#now i just have the image of you and Legacy curled up together after singing... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lgcbenji · 4 years

Photo

✧ .・゜゜trainee mission 003, interview; netflix people

benji found himself outside legacy come lunch yet again. he took his food to eat, not inside, not even in the cafe, but outside of the building. he liked the fresher air, the moving trees, and the sun too much. training for longer periods was difficult for him. lack of being outside, the lack of feeling the sun on his skin, and the lack of wind brushing his cheeks all caused a great headache. his lunch break was normally taken outside, mostly to prevent his own cranium from exploding during the rest of the training day. he sat on a short half-wall, one leg dangling and his other legs’ ankle rested on the knee. his bent knee’s ripped jean holes stretched and squeezed down on his legs. he sat with bad posture. he was curled over himself, looking at his notebook he brought with him and a multi-colored, old fashioned pen. he finished up a rough sketch of a painting he wanted to draw later, something of a blue sky and the legacy building looking tiny in comparison to the landscape. it was so rough that only he could translate it into the image in his mind. he had been writing his ‘art notes’ like this for years, since elementary school, and knew he could figure out how to translate it onto a canvas later. he looked up after having his head so far down for so long. he sat up straight and looked at all the passersby. he kicked his dangling leg. it felt so nice, it felt so childish, that he dropped his other ankle and swung both his legs as he watched people pass and ignore him. he put his notebook in his backpack and clasped his hands together in his lap. he saw the netflix people. a small team of three, one of them clearly holding a large camera that stood on a stabilizer connected to the rest of his body, using the contraption to steady the camera. was it even recording? benji assumed no. the other was a woman, with thick rimmed glasses, and the third member was a dude that had nothing exciting about him at all.

he watched them walk closer and closer to legacy. all the meanwhile, he stared at who seemed to be the leader of the group, the rather short girl. when she made eye contact with him, he pushed the corner of his cheeks back towards his ear lobes. it was not quite a smile but it made his dimples shine. she bowed to the boy as the group came closer, the other crew members following after seeing her do it. he bowed his head politely in response. once they came close enough he decided to shout out to them. “are you guys netflix?” he asked, using one hand to cup the side of his mouth so his voice would stretch to them. “yes!” the woman responded, “are you a trainee?” she held a hand on her face the same way he did. it seemed that the group was waiting to talk with him rather than go inside. the cameraman stood holding the door handle but never went in. “yeah! please take good care of us!” he laughed but forgot to bow. the woman turned around to face the two men. benji watched as they did not move inside, but conversed quickly with one another. it was just nods and eye contact, no mouths moved. he tilted his head. his eyes quickly darted back and forth, making little time to actually collect information about what each person was doing. before he knew it, the third crew member, some random man, it seemed, was helping the cameraman with something. the woman walked towards him and benji smiled at her. “i didn’t say you had to take care of us now.” he laughed, tilting his head in what felt like a cheesy, mocking gesture. the woman fixed her glasses and laughed. the crew reached him, stopping a few feet away. he sat up straight and moved his legs so they were crossed on top of the wall under his thighs. she stood in front of him, just a few feet away, and he felt a sense of comfort in how casual she was handling everyone around her. the third crew member pulled out a mic-pack and connected a wire. benji held out his hands to grab it then snapped them back to himself. his hands balled into fists. he jerked his head to look at the woman, “can i- is this for me?” she nodded, still smiling. he grinned back and bowed his head quickly, “thank you.” he took the pack and put it on himself, with some help from the third member, then clipped it to his dark, muddy green t-shirt. he rocked forward and back. he could not hide his smile, knowing this would be the interview that all the other trainees talked about. the third man stood off to the side while the cameraman stood beside the woman. between them was directly to where benji was positioned. if he looked perfectly straight he would see right between their ears. “what is your name?” she asked. she put her hands in her pockets. “ah, my name at legacy is benji, but my legal name is bejamin, benji, lee.” he pushed the corners of his lips back again to show an awkwardly cute ‘smile’. “how long have you been training?” benji looked to the sky. his brows furrowed and he pouted. he needed to take a deep breath to focus. “ah, i’m really not good at math… uh…” he looked from the sky to the woman, turning his head and smiling at her, “more than two years? does that count?” he shrugged his shoulders and his palms faced the sky with them. her smile grew and she nodded. “what do you do as a trainee at legacy?” “oh, what do i do?” to the sky once more. he only pulled one corner of his lips in confusion. “what do i do? i train.” his head fell back to the earth, “i train singing, dancing, and i learn how to perform well. sometimes i act, sometimes i model, sometimes we learn about weird things like holding balls on our heads.” benji burst out giggling. he let his torso fold over in his own laughter but quickly sat up. “we only do it in dance to practice balance,” he licked his lips and pressed them against one another. he caught himself in a bit of a giggle fit even though the other three just stared. the only one even seemingly amused was the interviewer. “so you’re training to become an idol?” benji leaned far forward, “oh, that’s what you meant? yes. yes!” he let out more giggles, “i meant- yes, i meant training to become an idol,” he sat straight up and held up an apologetic hand, “sorry!” “no no, you’re fine,” she shook her head. she looked to the third member who was now wearing some kind of ear piece. she made a gesture to him on her wrist, hitting it twice with her finger, to ask for the time. he mouthed to her, in korean, one minute. benji could not lip read well enough to understand. instead, he found himself lost glancing between the two. “well, benji, it was very nice meeting you,” she leaned forward and held out a hand to shake. benji took her hand with two and quickly bowed. “it was nice meeting you too, ma’am.” he felt his legs getting numb and wiggled them out from under his own rear. they dangled once more. the third man came to un-hook benji from his microphone. “i look forward to talking to you more. it’s almost time for, uh, vocal lessons?” she asked, looking to the third member. he was busy pulling up benji’s shirt to un-wire him. “uh,” benji held up a finger, leaning so his face was in her view, “actually it’s almost time for free training which is just,” he used one hand’s fingers to list things off, “modeling, learning korean, learning english,” he leaned forward and cocked a brow for emphasis, “or some people just dance and sing.” he let his hand fall. the third member took the microphone away. benji continued, “i was going to go try variety lessons for the first time today, actually. . .” he looked across the three faces. “. . . did you guys want to come see what goes on there?” the woman looked between her boys. the cameraman focused on moving to film the building. the third man glared at her. she stared. he sighed and looked back to the mic-pack. the woman turned to benji after winning their staring contest. her shoulders were back and her chest proudly forward, “if you’re willing to show us, absolutely.”

