned from posting anything about Chris Evans and Holivia. Do we know why this came up and if the teams were involved in it?

Other people already answered this question perfectly. There is that obvious harrie among the mods though, it was clear when there was a perfectly mild conversation about Harry that didn't break any rules. More of talking about him being a player and it got locked. I do notice that specific mod and a bunch of people get angry at the mention of Harry doing pr. I don't know but this man incites incredible passion to make him look like a victim.

But anyway DM posted about holivia and Chris Evans again. The Chris Evans secret gf saga was one of my favorite telenovelas though.

Question for everyone but especially for Jessie and WS anon. What do you think this film needs so it can improve? Just based on the things we know or heard about it?

A release date probably. At least with that this film will look like it's heading towards a direction.

Her career and pr never looked like it had any direction or vision.

Am a noob about the industry. But can WS anon or maybe even you Jessie can explain this to me?

Jessie answered perfectly. I guess if you look at the careers of Leo, Jennifer Lawrence, Emma Stone, Angelina Jolie, Sandra Bullock, Chris Evans, Jake Gyllenhaal, Ryan Reynolds to name a few you could tell their pr gave them a certain image that went well with them, alongside choosing roles that either further elevated their fame or showed their talent. You don't even have to be an incredible talent in my opinion. The likes of Ryan Reynolds and Channing Tatum imo aren't incredible actors, but they got that break, won over people, had roles or did things that made them even more relevant. Another scale are the likes of Matthew McConaughey and Bradley Cooper who were known for pretty bad romcoms and for awhile studios didn't take them as serious actors, and then had that break commercially and critically that showed they're competent actors and pretty much put them on the list of best working actors today.

For Olivia I would say her break into mainstream fame was House and she tried to go big but the films that were supposed to propel her like Tron or Cowboys vs Aliens failed. Despite the fact she's a pretty recognizable face here, you don't really have an image of her or her personality nor has she done anything that memorable (until this year) that propelled her star.

In terms of Grimes, I want to say save her cause I think she’s an amazing artist but then I look at the big picture and I think she’s an enemy lol. We need to talk about Azealia Banks involvement in their relationship though

So we save her from Elon but give her a trial for her own crimes of dating a billionaire. I need Azealia to explain further the real life get out she's describing after being in their home.

ALSO, any tea on Blake Lively?

Apparently she really is super sweet and nice to everyone. A bit of a social climber too or at least back in the early days, but let's not hate celebs for doing what they need to do.

- Worcestershire Sauce anon

Psst I was sent by my friend here that a harrie blog mocked me. Saying I'm claiming not to be a Harry friend but go by WS anon. I should have gone by ketchup!!!

Also have you seen the Nick and Pri photo Jessie?

!!!!

I have and as per usual, they’re doing the MOST lmao

#WS

6 notes · View notes

beccascribbles · 4 years

Text

it’s a monthly tradition. on the last friday of every month, you whip out the aprons and bake. the winner is given dibs over what to watch on tv for the next month. it’s a serious competition, with multiple judges. but who will be crowned star baker, y/n or osamu?

warnings - some swearing

word count - 1.4k

The kitchen was all set up. You and Osamu had claimed your work stations, you using the counters on the right, him those on the left. They were mirror images of each other, same base ingredients, same equipment (though you had both customised yours in honour of a year of baking competition). The competition was so serious that Atsumu insisted on playing the role of presenter. Currently, he was stood in front of you holding a large whiteboard to his chest (which he had taken great pride in decorating as it was the only thing he had been trusted to do while you and Osamu set up the kitchen).

“Are you going to make us stand here all day, Sumu?” questioned Osamu, shooting his brother a glare. The quicker they started, the quicker he could beat you and regain his TV privileges. Last month, you had beaten him with an excellent batch of cookies that had been devoured while you forced him to sit through a whole season of Love Island. He would rather not have to relive that experience.

“Come on, Atsumu,” you said, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet. “I want to know what we’re baking.”

With a flourish, Atsumu spun the board around, revealing the task to be ‘realistic cakes.’ You read the name, quickly processing it and beginning to formulate a plan. Your eyes were then drawn to the decoration. To say Atsumu lacked artistic talent would be an understatement.

“What the fuck is that?” you snickered, pointing at an oddly humanoid figure for something which had a tail and pointed ears.

“Looks like he’s just drawn himself in all his glory,” quipped Osamu, leaning forward to admire the drawing. “It really is a great likeness.”

“Shut up, Samu,” grumbled Atsumu. “If I look like a rat, then so do you.”

“It’s supposed to be a rat?” you laughed.

In a huff, he grabbed a cloth from the table and wiped the picture away. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you pushed it away. Though you enjoyed teasing your roommate and best friend’s brother, you had to focus. There was a competition to win.

Now, what to make...

You blocked out the sound of their bickering. Whether Osamu was attempting to use it as a distraction tactic or was simply being annoyed by his brother, you couldn’t let it distract you. After all, you had the crown of star baker to uphold.

Opening the notebook in front of you, you began to sketch down a couple of ideas. There was making the cake look like some other type of food, such as onigiri (which was no doubt where Osamu’s mind had wandered). You supposed you could make it look like your favourite animal but, if you were being honest with yourself, you hardly had the artistic talent for that. Unable to help yourself, your brain wandered back to the idea of food. You supposed you could make it resemble a cookie jar, paying homage to your previous win. Nodding away to yourself, you drafted out your plan and began to bake.

Osamu had already begun with the baking process, having taken less time than you to decide on an idea. Much to his Atsumu’s delight, he had decided to make it look like a volleyball. In terms of flavours, he decided to stick with the classics, figuring that most of the judging would be appearance based. There was also the fact that the last time he had been experimental in his flavourings, he had suffered a crushing defeat.

Silence descended on the kitchen, the both of you too focused to acknowledge Atsumu or shoot teasing comments at each other. Atsumu wasn’t fazed by the silence, deciding to start a live stream to document the event. He approached you first, phone in hand, introducing you before flipping the camera around to capture you in action. You lifted a flour dusted hand and shot the camera a bright smile.

“On a scale of one to I’m going to crush Samu’s ass, how confident do you feel about the win?” he questioned, zooming in on your face. You sent the camera a confident smile, leaning in close and dropping your voice to a whisper.

“Oh, I’m going to win. Though our Samu can make great onigiri, he can’t bake for shit.”

You pulled away from the camera, wafting a hand towards Osamu. “Now, go bother that loser over there. I have washing up and cake assembling to do.”

You turned away from the camera, wiping your hand across your forehead before heading to the sink with an armful of washing up.

You finished wiping down the side as Osamu completed the drying up, putting the last mixing bowl away. Both of you were a mess, flour coating your aprons. Osamu had avoided getting any on his face, something you couldn’t claim for yourself. With a chuckle, he wet a cloth and walked over to you. Grasping your chin with his free hand, he tilted your face, allowing him to clearly see the smear of flour along your brow. Gently, he wiped it away, his touch lingering for a moment before pulling away.

“Thanks, Samu,” you beamed. “Atsumu just laughed at me. Wouldn’t even tell me what I had on my face.”

You slipped your apron off, holding a hand out for his. “I’ll go throw these in the washing basket and then the judging will begin.”

The table was set, both your cakes at opposite ends. Atsumu claimed the role of head judge, claiming he was the most likely to cast an accurate vote as he was the only judge actually physically present. You and Osamu had chosen a judge each, and they were displayed on your phone screens. You had chosen Kita. You weren’t going to lie. It was a tactical move as he had always liked you a bit more than the twins. Osamu had chosen Suna, which wasn’t a massive shock. Though he insisted that he hated being forced to judge these competitions, when he was left out he would become grumpy and ghost you both for a couple of days until you bribed him with food.

“Now,” Atsumu declared, “if you would hand me your phones and leave the room, the judging will commence.”

With a roll of your eyes, you handed your phone over, leaving the room with Osamu beside you. He nudged you gently with his elbow, grabbing your attention. “I actually thought your cake was a real cookie jar for a minute. It looks really good.”

You gave a light shrug, brushing off the compliment. “The icing is a bit sloppy in places. If I’m honest, yours looks so much better. I can think of a few people who would definitely try to set it.”

He flushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. He let out a light chuckle. “Does that mean you forfeit? I’m really looking forward to having control of the TV again.”

“Think again, Samu. I’m not giving up that TV without a fight.”

“The results are in,” announced Atsumu, banging his hands against the table in an imitation of a drum roll.

“If you wanted to be dramatic, you could have used an actual drum roll from youtube,” stated Osamu, drily. “It’s actually amazing what your phone can do when you have the brain to use it.”

Atsumu shot his brother a glare. “For that comment, my vote is changing. Y/N, you now have my full support. That cookie jar is way better than his shitty volleyball... not that it makes a difference anyway.”

Laughing, you elbowed Osamu, shooting him a triumphant look. It was clear you had not heard Atsumu’s muttered comment. “Prepare for another month of trashy TV.”

“Anyway, back to the results,” declared Atsumu. “Winning - unfortunately - with two out of three of the votes... is Osamu.”

You clapped and cheered. “I should have know a volleyball would sway the votes when the judges play the sport.”

You and Osamu were sat on the couch, a film playing on the TV and two slices of cake on both your plates. Relaxing, you lent into him, the plate resting on your lap as you watched the film.

“Damn it. You cake looked good and it tasted good. No wonder you won.”

He shot you a grin, placing his empty plate on the coffee table and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Hey, I’m just happy I get to choose what we watch together for a month.”

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #miya twins x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu fluff #osamu imagine #haikyuu platonic #roommates fic #osamu x you #osamu x y/n

140 notes · View notes

starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Note

Can you do a one-shot where the reader was born in 1996 and she’s the daughter of Nikki Sixx and Brandi Brandt and is the bassist and songwriter of Wallows and is best friends with her bandmates Dylan Minnette, Braeden Lemasters, and Cole Preston and she helps 5sos write songs for the album Calm and starts dating Ashton and the fans go nuts (in the good way) with shipping?

Wallowing

ashton Irwin x wallows!reader / masterlist

warnings; references to sex, swearing, threats

“Come in babe.” You opened the door, inviting your boyfriend Ashton into your flat. He had been having a hard day at the studio, and had asked if it was alright if he came over. Of course it was, but he had got a warning prior to his arrival, that they would not be alone, and that if he wanted to clear his head, it was certainly not the right place.

“Fuck you, you’re supposed to be on my side man!” At the sound of Dylan, yelling at whom you supposed to be Cole, you pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut as you welcomed your partner into your home sweet home. Out of all days, they had to be playing COD in your apartment today.

“Sorry bout that.” A light grimace filled your face, but instead of giving you criticism, Ashton simply laughed, following you through the apartment, as you tried to slowly pass behind your band mates who were occupying your living room.

“Not so fast young Sixx, get your well endowed ass back here.” A sigh fell from your mouth as you rolled your eyes at Braeden, pausing your movements as he turned to lean against the back of your couch to peer over at you. “We need to have a conversation little lady.”

Groaning, you threw your head back, smiling a small apology towards Ash. “We were going to go to my room, I’d rather just you guys play my PS4 without needing to interact with me face to face.”

“Would you rather he FaceTime you whilst you’re getting down and dirty, or stand there like a kid’s doll and allow him to pull at your arm?” Dylan mumbled, as you crossed your arms, Ash greeting your band mates as you moved towards the tv, reaching for the side button and turning it off.

“Y/n what the hell?” Cole half screamed, breaking loose as he was close to finally beating Minette and killing his gamer character. His hands flailed as he expected an answer, raising in the air as he held the remote.

“I could ask you the same thing Preston, so what’s the schtick that’s making you keep me here, in my own apartment?” He gulped as you enquired at him, raising your brow, as you leaned back into your partner who stood awkwardly behind you like a supporting shadow.