word count: 1,481 points: +5 modeling, +6 notoriety

#lgc:traineemission #✧ .・゜゜events #✧ .・゜゜solo #( gifs im proud of? impossible )

3 notes · View notes

cyclone-rachel · 4 years

Text

@peskyburgers I couldn’t finish it before midnight, and honestly that is my own fault (I’m going to finish the chapter probably later tonight or early tomorrow I promise) but here’s the first part (around 3,569 words) of the musical crossover chapter in Pay the Asking Price!

Querl, Alex, and J’onn stepped through the portal, finding themselves under what looked like a spotlight, on a sort of raised platform in a room that perhaps could’ve been part of the DEO- there were monitors towards the back of the room, chairs- it looked like a room that saw frequent use. But it had a slightly different aesthetic, and there was no question that this was the home of the “Fastest man alive”, who, based on Kara’s description of him and Querl’s own knowledge of heroes of this century, was Barry Allen.

And, appropriately, he was there to greet them, alongside an audience of three others.

“Kara.” Barry said softly, as the three of them approached. “What happened to her?”

“We don’t know.” J’onn said. “But whoever did it has come to this world.”

“Yes.” Querl continued. “And he is looking for you.”

Once they had all been introduced to each other (and Querl had confirmed that the others with Barry were Cisco Ramon, Harrison “H.R.” Wells, and Wally West, as he’d thought) J’onn took Kara to the STAR Labs medbay, where Kara was placed on a bed, still lost in her own mind.

“Her vitals are low. How long has she been like this?” Caitlin asked.

“A few hours.” Alex answered.

“Right.” Querl said. “And as I mentioned, the same person who did this to Kara… said that he was going to be looking for the “fastest man alive”- who, as I understand it in your time, is you- Barry Allen. So keeping you safe is our priority, along with finding a way to reverse whatever spell he put on Kara.”

“Who are you, exactly?” Barry asked. “And what do you mean by “your time”?”

Well, the line between what time is my own and what isn’t is becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish. It’s a matter of emotional attachments as much as it is of chronology…

“How much do you know about the future?”

Barry stared.

“I definitely know that there used to be a guy who wanted me dead who was from the future, and got stuck here. Ended up being why I got my powers- called himself the Reverse-Flash.” He said. “How far in the future are we talking, exactly?”

“The thirty-first century.” Querl stated. “Specifically, the year three thousand and six.”

“And you’re from that year.”

“Indeed. I am Brainiac 5- Half-computer, half-organic lifeform, all Coluan, and, not to brag, but a 12th-level intellect. My name is Querl Dox, but the Legionnaires just call me Brainy.”

“The Legionnaires?”

“My friends- like the team you have here.” Querl continued, deactivating his image inducer and showing the team his ring. “I’m a member of a group called the Legion of Super-Heroes, dedicated to promoting peace across the galaxy by bringing together representatives from all over the United Planets and defending it from those who might oppose that peace. We were inspired by Supergirl, as well as Superman, her cousin- and I was one of the first members, before I… got myself stuck on Earth, in the twenty-first century.”

Funny, how easy it was to tell my story to a stranger, he thought. I could have said so to Kara all along, that I did not land here by accident… but now I must only make up for my mistake, and prove that I am truly sorry.

“Hey, I’ve seen that ring before.” Barry said, looking at it closely. “While I was traveling to another Earth myself, last year… guess it was from yours and Kara’s Earth all along.”

“A logical assumption.” Querl answered. “Also, while I have stayed here… Kara and I were in a relationship. But it ended shortly before this happened.”

“Oh!” Caitlin said. “She never mentioned she had a boyfriend.”

“It was a recent development.”

“I tell you what, I know enough not to mention the break-up between Barry and, uh…”

“H.R.”

“Sorry.”

H.R. cleared his throat, and Querl continued.

“Regardless of what is going on with the status of Kara and myself, I do not wish to leave her in this state.” He said. “I will help as much as possible in finding a way to help her return to consciousness.”

Alex laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, as did Caitlin.

“We will get her back, I promise.” Barry said. “And I’m sure we can find a place where you could help.”

The last thing Querl wanted was to lose himself.

He could not afford to imagine a worst-case scenario, a world where Kara’s future did not continue beyond this point, where she was trapped in a mind-prison of someone else’s design and subject to unknown horrors, forced into a coma with no way from him or anyone else other than her captor to bring her back. He did not want to go back to National City, and tell the world that Supergirl was dead to them, tell others that Kara Danvers was gone and never coming back. He did not want to return to the future and inform the Legionnaires of something that was quickly setting in, in history- that their heroine would have a much shorter legacy than she originally had, something that could hardly be considered a legacy at all.

And it would be his fault. He would go down in history as the twelfth-level intellect who let Supergirl fall under the sway of someone who was much more powerful than he looked- someone, perhaps, who had fifth-dimensional powers, or something close to them.

That was something he would have to investigate- if he saw him again, before that being found Barry Allen.

“So, what happened to her?” Iris asked.

“An alien prisoner escaped our custody, he… did something to her, put her in some kind of a coma.” J’onn explained.

“Then he disappeared, we tracked him here and followed.” Alex said.

“Okay, but why would he come to this Earth?”

“As Brainy said before, he’s looking for you.” J’onn said, to Barry. “We don’t know why.”

“Okay, well clearly we’re talking about a breacher here.” Cisco said. Querl admired his confidence, how relaxed he looked now in familiar territory- much like himself, before he traveled to the past. Even with Supergirl in a coma, he knew that if both of them worked together, things were going to be okay, and she would come back to them, and their common enemy would fall at her and Barry’s hands.

It was just up to her, to come back in the first place.

“And if there’s one thing I can do; it’s find breachers.”

It may not be so easy. He seemed to be more than just someone who travels between Earths…

But I should tell him that in person.

So Querl left the room, following Cisco, and as he left J’onn placed a gentle hand on Querl’s back.

Querl got the message, the conflicted feeling that had churned inside him slowly subsiding as he turned away from Kara’s unconscious body and left to get to work.

But the others joined he and Cisco as well, as they entered a room much like the DEO’s command center, with just about as many monitors that Querl could connect to.

“So what else can you tell us about this guy?” Barry asked.

“Not much. It's like he just materialized out of thin air.” J’onn said, and though Querl was not a telepath himself, he had worked with one enough to know that even this man, someone experienced in leadership and used to knowing everything about what he went up against, was unnerved by this threat- as innocent as said threat may have looked- and he could relate.

“You mean, like this clown just did?” Cisco asked, gesturing towards one monitor, that indeed showed the man who had arrived in the DEO earlier that day, near a place that Querl didn’t recognize.

Barry clearly did, and before anyone could remind him that he was supposed to keep himself safe, he was out.

“I’m gonna go.” He said, and J’onn followed.

If she wasn’t completely unaware of how she got there, or how she ended up in this dress, at this club, seemingly in an entirely different time period, singing Moon River… Kara would’ve thought she might be living out her dreams.

The only flaw was that, if she could’ve decided, she would’ve wanted her friends and family there to see her sing, and for them to sing with her, or sing their own songs- or whatever else they wanted. But she seemed to be singing to a crowd of strangers.

That is, until she located one familiar face- and at an appropriate time, too.

But she had to finish her song, and she did so, before she got the chance to go backstage again and greet her multiverse-traveling, very fast friend.

Once she did return backstage, though, Barry wasted no time, and they met each other in a tight hug.

“Barry!”

“Hey!”

“Barry, it’s you! Thank Rao!”

The tomato sauce?

But he didn’t have time to think about that, before Kara pulled back and asked him, “Wait, it’s really you, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, this is me, yeah.” Barry said.

“Good.”

“What is- where the hell are we? What's going on?” Barry asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Kara said. “Or maybe explain to me why I just pulled an Audrey Hepburn and sang in a nightclub.”

You were really good. And you look great, in that dress.

She did- it was black and kind of sparkly, and she wore black gloves, with her hair curled perfectly, and multiple earrings… but still, nobody could compare to Iris, for him.

“Maybe we're dreaming?”

“The same dream?”

“Yeah, that's- What's the last thing you remember before you got here?” he asked her.

“I was at the D.E.O.” Kara said, starting to pace around. “They had just brought in an alien prisoner. He got loose, and it was really weird. He had this, um, red-“

“Pocket handkerchief?” Barry guessed.

“Yes!”

“I saw you on my Earth. You were in a coma. Your boyfriend brought you to us.”

Kara stared.

“Brainy?” she asked. “He’s… not my boyfriend, anymore.”

“Then what is he?”

“Complicated. Um… I’m still trying to figure that out. Nothing, right now.”

“Okay then.” Barry said. “Whoever he is said that this guy whammied you- not his exact words- and then he escaped to my Earth, he showed up at Star Labs, I went after him to try and get him to wake you up-“

“And then you got whammied.”

“Yeah.”

“So, where are we?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it could be a parallel dimension, or maybe some elaborate illusion, we just need to figure a way out.”

“I guess I could… click my heels together three times.” Kara said, not entirely seriously.

Barry, meanwhile, looked at her like it could work.

“…Yeah!”

“I was kidding.”

“Okay, all right, well- Come on. Let's-“ Barry started, as they made their way out of the backstage area.

“You're a really good singer, by the way.” He continued.

“Hey, thanks. My sister says I put the "Kara" in "karaoke.””

“Oh yeah, your sister! She brought you here, too.”

“That’s good.” Kara said, heart aching for Alex. She wondered how she was doing now that Kara seemed to be in yet another illusion- just like the Black Mercy, with Kara in a coma that she couldn’t escape from, while Alex was forced to deal with another problem. Kara hoped she was okay, and that she wouldn’t see Alex in this reality, having been “whammied” herself.

But before they could get too deep into any conversation, they ran into someone Barry seemed to recognize.

He kind of reminded Kara of Jack Harkness, in who he looked like, except dressed in a white suit and far more serious.

Whoever he really was, though, he sounded like he knew them too.

“There you are!”

“Merlyn-“

“Who?” Kara asked, at the same time as the mystery man.

“Who?”

“Malcolm Merlyn. Former head of the League of Assassins.” Barry whispered.

“The what of the what?”

“What the hell you talking about, kid? My name's Cutter Moran, I own this club, and both of you work for me.” He said, apparently having heard Barry.

“We what now?”

“I pay you to sing, not pepper me with questions.” Cutter said. “And I hope you got something better in your songbook than what you were belting out up there, blondie.”

“Hey! Don't call me blondie.” Kara protested.

“Hey, look, I don't know who you are-“ Barry started. But he was quickly silenced, as Cutter pulled out a knife and held it dangerously close to his face.

“-Obviously you're someone who's quick with a knife.” He continued.

“You have to excuse my friend. He doesn't think before he talks.”

“Yeah, I had a cousin like that. I had to slit his throat too.” Cutter said, still waving the knife around in a way Kara wasn’t comfortable with, for Barry’s sake.

“Oh.”

“Grady!” Cutter called. “Get these two set up. And nothing I've heard before. I want something original.”

“Barry, I don't have my powers.” Kara whispered. She hadn’t been able to admit it to herself before, but she knew it was true- she felt the same way in this world as she had when she’d stepped onto Slaver’s Moon a few months previous.

“Me neither.” Barry said, as they both waited for whoever this Grady guy was. If he was working for Cutter Moran, though…

It was safe to say that they were each equally cautious.