“Congrats on the album Irwin, it’s great to see our own band member aiding your band. CALM is sick, and she makes me feel the same, just in a different manner.”

“Stop being a salty little bitch would you?” You asked, smacking him on the upside of the back of his head. He rutted his head back, clasping the behind of his scalp with his palm, firmly turning back to cast an icy glare towards you.

This was the normal behaviour around here, you all enjoyed getting under each other’s skin. It was a sign of true friendship, that whilst sometimes still triggering some real annoyance, that made your bond of being band mates that much deeper.

They were doing the same thing to you now, speaking prolifically showering your boyfriend in compliments, to side swab you with cockblockery. In all honesty, whenever Lydia or another girl was on the premises, you returned the favour, though that did not your pulsating frustration decrease at all.

“I’m going to assume there’s a problem here. Are you sure now is a good time for me to be here?” Ash asked reassuringly, his gentle touch applying a loving presence upon your shoulder, making you smile despite the situation that was running through the discourse of your veins

You craved him, to feel his body atop, or under, or however else against your own. It was infuriating to endure how your band mates dragged their greeting to him out, all you wanted was to discard his and your own clothing, leaving it as a jumble of forgotten material on the floor whilst the pair of you were caught up in mess upon the mattress, limbs inclined to coil around each arch, and breaths long overdue and escaping into the air.

“It’s a good time for you overall pal, considering that your sales are sky high, taller than this one that is practically trying to hump your arm. No problems with your presence, except the fact that it’s turning little Brandi’s baby’s hormones into overdrive.” Braeden spoke, earning a guttural growl out from your throat, as your nostrils flared furiously at his words.

If you didn’t get on with it, then the Red Sea of the month would cause a flood that would stain your underwear. You’d have preferred to take action before that happened. “The work isn’t just on my shoulders loser, if you want a worldwide selling album, put in some elbow grease, instead of playing stupid games.”

“I’m good, and by definition that makes you stupid, because they belong to you.” He remarked, Cole chuckling and offering him a high five.

“I could just kick you out.” You promptly supposed, as Dylan messed around with his phone, surrendering to the game, as he ran his hand to define the ruggedness of his silvery blue locks.

“Band rules say no to that.” Braeden stated. “And Ash, feel free to replace this one, we could do a switch. You’re basically ready to move in together, so we wouldn’t have to go anywhere else to have rapid fire nights.”

“Do I even want to know what that is?” Your boyfriend asked, and you, without any thought or hesitancy, shook your head. He certainly didn’t need to know about that, it was, least to say, a mess.

There would be dares, and drinks, and tattoos put in the most awkward places with that artist set that you kept very far under your bed. It was a shock that Ashton hadn’t seen the word ‘narwhale’ on the heel of your foot, or maybe he did, and decided against saying anything.

“I put up with these idiots.” Dylan sighed, though as you whipped your head around, you saw that he was not speaking directly to any of you, instead, his

“He’s on fucking insta live.” Cole realised, leaving over to get his face in the mirroring of the stream, waving a hand to the fans that spewed hearts onto the corner of the screen.

“Prick.” You called Dylan out, watching as he laughed at your lack of amusement, and poised the self proclaimed camera towards you, also catching the person beside you in the view.

“Calm.” Ashton softly spoke, sending you a small and reassuring smile, which you were defeated to not permit the same in return

“Funny pun Irwin, but shut up.” You laughed, and shook your head, him finally catching onto what he had said.

“Yes that is the incredibly talented 5SOS member Ashton Irwin. I know right, what is he doing with us?” Cole read, watching as Dylan rolled his eyes at his band member’s behaviour, wanting to get his phone back, though his attempts were lacklustre.

“Or more specifically, her?” Braeden asks, walking behind the sofa and grasping him, dragging him closer to where the phone was propped in Cole’s hand, giving the fans a clear image of his face. “Is he joining the band?” He reads from the flood of comments. “I wish, but we don’t draw that much talent.

“Speak for yourself.” You groaned, walking closer, leaning your head over Ash’s hunched shoulder, releasing an awkward smile as he raised it, gently bumping your chin with the slope of his muscle. “Rude.”

“Where are you guys? Well, we’re at y/n’s apartment. She just got back and dragged this old slugger in off the streets. How charitable.” Cole spoke, smiling up at Irwin as he lightly punched his face, already too comfortable with his hovering presence.

“Why is he there? This one makes me laugh, quick shag, ain’t that right buddy?” Braeden thoughtlessly worded, his eyes going wide in an instant as the fans quickly tended to the realisation of what he had meant. “Fuck, oops I guess.”

To say that you were furious was an understatement; you could feel an ache in your hands, wanting to tear the idiot into dismal pieces until there was nothing salvageable left to fix.

“You guess?” Dylan snickers, covering his mouth with his hand whence he saw your murderous expression conquer features. It was vastly more terrifying than any anger you had ever portrayed, and he could feel the couch moving as Braeden turned, and squirmed from the sight.

“Lemasters, imagine your head on a stick. That is going to happen, when I get my hands on you, your gonna turn cold as I strangle the living shit outta-“ Ashton grabbed you, as your arms tried to grasp and throttle your band mate, flopping in the air, intently furious at his revealing slip up.

“I think imma go.” He bolted, and as you struggled out of Ashton’s grip, you ran after him, out your front door and through the modesty of your building.

“She forgot her key.” Ashton noted, coming around and sitting with the remaining pair on the sofa. “How one of you think it’ll take for them to return?”

“As long as it takes for her to kill him.” Dylan grasps his phone back, fluttering his gaze over the comments. “They’re kinda cute together, found my new OTP. Sorry Dylan and Lydia. Oh don’t worry, that’s fine, we gotta take what we get and currently y/n’s not getting any because we have a tendency to cockblock her.”

“It’s our duty as the men of the band.” Cole spoke, a scream reverberating through from the hallway, audible to those online that were watching the two worlds merging.

“I think she got him.” Ash said, smirking lightly, as he heard your voice bellow out in rage against the male. Yep, your band was messy, but his wasn’t much different. He could certainly get used to it.

#ashton irwin x you #ashton irwin x reader #ashton irwin fluff #ashton imagine #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin one shot #ashton irwin fic #ashton fanfiction #ashton fluff #ashton irwin x y/n #5sos x reader #5sos au #5sos imagines #5sos one shot #5sos imgaines #5sos imagine #5sos x you #5sos x oc #5sos fic

133 notes · View notes

hookedonapirate · 4 years

Text

Figure of Speech

Summary: Killian has been in love with Emma Swan ever since he was eleven and she was his babysitter. The last time he saw her was the day he kissed her, thinking they were having a special moment… right before she headed off to college with her boyfriend.

When their paths cross years later, he’s just happy she remembers him—because while he’s a talented, free-spirited journalist who takes risks and has a knack for finding trouble, Emma is an accomplished and sophisticated politician who’s planning to run for President of the United States.

Sensing Killian Jones—the boy who once knew her and supported her long before she entered the soul-sucking world of politics—is the key to unlocking a part of herself that’s been dormant for so long, she hires him as her speechwriter. As she travels the world to launch her 2020 presidential campaign, he is by her side, helping Emma find her voice again.

The attraction between them sizzles, but when they eventually give into it, will their relationship withstand the demands of the election and scrutiny of the public?

A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for beta reading and @onceuponaprincessworld for your help with this! Thank you @captainswanmoviemarathon for starting the event and everyone on discord for all your help!

Before you read, there are a few things I want to clarify.

First off, this story is heavily based on the movie, Long Shot, for the Captain Swan Movie Marathon, with some elements of OUAT weaved in. What I’m referring to mainly is that the president in this fic is in no way based on President Trump. In other words, I am not using this fic to bash the current U.S. president in any shape or form, or any other real-life president. So if you plan on going into this with that mindset, I beg you to hit the back button right now. This story in no way reflects my opinions or views, I mainly stuck to the plot of the movie.

Secondly, I hope that I have made it perfectly clear in the beginning scene of this chapter that Killian is not actually a white supremacist, he is only going undercover to get his story. Nor is he Jewish like Fred Flarsky is in the movie. He’s the Killian we all know and love. So please don’t send me hate messages accusing me of either being a racist or writing Killian as one. I was very torn whether to include this scene or not but I feel it is relevant to the plot and shows Killian’s character in this story as very passionate about what he believes in and is a big risktaker when getting his point across, so I decided to keep it.

Third of all, I know some of you are sick of hearing about politics, especially since the U.S. election is so close. But this is not a political movie, it’s a romance. There is of course some talk of politics, but I’ve tried my best to keep it to a minimum. So if you’re worried about that, please don’t be. The movie genre is a romantic comedy.

Writing this fic was a huge wake-up call for me because it’s the first one in a while that I’m not proud of, for lack of a better word, because I have not been able to spend much time on it. I have so many wips in my docs it’s not even funny and I think that has really impacted how this chapter turned out. But because of this fic, I decided to take some time and work on finishing some of my wips before posting them, with the exception of this one because today is my posting date.

With that said, because I’ve been pushing myself to finish my wips, I finished writing my first original novel after working on it for two years, and I will be publishing it soon. So be sure to look out for Follow My Lead, a romance about a former ballerina and a gym owner.

Okay, now I am done with my rant, so please enjoy!

AO3 FF.N

Rated: M

2018

“So you guys are fairly active on social media, right?”

“Yeah,” Jaxon answers absentmindedly, his eyes focused on the cue ball as he lines up the shot.

“How many times a day would you say you Tweet on average?”

Jaxon taps the ball, sends it into its pocket, and high-fives Marcus, ignoring the question.

“Hey Rogers, ready to get a Swastika tattoo?!” Richard calls from the other room as the tattoo artist is finishing up with him.

“No, that’s okay, I’m cool,” Killian replies nonchalantly through the large lump in his throat, glad his British accent didn’t leak out as he takes his turn.

“Oh, come on, man, we’ve all got ‘em!”

Killian gulps and looks around the room, all the members pulling up their shirts to show their tattoos on the left side of their chest. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but he can sense Jaxon is already suspicious of his motives. He forces a small smile, pointing to himself with his free hand as he holds up the cue stick in the other one. “You want me to get a swastika tattoo?”

“Yeah!” the group chants in unison.

“Then I’ll get a swastika tattoo,” he agrees submissively, hoping the anxiety he feels isn’t clear in his voice. He removes his leather jacket, or rather the jacket he borrowed from Victor, depositing it in a chair before he walks into the adjacent room where the tattoo artist is waiting for him. He sits in the parlor chair, his stomach twisted in knots as he chooses his left bicep for the tattoo and cringes at the thought of getting it. He’s never gotten a tattoo before, and not only is he afraid of needles, but his beliefs don’t at all resemble anything a swastika symbol resembles. Tattoos are removable, though, right?

When the needle pierces his skin, he pinches his eyelids shut and yelps, “Blo-ooooody he-eeeell!” He realizes his mistake immediately when the words screech out in his thick, British accent. Plus, bloody hell isn’t exactly an American phrase.

He’s praying no one noticed, because if they did, they would know he’s lying about who he claims to be, but when he flips his eyelids open, everyone’s staring at him.

Fuck.

Jaxon, the leader of the group, enters the room with Killian’s jacket in one hand and wallet in the other, raising it for everyone to see Killian’s driver’s license. His heart flitters with panic. “Look at this. He’s been lying to us. His name isn’t John Rogers,” Jaxon announces angrily. Marcus appears next to him, holding up his laptop. On the screen is the Storybrooke Advocate website with Killian’s profile pic on the page. “It’s Killian Jones. He works for the Storybrooke Advocate! He’s a fucking journalist!”

“Wait, wait, wait, I can explain!” Killian pleads, raising his hands in surrender.

The members circle him like sharks, and everything becomes a blur as they yank him from the chair and slam him against a table.

“What are you doing, trying to fucking embarrass us, huh?!” Jaxon screams at him. “Who sent you?!”

“No one sent me!” Killian claims adamantly, fear and pain crippling him as he tries to think his way out of this. “I was just…”

Before he can finish his sentence, Marcus reaches into Killian’s jeans pocket as the others hold him down, and pulls out his phone. Which is currently recording everything. “He’s been recording us this entire time!”

Jaxon’s face is red with anger, steam practically emitting from his ears as he grits his teeth and fists Killian’s shirt in a vice-like grip, pulling him so close that Killian smells his wretched breath. “You infiltrated our group! You’re gonna fucking die!”

They say your life flashes before your eyes during your very last moments. They say it’s like reliving every moment that’s ever stuck with you—every moment that’s ever made an impression on you. Killian always thought when he was finally shuffled off to sleep with the fishes, his life would appear in sequence or at least in random order, featuring all the people who have played a vital role in his life—his parents, his brother, his best friend—but he never thought one person would stick in his mind. He never thought all the images flashing before his eyes would be of one person and one person only.

The woman he’s been in love with since he was eleven years old.

Killian remembers when he first fell in love with her like it were yesterday. Or at least an eleven-year-old boy’s version of love. He remembers the song, It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday by Boyz II Men, was playing on the boombox. He remembers what day it was, what he was wearing and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. He remembers thinking about one of his favorite movies, The Sandlot, how Squints tricked the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, into kissing him and how she eventually married him even though she was older and way out of his league.

Back then, a three or four year age gap seemed like a huge deal, but maybe because he was so young and she was… well she was so grown up and mature and very beautiful for her age. Not Wendy Peffercorn. Well, he supposes Wendy was too, but Killian had his real-life version of the movie character. His version of her was also blonde. She may not have been a lifeguard, but she was his next-door neighbor and also his babysitter ever since his brother left to join the Navy. Killian’s bedroom had an excellent view of her backyard and he would occasionally watch her sunbathing by the pool as she listened to music on her headphones or read a book in her bikini. Not only did she have a beautiful body, but she was wicked smart. She was passionate about the environment and the things she cared about. She was super nice to him—which went a long way with him—and had a ridiculously cute, dimpled smile. She was perfect. An angel.

Maybe that’s why, right before his death, she’s the only one he sees.

Before he met her, he never considered kissing a girl, or even liking one for that matter. He thought girls were gross and had cooties. But Emma was no girl. Not even at fifteen. She was a woman.

Emma Swan was his Wendy Peffercorn.

She still is. Even as he’s being threatened by a group of angry white supremacists.

She’s all he sees.

“Did you know that every year, the school throws away over five hundred tons of recyclable garbage? And no one cares!”

“Aye, it’s rubbish. But how do you get muppets to care about stuff they don’t care about?”

Emma shrugs. “They’ll just…” She bites her bottom lip, hesitance etching her features, “they’ll just c-care because it’s the right thing to care about.” She may not have all the answers, but she’s the most inspiring person he knows.

He smiles and rests one elbow on the counter, his chin perched in his hand as he admires her passion for the environment. He admires how beautiful she is in simply a snug pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a picture of a buttercup on the front. He admires her waist-length, golden hair, how it glows radiantly in the sunlight cascading through the kitchen window and how it swishes from side to side when she turns around to grab a mitt and pull the pizza out of the oven. Delicious aromas of crisp, baked bread, melted mozzarella cheese and sweet tomato sauce waft through the kitchen, making his stomach growl. Licking his lips, he jumps off the stool and heads over to grab a slice from the pan.

She gently swats his hand away. “Don’t touch, kid, you’ll burn yourself. Let it cool, first.”

He frowns as he returns to his seat. He hates it when she calls him that. He doesn’t want her to think of him as a kid; he’s almost a teenager! Heeding her warning, he does his best to resist the temptation of getting up again and grabbing a slice, even though the gooey, golden cheese, colorful toppings and toasted crust look amazing. Instead, he places the hand she’d touched on his cheek. He never wants to wash his hand or his cheek ever again.

Emma continues the speech she’d prepared for her Student Council election. She’s running for president, and he is not only her biggest supporter, but he also came up with her campaign slogan, ‘Stay calm and vote for Swan’. He was quite proud of himself when she actually thought it was clever enough to use.

“I would definitely vote for you, Swan.”

“Thanks, Killy,” she says, ruffling a hand through his hair.

Now that’s a better nickname. Though he hates when his brother calls him Killy, he never minds when Emma does.

Once the pizza is cool enough to eat, Emma returns to the oven, using a pizza cutter on the pie. She plates two big slices, one for each of them, and brings them to the counter, sitting next to him. They eat their pizza in silence at first, besides the yummy food noises they make.

“Thanks for helping me. I know it’s probably boring hearing my speech over and over again.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all,” he mumbles through a mouth full of pizza. “I’m just happy to help,” he smiles. His hand pauses midair, still holding his half-eaten slice of pizza as he locks eyes with his beautiful babysitter. He wonders if she feels the same way he does, and normally he wouldn’t think it was possible, but the way she’s looking at him right now makes him rethink everything.

She reaches out to him, and he closes his eyes as she caresses his cheek. His heart slams against his chest and he loses all the air from his lungs. And that’s when he knows he’s totally and completely in love. Her hand feels so wonderfully warm, he wants to spend the rest of his life feeling her touch and immediately gets a chill when she pulls her hand away.

“All better.”

His eyes flip open to see Emma wiping her hand with a napkin. She looks up at him and smiles. “You had some sauce on your face.”

He chuckles on the outside, but internally he’s berating himself for being foolish enough to think someone like Emma Swan could possibly like him. She’s way too good for him.

Especially when he’s thirteen and has to wear glasses. As if hitting puberty isn’t bad enough, he also has to sport the most hideous pair of thick-framed glasses. By then, his father said he was too old to have a babysitter, so he didn’t get to see Emma as much. He mowed the Swans’ lawn occasionally, but she was gone most of the time with extracurricular activities and prepping for college. He convinced himself she could never be into someone like him. Someone who was nerdy and awkward and four years her junior.

Until one day when he’s fourteen and she’s eighteen.

She’s leaving for college and he’s been in his room sulking while listening to It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye for two weeks, not looking forward to her departure. He’s afraid he’ll never see her again. But he’s also happy for her. She’s off to better and greater things, greener pastures as they say. She’s going to Harvard and leaving him in the dust.

He’s on the front porch, sitting on the top step, his chin in his hands and his elbows propped up on his knees as he watches Emma and her parents packing up her things. He wants to offer his assistance, but this seems like a very important bonding moment for the three of them and he doesn’t wish to interrupt. He can tell Mr. and Mrs. Swan are both incredibly sad but also very proud of their daughter, and there are lots of hugs and tears by the time the car is packed. Then Emma says something to her parents and they wave at Killian. He smiles and waves back before they head inside.

Emma walks over to him, and he immediately stands up, making his way down the remaining steps.

“Hey,” she murmurs, smiling at him.

“Hey,” he parrots, offering a small smile. “So, you’re all packed?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving soon.”

Nodding nervously, he scratches behind his ear as he looks away, not sure what to say.

“Look, I’m not a goodbye person, but — ”

“Let’s not say goodbye then,” he suggests and offers his hand. But instead of shaking it, she throws her arms around him. Killian’s stunned, and can’t even move at first, completely paralyzed in her embrace.

Emma’s hugging him.

He slowly molds into her body, his arms wrapping around her waist as she tightens her hold. Her hair smells like strawberries and cream as he buries his face there. He never wants to let her go.

“I’ll miss you, Killian,” she whispers in his ear.

His heart does a little somersault, and he whispers, “Not a day will go by when I won’t think of you.”

He feels her smile against his neck. “Good.”

That one simple word does something to him and he grins into her hair, holding her tighter.

She breaks the hug long before he’s ready, and he’s still awestruck as she leans in to kiss him.

Bloody hell.

Emma Swan leans in for a kiss as he springs forward to meet her halfway. Their lips finally connect like they had so many times in his dreams, but he doesn’t fail to miss how surprised she is when a gasp escapes against his mouth. She doesn’t pull away, but he knows he probably should after realizing she was actually going for his cheek. But her lips are so soft and warm and taste like cinnamon and cocoa, and he swears they move ever so slightly against his. He still has his arms around her, pressing her to him, and her center suddenly moves away from him. Forcing himself to break the kiss, he looks down and notices the very prominent and very hard erection tenting his pants.

Fuck.

His cheeks are on fire as he looks up, apology and embarrassment flushing his face. He’s expecting her to either slap him or storm away and never look back, but she stares down at his groin, her mouth agape.

“Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, love.”

“It’s okay,” Emma squeaks as her eyes snap up to his.

Just then, a ‘69 Ford Mustang pulls up in front of Emma’s house, the music booming through the speakers at an obnoxious volume.

He panics when Emma’s boyfriend gets out of the car and makes his way over to them. Killian forgot Neal was riding with Emma to Harvard, where he was certainly not attending. Neal could only get into a community college.

Killian quickly pulls off the backward baseball cap from his head and uses it to cover his obvious boner.

“Hey, babe, ready to go?”

She nods and looks at Killian, a small smile tilting her lips.

“Bye, four-eyes,” Neal taunts with a condescending sneer as he wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulders.

Really?

Killian bites his tongue as he rolls his eyes. That nickname really gets old. Can’t he think of something more original?

“Don’t call him that,” Emma scolds her boyfriend, swatting his chest. “He has a name.”

“Sorry, I mean Killian,” he says insincerely before turning around and pulling Emma with him.

As Killian watches them walk away, pushing up the bridge of his glasses with his finger, he would give anything to be the one with his arm around Emma, the one leaving with her instead of being the one she leaves. She cranes her neck to look at him as she walks away. He swears she’s looking at him longingly but he’s sure he’s only imagining it. She’s still gazing at him until her parents emerge from the house. Neal doesn’t even have the courtesy to open the door to her parents’ station wagon for her, and instead hurries into the back seat.

Arsehole, Killian thinks bitterly as he watches the vehicle pull away from the curb. Emma stares at him through the passenger’s window, and their eyes connect. He flashes one last smile and waves. She smiles back at him and presses her palm to the window before she disappears down the road and out of his life, leaving a permanent gaping hole in his heart.

He always thought not being able to see Emma anymore was the scariest thing he’s ever experienced. But that was before he was inked with part of a swastika tattoo so his cover wouldn’t be blown. That was before he fell from a two-story building and landed in a dumpster. Luckily the trash bags cushioned his fall and didn’t contain any glass or other sharp objects. He hadn’t really thought that through when he jumped. But then again, he didn’t really have time to do anything but run for his life while Marcus and Jaxon were busy trying to figure out how to stop Killian’s phone from recording. Killian took advantage of the distraction and plucked the phone from their hands, sprinting for the nearby window.

His phone.

Killian quickly lifts his hand to see that not only is his phone still in his hand but it’s still intact. He climbs out of the dumpster, his entire body sore, but he lands on his feet. He’d left his leather jacket up there, but it wasn’t even his. Killian doesn’t wear leather jackets, he’s content with his hoodies. He borrowed the jacket from his best friend, Victor. He’ll be pissed, but oh well, Killian will buy him a new one.

Three of the members are poking their heads out the window and Killian looks up at them, throwing the hand that’s still holding his phone in the air. He feels like Bennie in The Sandlot when he finally gets the baseball from the beast and hurdles the fence, still holding onto the ball. The difference is the beast chased Bennie down. The difference is the beast in the movie was not actually a beast at all. He can’t say the same about those white supremacists, though.