But thankfully, the person who came up to them was a much more familiar face for Kara, and the tenseness she was feeling almost instantly eased away.

“Winn! Winn, you're here too?” Kara asked, almost giving him a hug, but he put his hands up before she could get close enough to do so.

“Ah! Who's Winn? The name is Grady. I tickle the keys around here.” He said. “Say, you realize how he got the nickname "Cutter," don't you?”

“No.”

“Because he likes to cut people.”

Grady chuckled.

“You ask me; I think he's all talk.” Said another familiar face.

“Cisco!” Barry said, before realizing again that this wasn’t his world, and these really weren’t his and Kara’s friends and enemies by association. “…not Cisco. Hello.”

I pray that, one day, you do not find out how very, very wrong you are, Pablo. Now go do your job.” Grady said.

“All right.” Pablo answered, before Grady left and he turned to Barry and Kara.

“You see, Grady doesn't know this, but one day, I'm gonna be somebody. I'm gonna be somebody, and it's gonna happen right there on that stage. You'll see. I just need my one shot.” He said.

“It's just curiouser and curiouser.” Barry muttered, as Pablo left too.

“Yeah, yeah, it's like "The Wizard of Oz.” Kara said, knowing that they were talking about two completely different stories but going with her own comparison nonetheless.

“Yeah.”

“And you were there, - and you were there-“ Kara continued.

“- Except, it's not really them. They're all playing characters in a-“

“Musical.” Barry and Kara realized at the same time.

Devious, and brilliant.

“Barry, where are we?” she asked, as the two of them stared at each other.

“I don't know.”

The lights came on brighter, suddenly, and Kara and Barry turned to face the guy who’d whammied both of them. He was still wearing his fancy suit, and now standing on the stage, illuminated by the spotlight.

“Well, you know what they say.” He said. “The show must go on!”

“Ah!”

“-The show must go on! Ah, Supergirl, I loved your rendition of "Moon River," such a beautiful song. You were a little flat in places, but I'm willing to let it slide just because you're so cute.”

“Hold on. What did you do to us?

“Oh, nothing much. Just put a little song in your heart.”

Barry scoffed.

“Put a little-Why did you bring us here?”

“I didn't bring you anywhere. We're inside your heads. You created this world. And we got lucky because it could have been a war movie or a a space opera, but thanks to your love of musicals, with the countless times you watched, um, "Wizard of Oz" - with your adoptive parents –“ he said, looking at Kara.

“How did you know that?” Kara asked, even though she had the feeling she wouldn’t find out, as he then turned to Barry.

“And, you, all those rainy nights watching Fred Astaire and Frank Sinatra with Mom. Well, where else would we be?”

“All right, all right.” Kara said, before attempting to punch him.

He disappeared before her fist could connect with any part of him, only for him to reappear right after she pulled her hand back.

“Ooh! Swing and a miss.” He said. “I didn't tell you. I'm not really here. See, I'm out there in the real world. Central City's mine for the taking.”

“Ah. We're gonna stop you.” Barry answered, even if Kara didn’t think he sounded that confident.

“Yeah!”

“You're welcome to try that. If you can get out of here.”

“How do we get out of here?”

“You're in a movie musical. So all you have to do is just follow the-“

“The Yellow Brick Road?” Kara interjected.

“No, the- the script.”

“Oh, yeah. Script.”

“Reach the end of the plot, and, presto chango, you get to go home. One little detail, though, I should mention if you die in here, you die out there.”

“Lovely.” Barry said.

“I've reached my limit with magical creeps.” Kara added, unable to shake the impression that he might be a new incarnation of Mxyzptlk, messing with her life yet again.

“In the meantime, I hope you're both ready to get the rust off those pipes of yours.”

“We're not singing for you!” Kara answered immediately.

“No. Uh, any anymore, I mean.” Barry said.

“Come on, now, maybe just one little - fun opening number just to-“

He took his jacket off, and threw it away, seemingly for no reason.

“Leave your jacket on.” Barry continued, but was ignored.

“-kick things off!”

“Where did it go?”

“Think of your fellow man-“

“Stop that.” Kara said, at the same time Barry said, “It's not happening.”

“Lend him a helping hand-“

“It's not gonna work.”

“We're not singing!”

“Put a little love in your heart…”

The man walked around behind the piano, and as if compelled by magic, Grady began to play, singing along with him- and eventually, Pablo and Cutter joined in, until the whole thing became a full-scale musical number, as Kara and Barry could only watch.

When it was over, he’d disappeared, and Kara and Barry went to look for him, deciding to follow the script- which happened to involve running into some more gangsters, and Barry getting knocked out.

Barry came to with Kara by his side, as they both seemed to be stuck in what looked like a warehouse.

“Barry, are you okay?”

“Oh, please stop yelling.”

“I'm not yelling.” Kara whispered.

“Wait, where are we?”

“I don't know.”

“All right, well, I'm sure everybody at S.T.A.R. Labs is working on getting us out of this.”

“Yeah, I'm glad they brought me to your Earth.”

Kara exhaled.

“Brainy seems like he really cares about you.”

She scoffed, as Barry stared at her.

“Brainy… only cares about himself.” She said. “And keeping his secrets. He lied to me about how he really ended up here- for nine months. And I know it was noble, that he was trying to protect his friends and all by sacrificing his safety for theirs… but I still wish we could’ve been prepared for what he brought with him.”

“Hmm.”

“I can't shake it. I thought it was gonna be something special like what you have with Iris.”

“That is… off track.”

“I'm sorry.” Kara said.

“I asked her to marry me.”

“You did? That's great.” Kara answered, then upon seeing Barry’s face, changed her answer to, “Did she not say yes?”

“Oh, she said yes, but I guess I did it for the wrong reason, and, I mean, I love her, but I was trying to change the future. Then I pushed her away so I could focus on saving her, and it's just a mess now.”

Kara looked up at the ceiling, contemplating her own relationship problems.

“Everything's so simple when I'm running.”

“Or flying.”

“Shut up! Both of you.” Said the man watching them, leaning against a desk with his arms folded.