“We trusted you, man!” Richard calls out. He’s the one Killian had contacted through one of their social media groups.

“Sorry, mate,” he says in his British accent, his words lacking any sort of apology as he spins around. “Peace!” he calls behind him trying to sound as American as he can, and instead of saluting the members with two fingers, which is not a peace sign for Brits, he flips them the bird as he goes.

∞∞∞

“Tonight on Walsh News, we take an in-depth look at Emma Swan, a Rhodes Scholar, a Pulitzer Prize winner and a protégé of President Gold who tapped Swan two years ago to be the youngest Secretary of State in the history of this nation.”

As sore as Killian is from that jump out of a two-story window and as much as he hates that arsehole, Walsh, and everything the media mongrel represents, he lifts his eyes from his MacBook. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and manages a small smile when he sees Emma on the television screen. He knows what he’d done to write his article and expose the White Power group was worth it. He may have lost faith in humanity long ago, but Emma’s passion and ambition and hope have always stuck with him. He wants to believe the support he’d always shown her when they were young has always stuck with her too, but he doubts it. She doesn’t need his support. She never did. She was never a helpless duckling, and even after she lost the student council election to August Booth because of his stupid two prom platform, her wounds healed and she eventually spread her wings and soared high in the sky, leaving Storybooke in the dust.

As Killian gazes at her wistfully at the screen, he sees the elegant swan he always knew she’d become. While everyone he knows had hopes and dreams they gave up on long ago, Emma is the one person who made hers come true. Well, not quite all of them. She always talked about saving the planet, but he knows her work isn’t nearly finished. She’s only thirty-seven, and even though they haven’t spoken to one another since the day he watched her ride away in her parents’ 1987 Pontiac Safari Station Wagon, he still believes in her. He’ll always believe in her.

∞∞∞

Emma sucks in a deep breath as she twists the knob and opens the thick, wooden door, entering the Oval Office with a little bit of forced enthusiasm. President Gold had been vague over the phone about what he’d wished to discuss with her, but his tone of voice indicated it might be something big. “Good morning Mr. President,” she greets with the smile she had practiced in her bedroom mirror repeatedly that morning.

“Hello, Ms. Swan.” He rises from his chair and rounds the desk, gesturing to one of the couches. “Please, have a seat.”

She sits down and crosses her legs, folding her hands in her lap as he sits on the couch across from her and rests his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Swan…”

“Yes, sir?”

He blows out a long breath as if whatever he’s about to tell her has been weighing on his mind for quite some time. “I will not be seeking re-election.”

Emma’s sure the awestruck expression on her face doesn’t even come close to how surprised she actually is. “Really?” Did she hear him correctly?

He nods, clapping his hands together. “Look, I know how absurd it sounds seeing as I’m only halfway through my first term—”

“And you’re incredibly popular, sir.” But she knows most of his popularity stems from being a television star before he took office. He hosted the popular game show, Let’s Strike a Deal.

“And I’m going to use that popularity to transition into something more prestigious than the presidency. I wanna make it in the movies.”

Emma blinks, not believing what she’s hearing. She opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to process this. “Yoooouuuu… want to leave… the presidency… to be a movie star?”

“I know it’s tough to make the leap from television to film, but I think I’m going to give it a shot.”

After the initial shock washes over her, she sees this as an opportunity. She had planned on running for president in 2024, but with Gold leaving office at the end of his first term, perhaps she can use this to her advantage. And she knows just how to go about it. Gold may be good at convincing people—he is an actor after all—but Emma not only has far more education than him, her extensive political background has helped her greatly improve her cajolery tactics over the years. After she lost the Student Council election to August Booth in high school, she’s learned that in order to get ahead, sometimes you have to use a little sleight of hand to get there—give the people what they want, so to speak. Or, in this case, help Gold realize just how legendary his presidency could be.

“Mr. President, have you given any consideration as to whom you might endorse? I’m sure you’re probably thinking of Yang or Crowley. Sound choices,” she nods and purses her lips, averting her gaze, a look of contemplation on her face. “It’s so strange because I was considering a run in 2024, and I can’t stop wondering what…” she looks at Gold again, “what it would do for your legacy to endorse the first female president. I mean, wow. ” The word is breathy, almost a whisper. “Now that’s a legacy.”

Gold presses his joined hands to his lips and has a thoughtful expression embedded in his features, but she can’t discern what he’s thinking.

She looks at the floor between them while he ponders her words.

“Emma?” he finally says after a moment.

“Hmm?” She reverts her eyes to him.

“I would like to endorse you to be the next President of the United States.”

Her entire body is thrumming with excitement and her stomach is full of butterflies; she doesn’t even care he said it like it was his idea. She’ll even give him credit for it. Besides, trying to convince him otherwise would be like trying to teach a fish how to bark. She closes her eyes and refrains from jumping up and down on the couch. She opens her eyes again, trying to hide the excitement in her voice but fails, her tone coming out unusually high pitched. “I mean, if you think that’s a good idea, sir, I trust you completely. I’d be… I’d be honored.”

He reclines back, wagging a finger at her. “I’ll be pulling for Team Emma. Because you’ve been a great secretary.”

“Of State,” she adds.

“Whatever. You’ve done it well, Dearie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So stay focused. Don’t make any major screw-ups. Don’t kill anyone. That’s probably not a problem for you. I don’t know what you’re into. Whatever. And before you know it…” He rises from the couch and hums the US Presidential Anthem.

“I like the sound of that,” Emma says with a jubilant smile as she stands up.

“Hey here she comes, it’s the first lady president,” he chants.

“Thank you, sir.” She heads for the door, Gold following behind her still singing.

“Who can believe she is actually a woman. She’s got a big brain and a couple other assets.”

Emma opens the door and walks through, not even giving another thought to how incredibly sexist Gold is being. She’s floating high on a cloud as she sashays proudly down the hall and raises a subtle victory fist in the air, whispering to herself, “Yessss!”

∞∞∞

“You’re gonna love this,” Killian raves as he hands the piece to his boss. “I almost died for this.”

Sidney lowers the mug from his lips, swallowing his coffee down. He offers a tightlipped smile as he glances very briefly at the draft before looking up at Killian, a serious expression clouding his face. “Got a second?”

“Of course.”

“Come with me.”

Killian follows Sydney into his office and sits across from him at the desk, setting his satchel on the floor.

Sydney sets down Killian’s article and his coffee mug, folding his hands together on the desk. “I have some great news, Killian. We’ve just been bought by Walsh Media.”

Killian pales and his stomach drops. “What?!” Blood bubbles under his skin at the thought of the wanker buying the Storybrooke Advocate. The thought of him owning something Killian has literally put his blood, sweat and tears into. “Bloody hell. Are you fucking kidding me?!” Ever since he was a kid, he’s dreamed of being an investigative journalist, so he’s been nothing but loyal and dedicated to the company from day one. But in the blink of an eye, Walsh has managed to ruin all that for him.

“Look, I knew you would have a poor reaction—”

“A poor reaction?!”

“Killian, this is a good thing.”

“How?! That wanker represents everything we’ve been fighting against since day one. The whole point of this paper is to fight giant media conglomerates. Now we’ve been bought by a giant media conglomerate.”

“I see the irony,” Sydney nods.

“Irony?!” Killian stands from his chair, his voice growing louder with every word. “He’s going to turn us into a giant propaganda machine! And not the good kind!” Anger pulsates through him as he paces back and forth in front of Sidney’s desk; he’s never been this worked up before in his entire life. And that’s saying something for him.

“Killian, we’re running out of options. We’ve been running as long as we can on ads for weed doctors and escorts.”

Killian stops in his tracks and raises his hands in the air. “Then run penis enlargement ads or something!”

“Come on, Killian,” Sydney admonishes.

He sighs in exasperation, trying to calm down, his voice calmer. “This Walsh guy ran fake stories to get Gold elected.”

Sydney shakes his head and raises a finger at him. “No, they couldn’t prove that.”

“We proved it!” He holds up three fingers. “I wrote three articles about it. You published them!”

Sydney nods, lowering his face into the palm of his hand. “I did.”

“The shite that comes out of this guy’s mouth? He said same-sex marriage caused tornadoes! He represents everything that’s wrong with this country!”

“Killian, it’s done, alright?”

He freezes. “It’s done?!”

“They’re upstairs, finalizing the deal right now.”

Killian presses the pads of his fingers to his temples and turns away from his boss as he tries to process this.

Sydney stands and rounds his desk, sitting on the edge, pleading with him. “Look, we have to cut two-thirds of our staff.”

Killian turns around, devastation in his features. “Two-thirds?”

“Yes. But we want to keep you on. They want to keep you on. It’s just,” he blows out a hesitant breath, “you just have to tone it down a little bit.”

Killian furrows his brows in bewilderment. “I don’t know how I can tone things down any more than I’m toning them down, mate,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“Okay look, Killian, you’re a brilliant writer…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re funny, you take risks, you connect with people…”

Killian’s brows pinch in suspicion. “Why am I sensing there’s a big but coming?”

“You have a distinct, authentic voice… but… ”

“And there it is…” he sighs.

“But, sometimes you’re a little too much.”

Killian is taken aback. “I don’t think I am too much. I actually think I’m the perfect portion,” he says defensively.

“Look, you have your job, so focus on that and just toe the line a little bit.”

Killian is enraged. Toe the line a little bit?! He’s not toeing any lines. “I quit.”

Sydney’s face twists with a mixture of shock and disappointment. “Oh, come on, Killian…”

“You should quit, too. Everyone should bloody well quit.”

“No, I’m not quitting, I need my job.”

“I need my job too. I’m broke. But I can’t work for that tosser.”

Sydney sighs. “At least let me fire you so you can collect unemployment.”

Killian slices a hand through the air over his chest. “No bloody way! I want nothing from him. Besides, I want him to know I quit.”

“He’ll never know it, he’s never heard of you. You’re going to destroy your life to spite a guy who’s never heard of you?”

“Yes! You said it best! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Fuck this.” Killian grabs his satchel and walks out of Sydney’s office, closing the door behind him, announcing to all his former coworkers, “Journalism died today, people!”

∞∞∞

“So the headline is, you’re in great shape,” Mary Margaret, the polling team manager, points out as she displays the next presentation slide.

Emma’s sitting at the meeting table between her Chief of Staff, Regina Mills, and Deputy Chief of Staff, Robin Locksley, trying to follow along with the presentation, but it’s difficult for Emma to focus when her stomach is full of butterflies. She still can’t believe she persuaded Gold to endorse her. Her head is spinning.

“Ninety-two percent, that’s good,” Regina comments.

“It’s very good,” Mary Margaret agrees exuberantly and moves on to the next slide, which shows Emma’s personality traits and how they were ranked. “Your sense of humor is eighty-two, which is solid.” Mary Margaret cocks her head to the side, as though she has to rethink that assessment. “It’s solid, but we wouldn’t mind seeing that number go up a few points… or more.”

Regina leans in to speak to Emma as she takes notes. “I’ll get some writing samples from some funny speechwriters.”

Emma sets her pen down and smiles. “Thanks, Regina.” She rests her elbows on the table, clasping her hands together as she reverts her attention to Mary Margaret and says, “But I’m really interested in knowing how people feel about my accomplishments.”

“Right, so we don’t drill down on specific policies, and that’s only because people don’t seem to care.”

Well, that’s a blow to the gut.

“With that said, if you could broker a deal that gets you out there talking about something you feel strongly about, that would be really great.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Emma says enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of her chair. “We’ve been looking for an opening to start a conversation about the environment.”

“That sounds great,” Mary Margaret says with a grin, but Emma’s not sure if she’s being sarcastic and trying to hold back a laugh, or if she’s being sincere. “Now, if I may, onto your romantic life…” The brunette shows a photo of Emma and Graham Humbert smiling for the camera.

Emma refrains from rolling her eyes as she rests her chin in her palm. She doesn’t have a romantic life. One make-out session with a world leader she barely knows doesn’t constitute a romance.

However, the way Mary Margaret gushes as she looks at the couple in the photo, one would think they were actually a couple. “Remember the stir online when you and the Canadian Prime Minister were seated next to each other at the Global Business Forum?”

Emma nods, wishing she were taking a nap right now. She doesn’t care about improving her personality traits or starting a romance that will raise her numbers and appease the public. Although she is quite proud of her two highest scores, elegance and charisma, both ranked at over ninety-five percent.

“A relationship like that,” Mary Margaret points to the photo of Emma and Graham, “could push you into the high nineties.”

“High nineties? Wow,” Regina murmurs to herself, making note of it.

“That brings us to…” Mary Margaret switches to the next slide, showing Emma’s wave.

She knits her brows in confusion. “What’s wrong with my wave?”

“That kind of elbow movement is um…” Mary Margaret purses her lips as though she’s trying to figure out how to put it delicately, but then gives up, “well, it stresses people out.”

“You know what? It’s just an area of improvement,” Robin assures Emma after sensing the offended tone in her voice.

She supposes the movement in her elbow is a bit too much. It makes her look like a robot actually. “Fine, I’ll work on the wave.”

∞∞∞

“I’m not going to a fancy rich person party,” Killian declares after Victor proposed going to the World Wildlife Fund benefit in Philly tonight. Killian had shared the details with Victor and now they’re walking down Main Street discussing their plans for the evening. But Killian thought Vic was trying to make him feel better. Going to a fancy, rich person party will only remind Killian how rich he is not. He had something else in mind, something involving the closest bar and lots and lots of rum.

“Oh, come on, Jones. Don’t be so judgemental. There will be free booze and pandas and shit. People love pandas and shit.”

Killian shakes his head. “I just lost my job, I’m not really in the mood to mingle.”

“Fine, just sit at home and do nothing. Don’t hang out with your best friend and Boyz II Men.”

Killian’s ears perk up and he stops in his tracks. “Boyz II Men will be there?”

Victor stops walking and turns around, nodding. “Yep. They’re bringing their timeless blend of R&B and hip hop to the party. The fancy rich party doesn’t sound so bad after all, now does it?”

Not at all. He used to listen to Boyz II Men and other popular musicians in the nineties. But mostly Boyz II Men because it’s what he and Emma would listen to when she was over at his house babysitting him. He didn’t know Victor then; they met in college before Victor went off to medical school, but they have similar tastes in music. Which is how Victor knew exactly how to persuade Killian into going to a fancy, rich person party. “Okay, I’m in, mate.”

“That’s the spirit!” Victor pats Killian on the shoulder, and they walk again as Victor sings Motownphilly.

∞∞∞

“I’m starving. Why didn’t you power bar me?” Emma asks Robin as they make their way down the staircase, Regina and her Secret Service agents following behind them.

The Grand Room glitters like something out of a fairy tale, all candlelight and crystal chandeliers and gilt and sophisticated shine. The attendees glitter, the women dripping in diamonds and other precious stones and the men donning suits and black ties.

“I tried to, but you pushed my hand away,” Robin chuckles.

“Hopefully they don’t have skewered foods. I can’t eat skewered foods gracefully; I always look like a fucking cavewoman.”

“And there are cameras everywhere.” Regina points at a dutiful photographer who’s unobtrusively circling the perimeter of the room, taking pictures of as many of the guests as he can. “That would hurt your elegance score.”

“That’s my best score.”

When they reach the buffet table, Emma’s relieved to find that not all the food is on skewers. But even so, she’s so hungry, she may still look like a cavewoman trying to stuff as much food into her mouth as she can. “Cover me?”

“Of course.”

Regina and Robin both stand behind her like walls as Emma makes her first selection, grabbing a saucy meatball on a toothpick and bringing it to her mouth, being careful not to drip any sauce on her black dress.

“Oh my god, these meatballs are really good,” Emma mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Graham Humbert is approaching,” Regina warns her. “He’s about nine feet away.”

“Shit,” Emma whispers and shoves another meatball into her mouth before wiping her lips and chin with a napkin. After swallowing it down and discarding the napkin, she spins around, offering a bright smile.

When Graham approaches her, giving her a once over, Regina and Robin disperse.

“Graham… how are you?”

“Good evening.” His lips twitch in a pleased smile as he takes Emma’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I am so sorry I missed you at the White House a few weeks ago,” he says in his thick, Irish brogue. He was born in Canada, but his parents are originally from Ireland, so naturally, he took on their Irish accent.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Emma waves off his apology with a flick of her hand. “Maybe next time?”

“Well, I—”

“If I may?” the photographer interrupts, holding up his camera.

“Aye, of course,” Graham turns toward him, and Emma relents, remembering what Mary Margaret said about how being seen with Graham would raise her score. She supposes if she’s going to be running for president, she must endure some things she may not like, in order to appease the public. Besides, it’s not like Graham is bad looking; in fact, he’s rather handsome with his curly brown hair and grey-blue eyes. But her hectic schedule doesn’t allow time for a romantic relationship.

Graham wraps his arm around her as she places a tentative hand on his back. The camera flashes a few times as Emma and Graham hold their smiles.

“One more,” Graham says, just as Emma’s about to pull away.

A few more successive shots are taken before Graham thanks the photographer and they break their pose, turning toward each other.

He inches closer, speaking intimately in her ear. “What do you say we get out of here? Grab a drink somewhere a bit more… private?”

The music changes from something soft and elegant to something more familiar. Very familiar actually.

Motownphilly.

Emma looks over Graham’s shoulder and her eyes light up when she sees Boyz II Men on stage. “Yeeeessss!”

When Regina told her about the World Wildlife Fund benefit, she failed to mention Boyz II Men would be performing.

“Yeah?” Graham asks, a big smile spreading across his lips.

While he’s thinking she was saying yes to his invitation, Emma had forgotten his presence as soon as she heard the music. Not that she would’ve accepted his invitation anyway. But now she sees this as an opportunity to avoid the question altogether. “Oh my God!” Emma scurries over to the crowd that’s gathering around the entertainers of the evening.

“Alright, alright, alright, alright. Philly, make some noise. Make some noise!”

The crowd whistles and cheers, and Emma is taken back to when she was a kid again. She was ten when this song came out—when she bought their CD—and listened to it constantly throughout her teen years.

Graham joins her on the dance floor as she moves to the music, not even caring about her elegance score. She literally hasn’t danced like this since high school, but she feels more carefree than she has in years and she hasn’t even had a sip of champagne. Stuffy music and champagne have never been her thing. But this… this is her music.

“Duty calls.” Graham’s deep voice in her ear makes her jump, and she spins around to look at him. “I’ll take a snow check on those drinks. Canadian for a rain check,” he winks.

“Okay,” Emma says, forcing a small laugh at his joke.

“Good evening,” he bids her, slowly walking away.

∞∞∞

“I feel very underdressed,” Killian grumbles as he peers down at himself. He’d never thought to change out of his blue jeans, t-shirt and black hoody, and here he is drinking champagne in a room full of rich people who are wearing tuxes and formal dresses.

“Don’t worry, you look fine,” Victor says as they make their way through the crowd.

Killian knows he’s just being nice though. Even Victor is wearing a dress shirt and blazer, but then again he blends in more with the other rich folk because unlike Killian, he’s not jobless or poor; he’s a doctor who makes more than a decent living.

Killian finishes his champagne and places the flute on a tray when a waiter approaches, and snatches another one, gulping it down like rum.

“Easy, buddy. You’re pounding those drinks pretty hard, don’t you think?” And that’s coming from Victor, who’s at the bar every night he’s not on call.

“I got fired today, mate.”

“I thought you said you quit?”

Killian’s gaze moves across the room as he turns his head to look at Victor who is standing next to him. “I was forced to quit because—” His words die in his throat, his jaw dropping when his eyes land on a gorgeous blonde dancing.

But not just any blonde. Killian recognizes her.

It’s the Secretary of State. It’s Emma Swan. His first crush. His first kiss.

He hasn’t seen her in person since she was eighteen, but she’s even more stunning as a grown woman. And she’s even more stunning than she is on television.

#cs ff #long shot au #captain swan

54 notes · View notes

myforeverforlife · 4 years

Text

my endless blue.

For @jenmyeons Junmyeon and 117. "Can I do your hair?" + 149. "I just need ten minutes, please." (Thank you for sending this in! I hope you like it! ❤️)

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

Word Count: 3,775

Masterlist

You didn't know much about the second prince.

Everyone in the country knew of the first prince, generous, reticent, humble Crown Prince Minseok. The third and fourth princes were also well-known, both of them praised for their artistic talents in music and dance, respectively. But Prince Junmyeon always seemed to be leaving to far-off lands, never staying at the castle for more than a week or two. He was said to have an agreeable temper, polite to all that he met and yet, he never stayed long enough for anyone outside the castle to truly get to know him. There were a multitude of rumors surrounding him: that the prince was the odd one out scorned by his family, that he was afflicted with a severe rash, that he was jealous of his older brother.

You knew better than to believe in the gossip. Your art took up most of your attention anyways, many an hour spent in your airy studio with only canvases and a rainbow of paints. Although you weren't born into a high-ranking family, you had garnered fame and renown through your vivid, emotion-filled pieces.

However, it still came as a shock when you were summoned before the king and queen.

Donned in your best clothing, each crease and fold carefully ironed out, you made your way to the castle. You were hyperaware of your surroundings, soaking in each new sight and sound as your journey brought you closer to the castle. It was an out-of-body experience, being led inside and walking down the hallways, floors intricately lain with decorative tiles in the royal colors. Even as your presence was announced, you could hardly believe that you were about to lay eyes on the king and queen — in person!

The doors swung open, your feet automatically taking steps forward. There, at the other end of the throne room sat the king and queen. Your steps faltered for a second when you realized that there was another person beside them, a face you had never seen before.

You dipped into a low bow once you reached them, gloved hands resting over your stomach. "Your Majesties," you greeted them. "I'm honored to be in your presence."

"We're thankful that you came all this way," the queen replied graciously. She gestured to the man standing beside her. "The king and I have a favor to ask of you regarding our son."

Son? Your eyes widened at the sudden realization — this must Prince Junmyeon.

The man in question was strikingly handsome, hands clasped behind his back as he stood with ramrod-straight posture. Not a single lock of his raven-black hair was out of place, and while his jawline was sharp and sculpted, his round cheeks gave his face an overall boyish appearance. But the prince didn't spare you a glance, gaze fixed on a single point on the floor.

The king cleared his throat, Prince Junmyeon blinking as if coming out of a stupor. He looked up, eyes meeting yours before dipping his head slightly.

"Prince Junmyeon, pleasure to make your acquaintance." But despite his words, his voice seemed empty, devoid of any warmth.

"Junmyeon is set to be wed by the end of the year," the king spoke up. "As per royal tradition, Junmyeon will gift his betrothed with a self-portrait as an engagement present. It is an opportunity for him to showcase his talents, as well as to display the most appealing image of himself. However, painting is something that my son has, ahem, never been particularly skilled in." The king shot his son an apologetic look. "And as we had heard of your wonderful artistry..." his voice grew faint.

"You would like me to paint his portrait?"

"Ah, no," the king said quickly. "That would not be in accordance with the tradition. We would like you to give Prince Junmyeon lessons to help him acquire the skills that he needs."

"You would be paid handsomely, of course," the queen added.

The prince was in need of art lessons? You snuck another peek at him, taking in the way his dark brows had a slight furrow in between them, the way his lips were pressed into a thin line. "I've never taught before, I wouldn't want to be a burden to you, Your Highness." Your last words were directed to the prince, waiting to see what his response would be.