The man turned out to not be someone Barry knew named Stein, but instead another gangster, who happened to be partners with someone named not Joe West, but rather Digsy Foss. And Kara and Barry, being the heroes that they were- even though in this reality they were only singers for Cutter Moran- ended up agreeing to help find Digsy’s daughter, Millie. Who happened to look a lot like Iris, and had last been seen in Cutter’s place.

After all, there was nothing they could do other than follow the script, and both Kara and Barry agreed that this was where they were going.

That, and it was, as their captors had promised, a matter of life and death.

Specifically, theirs.

Pablo ended up taking them to Apartment 4-B, where Millie was staying.

#papa don't look #peskyburgers #supergirl #karadox #supergirl au #fanfics #supergirl season 2 #kinda #the flash #westallen #i hope you like this nerd #love you #happy birthday

10 notes · View notes

roger1na · 5 years

Text

careful ch5 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and befriend the sweetest man on the planet.

word count: 2.3k+

warnings: swearing

author's note: i'm so happy w all the positive comments i get you guys have all my uwus <3. i've realised FAR too late that brian's supposed to have hepatitis right now so ig in this universe it didn't happen, let's save our boy from some sickness. i think if i can keep to plan, careful should be twelve whole chapters! i don't want to start any new series before it's complete, i'm prone to abandoning projects if i don't really stick with them.

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter five

There was a certain routine to being in love. The butterflies you got every time you wrote about him in your diary. The softness of your heart when you heard Queen play on the radio and perked up your ears to hear the often forgotten bassline.

You soon learned that ‘till next time was code for next week, when John brought you lunch again, letting you hold his hand and tease him about his thick curls and shy smile. The late July sunlight played with the shadows on his face beautifully. Sometimes you felt as if you could just stare at his face forever, get lost in his features. Rose comforted you, saying it was part of falling in love. It terrified you, as a thought. But you hadn’t even properly kissed yet. The thought was ridiculous.

“What’re you thinking about, love?” You let the term of endearment roll of your tongue nervously, relying on British culture to keep your true meaning hidden. You had been walking for quite some time in silence after enjoying lunch in Kensington.

He hesitated slightly before replying. “The new album is so Freddie, Brian and Roger. I feel like the bass is lost.”

“You wish there’d be more bass?”

“Well, I don’t mind not being in the spotlight all the time…” he trailed off.

“But?” You encouraged him.

“I miss songs like Liar. Where I had a solo and all that.”

“You should write your own song, then.”

He looked at you, eyebrows raised, incredulous expression plastered across his face. You laughed and shrugged. “I know none of the songs on Queen and Queen II are yours. Why don’t you give this one a little Deaky twist?”

“Yeah but I can’t sing.”

“Bullshit, you have a great voice.” You stopped walking and turned to him. “I at least like it.”

A small redness spread across his cheeks and he avoided your gaze. “Well, uh,” he stumbled over his words.

“And also, if you want something a little less serious, why not play a bit of a practical joke on them? Something silly and stupid, Freddie would go bonkers for that.” You trailed off before smiling softly. “And, uh, Liar is my favourite song. Especially the bass.”

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too! They’re going to have a laugh.”

“Well then, make it into a funny song. Then they’ll laugh for the humour and you won’t feel bad if they insult your poetry or whatever.”

“You really think I should do this?”

“Absolutely.” You took hold of both of his hands and grinned.

You were caught in the moment just staring into his eyes. They were a wonderful shade of grey, occasionally looking dark and black in the shadows and sometimes twinkling like diamonds. You kept going back to the concert where you’d met him. The mischievous glint in his eye kept bringing you back to the silver glint of his bass strings.

A camera shutter snapped behind you, startling you. John’s expression changed from happy to apprehensive and his stance became wary.

“Was that a paparazzi?” The word sounded so silly. So fictional. He grimaced and nodded as some college student with a pimply face and shaky legs ran off with expensive equipment, and probably a picture of you and John where you looked madly in love. Or completely ridiculous. Your skirt suddenly felt too short, your shirt cropped too low and your hair messy.

John’s grip on your hand tightened. “Can we just go back?” You mumbled, embarrassment creeping in your voice.

John looked at you, worried. “Yeah, of course. You alright?”

You nodded, but you didn’t even convince yourself. He lead you back to the office through various shortcuts and darkened alleyways, hurriedly making sure nobody followed you. Once you arrived at the big glass doors to your office he apologised profusely.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve been more careful.” His eyes were sad.

“Hey,” you grabbed his cheeks and squeezed them together slightly to make him form a smile. “Don’t worry about it,” you assured him, although your knees were shaking slightly.

“That’s not normal, I promise.”

“I believe you.” And you wanted to. But fear was creeping in your heart.

“‘Till next time?” He asked nervously.

“‘Till next time,” you promised him, squeezing his cheeks one more time before turning and rushing to the office.

A cloud hung over you as you walked over to your desk, heart beating rapidly, blood rushing in your ears. Williams was whispering something to an intern who looked like he was about to pee his pants at the sight of her, knees clicking together in fear.

You didn’t feel like challenging her anymore. She had a superiority complex. And she definitely hated competition in the workplace, although your intention was not to rise through the ranks. She saw women as something to weed out. You never understood what made her put herself against you, until you were warming up for an audition, and you realised that all the other dancers were looking for the same prize you were. But today, you gave it no thought.

For the first time ever, it properly hit you. John Deacon was famous. He went on tours and played for lovesick fans and probably had an army of teenage girls ready to tear him to shreds if the opportunity presented itself. Or maybe you were being delusional and he was just slightly more known than usual. He was a niche, he was a bass player. He wasn’t in the spotlight that often. Maybe.

You boiled coffee for yourself in thought, stirring in cream and sugar and taking a thoughtful sip. Would your mark on the world be a paparazzi photo with a guy you maybe-dated? While he had an incredible legacy? You’d be like one of those girls in a fan photoshoot which got terribly famous - only to remain anonymous. It was all so complicated.

The office had grown quiet when you returned from the canteen. Several people shot you pitying looks and Williams didn’t look so confident anymore.

“What’s going on?” You whispered to her, suddenly uncomfortably aware of yourself.

Nat left her front desk quickly, hiding something behind her back. “Y/N, sweetheart, don’t be mad…” she trailed off before handing you a copy of the Sun’s evening paper. “It just came in print.”

On the front page there were tons of different news. About celebrity scandals and weird locals. And then a small square image on the right corner of the page. John, with a dopey smile on his face, holding hands with a girl. It was you. Stupid grin and eyes for only John. And the title of the article made you sick.

Queen’s mr. Deacon hanging with the wrong crowd? Somebody should warn you…

Earlier today Queen’s John Deacon was spotted with a girl who works for the infamous gossip magazine Seven. What’s the girl fishing out of him? More on p.13

The article itself was maybe an eighth of a page, accompanied with two pictures. The one on the cover and one where you were entering the office building. But it was pictures of you. It was tarnishing you. You were going to be sick. What would he think if he saw this? You set down the paper and stormed to the bathroom before anybody saw your tears spill over your cheeks.

You stayed like that for a while, occasionally thinking you were brave enough to face people again. Then you caught sight of your red, swollen face and bleary eyes and retreated back into your stall. You mulled things over and over again. Was it always going to be like this?

You were at the office long after hours. Eyes stinging from crying and wiping them with sandpaper-like toilet paper.

Nobody tells you this, but crying from embarrassment and humiliation is the worst type of crying. With every tear that falls, you are reminded of how you messed up or how somebody decided that your actions were something to laugh at. With every sniffle you remembered that you had to go back and face the world, even though your knees were weak and your moral low.

While you were busy letting yourself get run down, the office had emptied. The lights were off and you could hear a lone janitor whistling as he cleaned. You sat down at your desk, pulling your knees to your chest, the chair creaking under your weight. Your sniffle echoed too loud.

You sat there for a while, feeling abandoned by the world. You let yourself be vulnerable and the press snagged onto it. You let yourself fall in love and now half of England thought you were scheming slag.

Your eyes drifted around your desk and landed on the locked drawer where you kept your diary. You fiddled with the lock a bit before it clicked open.

It was filled with memories from the wonder of late july. John this, John that. Ballet had trailed off the pages. You still danced. Every day but saturdays and sometimes even then. Your toes were bleeding often and your ankles hurt and you barely slept because your job started early and ballet ended late. But you had forgotten how much it used to eat up your happiness. It was the only thing that brought you joy. Now that John was part of the scene, you had a break every day. Like an entry to a whole nother universe for half an hour. Where he told you about photography and birds and basslines and you explained how all ballet dancers were evil because every understudy hoped for the failure of the prima ballerina. It was change and it was great. The fear in your heart was losing the fight.

If Rose could astral project, she would’ve appeared to you right then and there, screaming at you to call him.

You dialed his number and picked up the phone. It rang a few times before he answered, nervous on the other line.

“Hello this is John Deacon here,” he announced and then made a small tsk noise with his mouth.

You were so overcome with the relief of hearing his voice that you only managed a small sniffle.

“Y/N? Are you okay?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“You sound like you’re in tears.”

You laughed blearily. “Yes well, a bit. Don’t pick up the Sun today.”

“Ah, I see.”

“You read it?”

“Well, I know where you work. I’m still fine.”

You pressed your face into your hand. “God I feel like such an idiot.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault, y’know? I should’ve realised. You’re John Deacon of Queen.”

John’s heart stilled. You didn’t sound bitter, just sad. Like you were done with everything. The lunch dates were a bad idea. The ballet lessons and the phone calls and the pampering. Bad ideas. He was about to open his mouth but you stopped him.

“I’m all in.”

“What?”

“Paparazzi and bad reputation and all stupid things included. All in.”

“What?” He was struggling to grasp what you were trying to get across to him.

“I feel like… I was one foot out of the door? I was nervous and hesitant to fall for somebody. And when I saw that article, it was maybe the worst moment of my life so far.”

“This isn’t very convincing.”

You started laughing on the other end. “Oh, you’re right, I need to clarify. I looked through my diary and so much has happened since I fainted at that concert. I’m all in. No hesitation anymore.”

“You keep a diary?” You could hear his teasing smirk through the phone.

“That’s what you got from me pouring my soul out to you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t pick up on the subtext that I’m definitely kissing you the next time we see?”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to hang up now-”

“No wait! Tell me more.” He urged you, laughing on the other end.

“You sure? You don’t want to tease me anymore?”

“I’ll stop, I promise.”

“Okay,” you giggled. “So, Swan Lake by my class group has its opening night next week, Friday at 8pm. And I was hoping you’d join me. Or join the audience, I suppose.”

“I get to see you dance?” His voice was alive with joy and wonder, in an almost childlike way.

“Yes, yes! That’s what I mean. That’s part of all in. You get to see me dance.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Yes I agree, I am wonderful.” You laughed.

He scoffed on the other end. But his heart was palpitating. He was overcome with happiness. It’d been strange, courting a girl who was so carried by art, so immersed in dance that she could let herself go for weeks on end just to keep up with it. Seeing her work come to life was the biggest prize he could’ve gotten from making time for you, bringing you lunch, making sure you didn’t starve yourself for the work.

“What made you decide you’d want to kiss me?”

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it? There’s been too many almosts. To hell with almosts.”

“Have you drank something?”

“No!”

“You promise? I won’t wake up tomorrow and you’ll have forgotten all of this?”

“Of course not, I’m responsible.”

“Sure.”

You chatted for a while. He was such lovely company. So full of adoration and respect and wit. He had such a way with words. You felt deep longing in your heart. You also felt relieved, like five years worth of missing love was finally replaced with the warmth of another person.

“I think I’ve got to go now,” you whispered when the janitor entered your section of the office. “I’ll see you friday.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Bye, John.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

You set down the phone, adrenaline making your hands tremble ever so slightly. You wiped your face one last time before taking your things and leaving the office. There was a spring to your step which echoed in the empty evening London streets. You could hear the bellowing of drunks from the pubs and the crying of a baby from a nearby apartment. But it didn’t really mean anything to you anymore. You were flying on the wings of love.