Prince Junmyeon flinched as if he had been stung, clearing his throat roughly. "It would be no burden at all," he said stiffly.

The king clapped his hands together, beaming widely. "Then it's settled! We are greatly indebted to you."

"It is no trouble to me," you replied with another tiny bow. Even when you looked back up, the prince's face was just as impassive as before. You couldn't decipher any emotion on his face besides boredom and what seemed like suppressed annoyance. The prince was a mystery, hiding his true self under the mask that he wore.

And yet for some reason, you couldn't help but want to find out what lay underneath.

The second prince sat hunched over, one arm resting on his leg as he brushed globs of paint across his canvas. It was an posture unaccustomed to painting, but you held your tongue.

Before you could even begin lessons, you needed a clear picture of your pupil's current abilities. It was hard not to jump in when he first started painting his nose, much to your discomfort. Personally, you would have done a rough sketch first, starting with the edges of your face and working inwards. The prince shocked you even further when he moved on to paint his ears, facial features appearing on the canvas in an strange sequence. To add onto that, everything was out of proportion, creating a sort of optical illusion for the viewer.

You were itching to speak up, to fix the oddities that you had noticed in the past fifteen minutes. "Your Highness, I think this is fine. We can move on to other things, you've already got your entire face done."

"Oh, I just need ten minutes, please." Prince Junmyeon looked at you over his shoulder, blinking innocently.

Suppressing an impatient sigh, you forced a smile onto your face. "Ten minutes, then."

And so, you waited another agonizing ten minutes until the prince finally set down his paintbrush. "Well? What do you think?" he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

"It's... very unique," you managed to say. "You've used a lot of color in your self-portrait, Your Highness."

It was true: Prince Junmyeon had used almost every available color provided. Dark green shadows framed the edges of his face, orange highlights running down his nose and lips painted a vivid red. How he managed to even paint blue onto his cheeks, you had no idea.

Prince Junmyeon let out a snort, taking you by surprise. "You don't need to compliment me to make me feel better. It's horrendous, I know."

"Well... do you like it?"

"What?" The prince frowned at your question.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. While I may not have done a self-portrait in this way, it doesn't matter what I think, as long as your art speaks to you. Do you believe that this represents you the way that you would like to be seen?"

Prince Junmyeon turned back to his portrait, unable to help the small chuckle that escaped from his lips. "I would hope that no one saw this and thought it was me."

"Which part are you dissatisfied with?"

"Honestly, all of it." The prince ran a hand through his hair, forgetting about the paint on his fingers. "I didn't even want to do this ridiculous self-portrait in the first place, much less get married." His last words came out in a whisper.

You hadn't thought much of the prince's marriage, taking it as an accepted and natural way of life for him. Not once had you thought that he might have any objection to it, though looking back on it all, Prince Junmyeon hadn't shown an inkling of interest in his marriage.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you said truthfully. "I can't imagine what it must be like to be in your position."

The prince opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it and looking away. "Thank you," he replied after a few seconds of silence. "But it can't be helped. This is what I was born into, and so I must deal with it as it comes." He straightened up in his seat, hands resting on his knees. "Well? Where do we start from here?"

You gave the painting another once-over, eyes zeroing in on something. Reaching out for his paintbrush and palette, you took a step closer to the easel. "Can I do your hair? You have good, defined strokes here, but they're lacking variation in color."

Junmyeon watched as you mixed a few colors on your palette, creating one that was a few shades lighter than the one he used to paint his hair. He watched in awe as you added the new color to the painting, effortlessly adding more dimension.

"Wow," he breathed out. "It looks better already."

A proud smile came to your face. "It's nothing much. If you would like to do a more realistic portrait, it's important to include light and shadows as well. But there's also nothing wrong with taking a more abstract approach."

"Oh no," the prince replied quickly. "I think I'm done dealing with the abstract for a while." A grimace found its way onto his face as he stared at his artwork. "I have a lot of work ahead of me, don't I?"

"If it helps, you only have to do one painting."

Junmyeon burst into laughter, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed. "It's an unusual way to cheer someone up, but you've succeeded. You're an interesting one, Teacher Y/N."

You scrunched your nose up upon hearing the title he had attached to your name. "Just Y/N, please. It's so strange to hear my name like that."

"Then I ask that you do the same for me as well."

"Your Highness, I couldn't — "

Junmyeon lifted a finger, your words instantly coming to a halt. "Try it. No formal titles, just my name — like between friends."

The idea was ridiculous to you. Friends, with the prince? But you thought of how lonely he seemed, always leaving for trips far away from the castle, alienated by rumors and burdened with a marriage that he didn't ask for. Maybe what the prince needed most wasn't lessons, but a friend.

"Alright then," you began hesitantly. "Junmyeon."

The prince's face lit up, chasing away the gloom that had been hanging over him all day. "That's more like it.”

Junmyeon always complained whenever you looked over his shoulder, claiming that he felt even more nervous when he could feel your eyes on him. You always spent the first half of your lessons introducing new techniques and tips, and then gave him the rest of the time to put them into practice. Only at the end of the lesson would the prince show you his work for the day.

You sat in a chair across from the prince and his easel, an easel and canvas of your own set up.

"What are you painting?" Junmyeon asked, peeking out from behind his easel.

"It's a secret," you replied with a smirk.

"Ah, don't be like that. You know what I'm painting."

"That's because you only have one task at hand, Your Highness."

"Hey." Your head shot up at the unexpected sternness in your pupil's voice. "You're doing it again."

You let out a weary sigh. "My apologies, Junmyeon."

Junmyeon set his paintbrush down, the handle clattering against the small table by his side. "Are you really that uncomfortable with calling me by my name?" he asked softly.

You paused in the midst of a brush stroke. "You're a prince, Junmyeon. It's hard to break the habit when I know who you are."

A somber look came into Junmyeon's eye. "I understand what you mean. I suppose it's one of the reasons why I enjoy traveling all the time." He seemed to forget that you were there, caught up in his own thoughts as he spoke. "Outside the kingdom, even outside this castle, very few people know what I look like. It makes it easy for me to blend in with everyone else, to pretend that I'm another ordinary person."

Junmyeon was far from ordinary, prince or not, but you kept this to yourself. He would only tease you about it, giggling at your embarassment.

"It sounds very freeing," you said instead.

"Free," Junmyeon repeated. "It is, truly. But my parents argue that I have too much freedom." He smiled bitterly to himself. "They've been wanting me to settle down for years, to stay at home where I belong. I know that they're only concerned for my safety, but still... I love my country, but I love the adventure of traveling to new lands more. At the end of it all, I get to bring what I've learned to the people that I love back home." Junmyeon turned to you with a curious glint in his eye. "Have you ever gone traveling?"

"I've never even left the kingdom," you admitted as Junmyeon's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Never?"

You shook your head. "I haven't had the opportunity to, although I'd love to see art from all over the world."

Junmyeon was silent for a moment before speaking up. "If you could go anywhere, where would you want to go?"

"Any place where there's an ocean. I've only gone once as a child, but I have fond memories of that day. Sea landscapes are some of my favorite to paint as well."

The prince paused, nodding to himself before picking up his paintbrush and palette once more, immersing himself in his work.

You weren't sure what brought on this sudden change, but you were grateful for it. Your mind had already begun straying towards visions of voyaging across oceans, walking along pebble-covered beaches, the prince even making an appearance in one fantasy of you dipping your toes into the glimmering ocean water.

Shaking your head, you followed Junmyeon's actions and resumed painting. It was silly to even think of seeking out new places with him by your side.

Junmyeon might have been your friend, but he was still a prince.

However, even calling him a friend in this past week had awakened a new, fluttery feeling in your chest. You were afraid of thinking too deeply into it, of feeling things that could never be reciprocated.

After all, he was getting married. He was your student, a friend, and nothing more.

Or so you tried to convince yourself.

Weeks passed, every other day spent at the castle with Junmyeon and your paints.

You tried to distance yourself from the prince, but found yourself falling for him more and more with each passing day. He didn't make it any easier, what with his charming smiles and increasingly playful attitude. You swore that the past few sessions had consisted less of actual painting, and more of playing around and talking about his travels.

Time was slipping through your hands, and you knew that these lessons would come to an end all too soon.

Junmyeon didn't object when you came in one day, determined to actually get some painting done. This time, you read a book to keep yourself busy instead of working along with him. The only thing you felt like painting was the second prince, but you would die of embarrassment if he saw you painting him.

The room was oddly silent, different from the weeks of laughter that had filled this room. You could feel Junmyeon's eyes on you every so often, knowing that he must be at a loss for your sudden shift in behavior.

Even at the end of the lesson, as you studied his finished self-portrait, a heaviness lingered in the air. It was stifling, almost suffocating Junmyeon as he waited for you to say something.

"You've improved so much since we first met," you finally said. "Soon enough, you won't need my help at all."

"Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?" Junmyeon shot back, getting up from his seat.

You stepped back, hand raised to your chest as you tried to calm the racing of your heartbeat. "What do you mean?" you replied lamely. "Why do I get the feeling that you're trying to say goodbye?"

"We would have to eventually. You're getting married, Junmyeon."

Junmyeon's face hardened, the sharp edges of his face emphasized as he clenched his jaw. "I can't."

"What do you mean, you — "

"I can't marry a person that I don't love. I've tried in order to make my parents happy, but the more I think about it, the more frustrated I get." Junmyeon's gaze was desperate as he stared at you. "Y/N, I can't marry someone when I'm in love with someone else."

You couldn't help the gasp that escaped from your lips as you realized what he meant. "Junmyeon, we can't." You backed up as he took a step closer, a pang of guilt striking you Junmyeon's face fell. "The king and queen, they'll be furious when they find out."

"Give me a chance to convince them," he pleaded. "Meet me here tomorrow, please. I will find a way to make this right, I promise."

There was no doubting the fierce sincerity in Junmyeon's voice, his earnestness to make things right. As terrified as you were, you still had complete faith in him.

"Okay," you agreed as Junmyeon sighed in relief.

He circled his arms around you, holding you close to him. Junmyeon was sure that you could hear the loud pounding of his heartbeat, but he didn't care. Never in his life had he cared for someone so deeply, had wanted to be with someone so ardently. No matter what happened, he was determined not to let anything get in the way of the future that he wanted.

He would run away with you, if that's what it took.

You were a mess of nerves, although on the outside, you appeared as cool as a cucumber. Upon your arrival, you had been led to the throne room — the same place where you had met Junmyeon for the first time.

Like deja vu, the king and queen were seated at the far end of the room while Junmyeon stood close by. This time, a covered easel was beside him.

The king spoke up as soon as you came to a stop in front of them, his dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What is the meaning of all this, Junmyeon?"

"I've finished my portrait, Father — the one for my betrothed."

You looked over at Junmyeon, puzzled by his words. Dark shadows rested under his eyes, as if he had stayed up through the night.

Without a moment of hesitation, Junmyeon lifted the fabric off of the easel, revealing the painting underneath.

Instead of seeing Junmyeon, your own face stared back at you, painted in different shades of blue paint. The colors reminded you of the vibrant open ocean you once saw as a child. Tears pricked your eyes as you realized that this painting wasn't just a declaration of Junmyeon's true affections — it was a vow to take you to the places you had once dreamed of visiting, to go on these journeys together.

"Junmyeon," the queen said. "What do you mean by this?"

"I cannot go through with the marriage that you and Father set up for me." Junmyeon came to your side, his strong, firm hand slipping into yours. "I love Y/N, and I don't wish to be with anyone else. I beg of you, please call off the engagement."

The king and queen exchanged a stunned look, both of them speechless at this turn of events. "Is this true?" the king asked you. "You care for my son?"

You nodded with certainty, unable to stop the smile on your face. "Yes, Your Majesty. More than anyone else in the world."

"Mother, Father," Junmyeon ventured carefully. "I know that you have only been doing what you believed was best for me, but I don't want a marriage to keep me confined, to keep me from what I love. I want to travel the world with Y/N, to learn about all there is to see and experience. I'll always come back home, no matter what."

The queen brought her hand to her mouth, eyes almost as glossy as yours. "But what if you were to get hurt?"

Junmyeon turned to you, squeezing your hand gently. "Y/N and I will keep each other out of trouble. Any difficulties that come our way, we'll face them together."

A defeated sigh caught both of your attention, the king shaking his head with a weary smile. "You're too much like I was, at that age. We should have known better than to try and stop you in the first place. Alright, I shall call the engagement off."

"But you must come home at least once a month," the queen added quickly. "No more gallivanting and disappearing for months at a time."

Junmyeon laughed, the sound as soothing as a fresh breeze on a summer day. "Yes, Mother." He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. "How are you feeling?" he asked, voice hushed to give you two some semblance of privacy.

"I can't believe it," you murmured back. Your eyes were drawn back to Junmyeon's painting, tracing over each brushstroke, each pop of color on the canvas. "When did you have time to make this?"

"I stayed up all night working on it. I don't mean for it to be an engagement gift to you — not yet. But I wanted to show you how much you mean to me, how much you've changed my life already."

You reached up with your other hand, running your thumb over the smooth skin of his cheek. "No one's ever done anything like this for me before. Thank you, Junmyeon."

"Of course." Junmyeon leaned down, forehead resting against yours. He giggled to himself as your noses bumped into each other in the process. "Where to now, my love? We have the entire world to see."

You closed your eyes, soaking in every detail of this unforgettable moment.

"Anywhere is fine, as long as I'm with you."

A/N: 3.8k words oh my gosh, someone stop me 😂 the requests just end up being longer and longer than the one before, this is so funny to me omg. but each time I tried to make it shorter, it just didn’t make sense to cut any of the parts out. I was inspired by myeon’s “self-portrait” album, specifically the album cover!

#exo #suho #junmyeon #suho scenario #junmyeon scenario #suho fanfic #junmyeon fanfic #exo scenario #exo fanfic #writings

53 notes · View notes

thepancakeboi · 4 years

Text

Liar

Spoilers below for Persona 5, told from Goro Akechi’s POV directed at Ren/Joker, written based off the lyrics of “Liar” by The Arcadian Wild (the lyrics themselves are colored red). I had found it in a Spotify playlist for Akechi or Akeshu and it’s such a beautiful song that I had to write this-

“I sense there's trouble ahead.”

Isn’t trouble all in a day’s work? There’s more at stake here than you realize. It's clear by the signs and warnings but you seem almost oblivious.

You do not see the evidence that should tell where all blame is due. All of this, everything that has happened here, is all Masayoshi Shido’s fault. Don’t you see it?

So why are they pointing at my head?

You all have been led astray by me. Sure, your group kept me at arm’s length at first. I did blackmail you into letting me join the thieves in changing Sae’s heart. I would have been suspicious if I had been immediately accepted and liked. Yet you’ve accepted me, or at least the version of myself I present to society. You wouldn’t accept my true self.

We've all fallen short in some way. What an abnormal group we make. A quiet transfer student rumored to be a criminal because of his probation status. A troublemaker who acted in violence against a teacher. A “cat” who thinks he's not a cat but doesn't have the memories to know for certain. A foreign girl who was rumored to be in a “relationship” with that teacher. An artist who was exploited for his talent. A good-girl kind of pushover who simply did as the adults told her. A shut-in who was blamed for causing her mother’s “suicide”. An heiress forced into a relationship with a horrible man for her father’s political gain. A charismatic detective prince that is the bastard son of a good-for-nothing man.

Please understand I'm ashamed of who I am. Would you reject me if I told you my other secrets, the ones you know nothing of? I’m hiding more than you could ever know, and I beg of you, please find your grace when I say this.

'Cause I'm not in a right state of mind. Haven’t been for years. Then you came along. Ever since the day we met, I found you interesting. You were different from the rest. Maybe there’s more than just interest there, something more. I just wish I had strength to admit it. You seemed to at least take an interest in me, too. It perplexed me though how someone like you, “some criminal trash living in an attic” as I thought of you in my more bitter moments, could have the one thing I seemed to lack: friendship. The camaraderie that came so easily in your group of friends, different as you were, was something I sought for years with no success. Even now, my stubbornness will put up a fight, but I don't deserve to win it.

I'm left in the dark pondering my mistakes. I think back to the cases I’ve solved, all the psychotic breakdowns, and the mental shutdowns. You would not believe who the culprit is. I can’t tell you that I know. It would destroy my image.

I tell you this: you are the light to my internal darkness. But in the light I swear I will deny it all.

—————

I sense deception to come. Betrayal is coming soon, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I’ve been lying to you this whole time. Honestly, truth and I are never one. I always say how I’m searching for the truth, and I guess it’s not entirely a lie. But the truth is that I’m the black mask you’ve been so concerned about. Not that I can tell you to your face 'cause I am the lying man.

And I have made you my next victim.

That’s right. You’re going to die, Joker. You have to if I’m ever going to get my revenge against Masayoshi Shido, my father. There isn’t a way around it. Trust me, I have tried to think of a way, any way, that I could avoid these events. I’m in too deep. This path I walk on cannot be strayed from. My revenge is so close!

...but I don’t want you to die.

You don’t seem to get it. I need you to see through my act, to tell me I'm wrong, to take off the mask that I use to hide my true intentions, my dark secrets. Black Mask and I are one and the same. How have you not pieced it together? Have I really overestimated your capabilities, Joker? You better figure it out soon, or else I'll be left in the lie.

I'll deceive my way straight to demise, but as long as I can bring ruin to Shido, that’s all that matters...right?

—————

November 20th.

I find myself here today, in front of the interrogation room...your interrogation room. The events over the last 24 hours replay in my mind. Yesterday was the day the Phantom Thieves were to infiltrate Sae’s palace and steal the treasure within. They’d done this time and time again without a hitch, but that day everything changed. You were betrayed, ambushed and taken into custody, and then today-

I need you to see through my plans right now, 'cause I'm not in a right state of mind. You’re too blinded by your damn feelings though to notice the hints I’ve been dropping. I was almost tempted to stop you mid-heist and tell you everything. I just wish I had strength to admit it. To confide everything in you and tell you how I feel. Would you listen? Would you still care about me, even with everything I’ve done and what I plan to do to you? Could I still earn your trust?

The doubt in my mind tells me no. My stubbornness will put up a fight, but I don't deserve to win it.

I don’t deserve your trust, for I’m going to kill that trust right at the source.

I'm left in the dark pondering my mistakes, but in the light I swear I will deny it all. The world will think you committed suicide, and they will be none the wiser to the events that transpire here. It’s clear by the look of hurt and betrayal on your face that, despite the drugs muddling your mind, you’re finally realizing that I am the host of this hostility. It’s too late for you, though. You should have seen through my act...

“Case closed... This is how your ‘justice’ ends.”

—————

I'm the master magician that makes you believe I'm real. And now here we are. All my scheming and plotting laid out before you. The fighting is done, and you have triumphed. I'm not fake, but in reality I'm a lying man. My life's become this grand game of deception. Now is no different. I have to keep you in the dark. I can’t tell you everything going on in my head, for it will only make this parting worse. These conflicting emotions roiling within were me too much to bear. That was why I had Loki use his Call of Chaos ability on me, to drive me psychotic...because I knew I would falter otherwise. In that state, my mind's ignored all my heart's good intentions.

We all feel this tension. We all have our own illusions. And now Shido’s cognition of me has become a threat to you. He’s holding me hostage and offering someone to take my place and die, but I refuse to let you go through with the wild schemes entering your head. This is my mess, not yours. Beneath the mask, I can see that look in your eyes: you want to save me. I can’t let you 'cause we're not in a right state of mind. He’s telling me to shoot you now. One final chance to fulfill Shido’s wishes, my life in exchange for yours. We all wish for the strength to admit it. Now I’ll admit it.

I love you, and I’m not about to let you die for me.

“Don’t misunderstand.” This cognitive version of myself cannot fathom what I am about to do. Our stubbornness will put up a fight, but we don't deserve to win it. I shoot my father’s cognition of me before shooting the button to close the bulkhead shut.

No we're not in a right state of mind.

We all wish for the strength to admit it. Let this be my admission. I love you, Joker, and I am going to die for you. I’m undeserving of your love in return. Our stubbornness will put up a fight, but we don't deserve to win it. You deserve better than me and I don’t deserve you. Trust me, it’s better this way.

The wall is between us. I can hear you and your band of thieves desperately seeking a way inside, to reach me before it’s too late. You’re screaming yourself hoarse and I can hear your tears through your voice. Odd. I had never considered you the type to get emotional over someone as broken as me. Not that I deserve your tears. Save them for someone who’s worth it.

My eyes are locked on my cognitive double, who survived my initial shot. He won’t survive the next, and neither will I. At that moment, all I feel is a sense of calm. I may not be able to get my revenge on my father anymore, but at least I can rest easy knowing that I’ll be saving the one person who will change his heart for me. We're left in the dark pondering our mistakes, but in the light I swear we will deny it all.

I’m sorry, Joker...no, Ren.

I love you.

I love you so much...

Could we...meet perhaps, in another life?

I won’t deny it all.

Not anymore.

I won’t be a...

The bullets fire.

...Liar.

#i cry every fucking time #why did i write this #the ending is always what gets me #source: the arcadian wild #persona 5 fic #sad fanfiction #fanfic written with lyrics #akeshu #shuake #goro akechi #akechi #p5 #persona 5 #p5r #persona 5 royal #liar the arcadian wild

80 notes · View notes

phoenix-downer · 4 years

Text

Brought to Life

Roxas/Naminé. Alternate Universe. Romance. Based off of the Greek myth Pygmalion. ~3000 words. For @scoobysnack1107.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was nothing Naminé liked more than art.

She started out by drawing on spare scraps of paper her father left around his workshop. Little scrawls and scribbles with pencil stubs as she watched him sculpt works for his many clients. He was the most respected sculptor in the city, and he always had a long list of commissions to work on.

When Naminé wasn’t helping her mother with chores around the house, she spent every spare moment watching her father at work. Once she was old enough, he enlisted her help and then formally signed her on as an apprentice. From then on, every spare moment she spent in his workshop honing her craft. She learned to work with a variety of mediums—wood, stone, clay, metal—but marble was her favorite. It was easy to mold and yet resistant to shattering, and she loved the feel of its texture beneath her fingers and its slight translucence that mimicked human skin.

As the years passed, Naminé developed a reputation as something of a prodigy. People began to ask her to craft special orders under her own name and not her father’s. And when she wasn’t working in her father’s workshop, she worked with a master painter in the city and learned his secrets, too. By the time her twentieth birthday had arrived, she had quite the following of her own and was set for a life of steady work and happy clients for both sculpture and painting.

There was just one catch. She had no one with which to live her life, and her parents were not getting any younger. They worried about who would take care of her once they were gone and urged her to find someone to marry.

“The two of you are still young,” she told them as she added the finishing touches to a painting of their splendid city during its summer festival for the goddess Aphrodite. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I have clients enough to last me for the rest of my days.”

“Naminé, we’re not worried about your ability to provide for yourself,” her mother said as she took a seat on one of the workbenches. Her blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her blue eyes were filled with worry for her daughter. “Ever since you were little, we’ve known you’re talented, and your hard work has ensured you’ll be able to take care of yourself for the rest of your days.”