God you felt ridiculous.

***

taglist: @fourmisfits @deakysgirl @im-happy-at-home @obsessedwithrogertaylor @itsametaphorbriansblog @rhapso-kei

#john deacon x reader #deacy x reader #deaky x reader #joe!john deacon x reader #joe!john x reader #john deacon #queen imagine #careful - jd #aa u guys im so excited for the following chapters #trust me it gets fantastico #youre going to love it bc it's going to be /hella/ overdramatic #and trope-y #so trope-y

53 notes · View notes

storiesofwildfire · 5 years

Text

@likesbeingbad - continued from (x)

He never really understood it. Books, literature, the entire fascination and frankly snobbish nature of the book lovers world. Hyde tried it once, bored within twenty pages and itching to go outside and live. There’s a lack of love when the stories are being told through dead wood and musty dust. Awfully lonely. You have a universe to experience! Tales to tell with grand gestures and highly amusing voices.

After all the old lessons were never made to silent. They were made to roar! To tear from the heart and the throat and to keep an audience wide eyed, engrossed in the world you build them. Swayed by the view presented, a gorgeous manipulation, a cautionary telling.

It was boring, all of it. The whole thing was utter nonsense, such a Jekyll way of passing the time really, leaving his skin itching, aching to go and speak to someone, find entertainment, find a dance. The night was young, the day was bright and oh how someone sings with the right hand. No book could mimic that.

But Loki liked them, of course they did, dull pastimes always fascinated minds looking to go silent when left with too much time to think. Driving yourself barmey on what ifs and maybes but he never lived in maybes, didn’t care for what ifs. Hyde could handle those changes, that thrill and ride of the unknown. He never had to try and escape his own head, only Robert dearests, always half asleep with Jekyll, half bored and then? Half alive when his time came. No time to be wasted in rotting pages and the smell of bitter ink.

Loki’s love for it was getting - hm, not annoying, oddly the little thing was far less annoying than he anticipated which was curious, intriguing, amusing to all end. A Hyde and a Norse? Quite the delicious mix for chaos, for fun if Loki would just put down that dead tree and pay him some bloody attention!

How long had it been since he was given true delight? Whiled away across the recliner just needing, clawing in his throat, biting sharp at his heels. To get out, to go and run, to find someone to hold his attention the way slender fingers held that damn chopping block and firmly ignored him.

Ignored him.

Hyde drapes himself over the back, clicks his tongue once more and waits. Still as anything, watching, listening through the stillness of his chest and not a peek! Not a care in the world, what good did that do him? What fun was that? He could be out with thighs about his waist or a sweet voice in his ear but no! No he’s here, bored out of his mind, out of his skin, snapping to sink fangs into a throat and shake the sense of the world into his typically lovely company.

Jekyll’s desire to stay, to enjoy company. It had to be because Hyde would never be so careless with sentimentality a Hyde never could. Caring for them so warmly, until it seeped into Hyde’s chest and cut deep the urge to run. Cursing him surely, oh, but it is something to follow. Something to hear, something to hunt. To wonder why and chase the answer on the curve of an all too smug smile.

He’s bored and Loki’s books are the cause of this travesty of an evening. So the answer is simply, truly, deliciously so. For dead things burn just as brightly as the living and it would be a shame if something were to happen to the attention thieves sitting so innocently on the shelf.

Hyde is out of the chair in seconds, naturally, quicker than Jekyll, quicker than Loki because his feet were made to carry adventure. Made to enjoy and seek and bring about the world to its knees not waste his time in a silent room with nothing to do, nothing to say, only deadly, echoing, ugly boredom.

It’s innocent enough the first touch, isn’t it? Just touching, seeking, having a little drag of his fingers against the spines. Letting them curl, letting them tear just so. A threat and a promise because these things, this unnecessary recording of thoughts, this pathetic excuse for entertainment? They wouldn’t last much longer not whilst he was left to his own devices.

Loki doesn’t look up at the first touch, nor the second and Hyde turns one over in his hands. Stench of mould, a loss of life what a poor waste of a perfectly good tree, of something to sing and live and breathe. Mmm, but humans did love doing that didn’t they? Taking, taking, hating when they were taken in turn.

It hits the floor with a thud and Blue eyes glint when Loki finally looks up but it’s only for a moment the bastard, right back to ignoring him, to watching pages with words in a language that would last only a thousand or so years and then it would be gone, it would fade. The paper would waste away and the world would continue around it because books did not last, no, nothing ever did.

Darling to think otherwise. Another thud and Hyde’s smile widens as he pushes his hand behind a good few volumes. Teetering so precariously on the edge, begging for rescue, ah but time never was a friend and he’s just so… close.

It’s an order he thinks, no - no. He knows it is. Said in a tone that’s cutting and runs a shiver up his spine, defiance in the way he purses his lips in contemplation and pushes another just that sliver bit closer to the edge. Sad, drab, lost little trees. When they’re burnt and fallen to ashes perhaps he’ll mingle them, mix them to paste and let the forests boom from their corpses.

Oh now that’s an image!

“I’m not doing anything untoward. Just… looking.”

Another volume falls at the word, a tap of his finger and so very, very blatantly and invitation to stop him. To make him stop, challenge him for it. Give him some for of interaction before he becomes as domestic and tamed as is whiney human other half. Loki was always so attractive when angry with him.

“Whoopsie! Now is it really my fault if they fall when I’m studying? Just slipfrom my grip. Right to the floor?”

Hyde brings up a finger, pushing harder now, letting the next fall further, harder, clicking his tongue at tutting at Loki like a condescending little Lilly trying to make him behave. He never did and if there was any true justice in the world, any hope left then Loki wouldn’t either.

Why resist after all? When the temptation seeps from his pores and he breathes in that lovely, mingled scent. Not quite female, not quite male but everything he needs to move with new vigor, prowling over to where Loki remained so delicate, poised, perfectly prim and beautifully ready to ruin.