“What we’re worried about is that you’ll be lonely,” her father said. His dark hair had a few streaks of gray in it now, but his blue eyes were as intense as ever, and Naminé knew he had many years of life ahead of him yet.

“Lonely?” Naminé set her paintbrush down. Why should she be lonely with such a happy family and so many happy clients? Her parents’ friends were wonderful too, and she never lacked for company if she so desired it.

“Don’t you want someone to spend the rest of your days with?” her mother said.

“Oh, like a husband?”

Her parents both nodded, and she glanced outside. She often saw young men pass by their shop when she worked into the twilight hours; it was on the way to a rather seedy part of the city, and she was less than impressed by the effects of alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes on the young men. Didn’t they have any respect for their wives and families?

Naminé sniffed. She had no use for a husband who would drink himself into a stupor, gamble her hard-earned money away, and then spend the night using the body of some poor woman whose name he couldn’t even be bothered to remember, all while his wife waited lonely and unsatisfied at home for him to come home at the crack of dawn to pass out and sleep the morning away while she did the chores. She would rather be alone forever than be miserably married to such a man.

“I’m not interested in any of the men I’ve met,” she said. “I’m not interested in marriage at all.”

Let her parents think what they would about her words, but she would not be persuaded to chain herself to a miserable marriage. She had never met a man she would be interested in marrying, and she doubted that would change. There were plenty of good men in the world, but the ones she knew were all already married, and she had no taste for adultery or affairs.

Her parents dropped the subject for now, but every now and then it would come up in conversation. One breezy autumn day, as they ate lunch on the terrace of their home, it came up again, and with a vengeance.

“Naminé,” her father said, not even trying to hide the exasperation in his voice, “if you don’t ever meet any young men, how would you know you’re not interested in marriage?”

“It’s true. You spend so much time in the workshop and hardly any time at all meeting people your age,” her mother said as she sipped her goblet of wine.

“I have a lot of work to do,” Naminé replied. “If I work hard now, I can build a good reputation for myself and have more flexibility when I’m older. Then I can think about marriage.”

There was no point in rushing. Right now, her career took center stage. Marriage could come much later… if at all.

Her mother daintily patted her mouth with her napkin. “Do you even know what you want in a husband?”

Naminé thought for a moment. “Someone kind and caring, someone loyal and true. A man who would defend me from harm and never betray my trust. A man who would love me and want to be with me always.”

Her father brightened. “Those are all good qualities. Why don’t I inquire with a matchmaker about—”

She shook her head. “It’s okay, father. I don’t think such a man exists. Or if he does, he’s already happily married to someone else.”

Her parents dropped the subject once more, but their conversation haunted her. She had little faith her dream man existed, but her life as an artist had taught her that she could create things out of nothing. She could make things a reality that had only existed in her head before.

She stayed in the workshop after she’d finished the day’s work. A big hunk of marble had been delivered yesterday, and she had let it sit there, unsure of what to do with it. It was far too big to make a bust out of, and no one had commissioned her to make any full-body sculptures lately.

But tonight, she had just the idea. Grabbing some wire, her fingers worked swiftly and deftly to craft a basic human figure. Then she took a large lump of clay and shaped it around the frame to get an overall idea of what she wanted the sculpture to look like.

Content with what she had so far, she went to bed, physically tired but mentally alert. The next few weeks she spent building a full scale model and then added tacks at key points. Once she was happy with their locations, she transferred the tacks to the block of marble to get a sense of scale.

This next part was what she’d been looking forward to the most. Mallet and chisel in hand, she went to work bringing out the man trapped inside the marble. A dynamic pose to emphasize his movement, to make him seem real. A broad chest and wide shoulders, strong enough to wield a sword and protect her from harm. A resolute expression on his face, because he was passionate and driven. And yet his eyes needed to look at her just right; had to be both both determined and gentle.

This process took months, especially because Naminé still had her clients’ commissions to work on. She usually only had time to work on the sculpture of the man during the evening after her other duties were fulfilled, and she spent many a late night working on him. But as he became more and more lifelike with each passing day, she was more determined than ever to finish her work. Now she was using a more specific set of tools; tooth chisels and claw chisels and rasps and rifflers.

When at last the sculpture before her matched the image in her head and the models she’d made, it was time to sand the uneven parts down with a special rough stone called emery. The color of the marble shone through in this process as a thin patina developed over its surface, and she also added a sealing compound to make the marble practically glow.

Now for the reason she’d studied painting: so she could paint her own statues. She gave the man blond hair and blue eyes with Naples yellow and Egyptian blue. His hair was brighter gold than her own, so bright it was like the daffodils that grew in her family’s garden. And his eyes were darker blue than her own, as blue as the water in the fountain reflecting the color of the tiles beneath it. She painted his skin and clothes with a variety of other fine pigments. Dragon’s blood, lead white, and lamp black contrasted nicely with his hair and were what she largely used for his clothes.

At long last, after over a year’s worth of work, she was finished. She set her paintbrushes down and stared at her creation. This was what she had worked so hard on, what she had poured hundreds of hours of sweat and tears and the occasional drop of blood into. Her ideal man. His golden hair swept up towards the sky, and his blue eyes gazed down at her. The robes draped from his arms and legs were so realistic they almost seemed like actual clothes, and his striking pose made him look like a warrior or messenger coming down from the heavens to protect her.

She brought her hand to her cheek, and it was hot. Was she really… blushing? Just from looking at a statue she’d made? How was this even…

She ducked her head and then looked back at the statue, mesmerized by her own creation. He was handsome and dashing, tall and strong and true. Loyal and faithful because he knew only her, knew only her touch which had spent hours bringing him into being.

It was a good thing he wasn’t real. Otherwise he would be disloyal, just like the others. Just like her first love who had—

She cleared her throat and looked away. She wouldn’t think about that man and how he’d broken her heart, finding shelter in the arms of another woman instead of her arms. Because now she had a man that would never leave her, never abandon her, never betray her.

Maybe he wasn’t real, but she couldn’t risk her heart on a real man again.

Right?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though the statue was, by her father’s estimation, her greatest work yet, Naminé refused to sell it. She didn’t even want other people seeing it lest they get any ideas. Very rarely did she keep any of her works for herself, but this one was an exception. She was keeping it for the rest of her days.

She found her eyes drawn to it often as she worked, and her blush returned when she glanced at it. It was so lifelike, so realistic, that she couldn’t help but be drawn to it. No, to him. Referring to him as an it felt wrong. The more she looked at him, the more she felt he had a soul trapped in the rock, much like his form had once been trapped in the rock.

Late at night, after her father had gone to bed and the other workers had gone home, she’d taken to lingering in the workshop to spend a few more moments with him. As she gazed into his eyes one summer night, the moonlight shining on his face, a thought occurred to her.

“I haven’t given you a name yet.”

She pressed her fingers together as she thought. He needed a name, a fitting name…

“You were hewn out of marble, out of rock…” She smiled. “Roxas. Your name is Roxas.”

He gazed at her steadily, and her blush spread up her cheeks. The name was perfect, just like he was perfect. She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers around it. Her hand fit perfectly in his, and she sighed.

“Roxas, I think I love you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Had she really just said those words out loud? Was she really in love with a statue? How awful, how could she have let this happen—

Ashamed, she fled from the workshop and retreated to her room and buried herself under her blankets. This had gone on for too long. Roxas had bewitched her, heart and body and soul, and a statue so powerful must be cursed with evil magic. She had to get rid of him as soon as possible before some disastrous fate fell upon her and her family.

But the thought of losing him, the thought of losing her beloved Roxas, made her heart sink. Could she so easily throw him out when she had made him? Cast him aside like her first love had cast her aside?

Still, this obsession wasn’t healthy. She needed to do something about it. Tomorrow was the first day of the festival for Aphrodite. Maybe, if she went to the goddess’s temple and prayed, Aphrodite would send her a real man that would make her forget all about her infatuation with a statue.

Yes, that was what she would do. Satisfied now that she had a plan, she was able to go to sleep. But as she slipped from consciousness, it was Roxas’s chiseled marble face that lingered in her mind.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Naminé rose early the next morning for the festival so she could carefully select some choice flowers from her family’s garden to offer as a gift to Aphrodite. It wouldn’t do to approach the goddess empty-handed, and so Naminé made sure she had an offering worthy of the city’s deity.

The flowers selected, she made her way to the sanctuary of Aphrodite, where the altar of Aphrodite rested. Throngs of people surrounded her, as the festival was already underway, and it took quite some time before she made it inside the sanctuary, let alone to where the altar was. But at last it was her turn to offer a gift to the goddess, and as she did, she made a wish, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If it so pleases you, Aphrodite, I would like to wish for a husband in the likeness of my Roxas.”

In her heart of hearts, she knew the wish was not entirely true. She didn’t just want a husband in the likeness of Roxas, she wanted Roxas to be her husband. But she was still too ashamed to admit her true desire, so she went home and returned to the workshop. A particularly wealthy patron had requested a bust of him and his wife, and she wanted to get at least a little work done for his request today.

But when she entered the studio, Roxas was there waiting for her. He looked even more handsome and lifelike than ever, and a strange urge came over her. Her feet carried her to him, as if she was being carried along by the breeze. She cupped his cheek, and she could’ve sworn his skin felt soft beneath her touch.

“Roxas,” she said, her voice breaking. “My dear Roxas. How badly do I wish you were real.”

His blue eyes steadily gazed back at her as she stroked his face. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed her mouth against his in a sweet kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as she indulged the fantasy that had taken root in her heart from the moment she’d named him. To her surprise, his lips felt warm. She leaned back a little, her lips parting and her eyes widening, then kissed him again.

This time, she didn’t stop kissing him, even when his lips grew warmer and his skin grew ever softer against her touch. And then his arms went around her and he was kissing her back. A soft cry caught in her throat as he did. This was real. He was real, and he was holding her in his arms like she’d dreamed he would.

She remembered. She remembered everything. Why no man she’d ever met could satisfy her. No man in this life, anyway. Why her heart was so drawn to a statue of him, to this man she loved with all her heart. Her Roxas was in her arms, and all was right in the World again.

When they finally broke apart, she was breathless. She would’ve fallen if he hadn’t caught her and gently pulled her up.

“Naminé,” he said, his voice breaking as he looked into her eyes and caressed her cheek.

She hugged him again. “Roxas—”

He held her and comforted her as she cried, reassuring her that their long separation was over, that he was here and they were together again.

“We promised, remember? ‘We’ll meet again,’” he said, smiling as he repeated the words she’d told him so long ago. “So here I am. It wasn’t the way I was expecting, exactly, but what matters is that I’m here and we’re together.”

“Yes.” She found his hand and held it. Even when her mind had forgotten him, her heart hadn’t. Her body hadn’t either; it had guided her through the long process it had taken to bring him back to life, and it was responding so wonderfully to his touch.

He scooped her up in his arms. “Shall we?” he said as she laughed lightly.

“Yes, we shall.”

As he carried her out of the workshop and to the house, she couldn’t take her eyes off of his face. They were together again at long last, and she wanted to make the most of every moment.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: This fic was written for @scoobysnack1107! Rokunami is dear to her heart, and she’s poured so much love and effort into the Rokunami fandom. I wanted to write something for her to thank her for that, as well as to thank her for supporting me :)

This guide was really helpful in terms of how to make a marble sculpture, and I drew heavily on it when I wrote the descriptions of Naminé making the sculpture of Roxas. Also, thank you to @rapis-razuri for looking over things for me and providing suggestions and feedback!

Hope you all enjoyed!

#rokunami #namixas #roxas #naminé #kingdom hearts #kh fanfiction #phoenix writes #phoenix downer #romance #kissing #based off of greek mythology #based off of pygmalion #post-canon #post canon #scoobysnack1107 #long post

30 notes · View notes