“And if I don’t knock them? If I leave your precious little collection all alone and stagnant in their place in the world, what will that get me? Hm? I’m ever so curious. What is your price for those tedious books of yours?”

♔—- Loki and Hyde represented two very different forms of chaos, as the Norse Chaos Goddess had come to realize. While they derived from the same sort of ideologies, Loki still possessed much more discipline and structure whereas Hyde... Well, if he didn’t have something to keep his immediate attention for five minutes, he’d start itching, start looking for ways to cause a mess, and purposefully seek out the opportunity to cause an uproar because it was fun.

Loki understood that notion more than most. When left to her own devices without anything to keep her occupied, she often found it difficult not to go a bit mad. Endless possibilities and she found herself stuck doing anything but seeing even a single one of those outcomes to fruition. Her mind wandered, sometimes took a turn for the worst, and when she grew bored, so did her magic.

Restless seidr proved to be as dangerous as an unoccupied Goddess who’s mind moved far more quickly than most.

She, however, represented so much more than Chaos. She embodied so many ideas and desires and groups of people that she could not simply focus on moving forward and doing whatever she pleased whenever she pleased without stopping to take a few breaths. Books always helped her keep calm and stay level headed. Without many of her spellbooks and texts, learning to control her magic would have been an impossible task, especially when she so quickly surpassed every other sorcerer who happened to be available to teach her.

They occupied her mind, gave her something to focus on at the worst of times, taught her, and provided her with entertainment. As the Goddess of Storytelling, how could something as simple and trivial as a book not mean the world to her? In a way, it represented everything she was and every legacy she would leave behind.

Hyde didn’t get that. He didn’t understand Loki’s love of reading and studying, didn’t understand that there was as much value tucked away in the pages of some of her books as there was in spending an entire day exploring a new world. Loki tried a few times, to explain to him why they were so important to her, why she needed them, but he didn’t get it. Trying to get through to him about topics he didn’t understand was something of a chore and when it came to Loki’s love of books? And Loki’s ties to them? It was like talking to a brick wall.

All right, perhaps completely ignoring Hyde for the text in her hands was a bit rude, but she’d been reading long before he showed up, and she hadn’t been secretive about wanting to take a quiet day to herself to study. Hyde staring at her while dramatically throwing himself over a chair to catch her attention did little to do so. She was aware of his presence, of the theatrics he put on in hopes of capturing her attention, but like a child needlessly begging for attention at the worst of times, she refused to give it to him.

He could wait until she was finished and then they could go out, find something to eat, and enjoy their evening together, but before then? Loki needed some Loki time and Hyde wasn’t part of that equation.

She knew he pushed himself up from the chair after realizing he wasn’t getting her attention and she listened to the sound of his footsteps as he made his way over to a wall of shelving that housed some of Loki’s most loved texts. The first thud had her clenching her jaw, her teeth grinding together at the sound of the sheer and utter disrespect of her personal belongings, but she wasn’t inclined to play Hyde’s games right then. She looked up for the briefest of moments, silently shooting him a cold glare, before returning her gaze to the page in front of her.

Though, please know, it nearly killed her to ignore one of her old books being haphazardly tossed on the floor as if it meant nothing at all.

To Hyde, she supposed it didn’t. It was just an obstacle that stood in the way of what he wanted: her attention.

The second thud finally succeeded in capturing her attention, so much so that she promised not to speak to Hyde for an entire week if he knocked anymore of her books down. Threaten him with the one thing he wanted most, right? He was acting out to get her attention, because he wanted her to focus on him and entertain his whims, so threatening to withhold that for a week? He wouldn’t like that.

Though her threats, it seemed, did little to discourage him, as he challenged her demands by inching a few more volumes towards the edge of the shelf, threatening to drop them in their entirety to the floor. Her eye twitched and she did nothing to try and stop that.

She doesn’t move from her seat, but she does set her book aside. Emerald magic surrounds the next two books to tumble from the shelf, allowing them to levitate mid-air before impacting with the ground. The same energy appears around the two volumes already on the floor, carefully hoisting them up so the entire group of books can move to a little table beside Loki.

Her eyes, however--just as brightly intense as her magic--never left Hyde threatening to tumble more books over the edge.

“I am not going to reward you for pissing me off, Hyde. I’m not going to give you anything. I’m not going to make a bargain with you to not destroy my things because I’m not negotiating this. You’re being a right, proper arse. You don’t deserve nice things from me because you stopped holding my books hostage,” she snarled, clearly angry despite a tiny voice at the back of her mind telling her not to be. That’s what Hyde wanted, in reality. He so did seem to love getting off on the notion that Loki was angry with him.

She hadn’t quite figured out the best ways to get Hyde to stop when he got like this. Their relationship was still new enough that she was learning about him and he was learning about her in turn and while it would have been far more effective to just... grow upset with her lover, get sad, pout, maybe shed a tear or two, she hadn’t done that enough to establish a pattern of him really not liking it.

And she was oh-so protective of her beloved books, many of which were actually older than her and needed to be handled with care. Fortunately, Hyde hadn’t selected any issues that were too fragile to toss on the floor. If he had, she likely would have already been beating him.

She did, however, go the extra mile to move the rest of the books that Hyde pushed towards the edge, allowing them to float across the room and stack up on the table beside her along with the four he’d already disrespected. He hardly seemed to notice, as he was already charging across the room to where she sat, poised as elegantly and effortlessly as ever.

“You’d probably have an easier time getting me to pay attention to you if you weren’t purposefully trying to instigate a fight,” she murmured, pushing herself up so she could reach a hand up to cover his face. While her touch was soft due to how seriously she took skincare, the shove she gave him was powerful enough to force him back, giving her more than enough room to stand up so he wasn’t hovering over her anymore like some sort of predator about to pounce.

Hunger and temptation burned in Hyde’s eyes, though. She’d seen it plenty of times before and it usually made her own blood boil. In a way, it did in this scenario as well. There was something so alluring about him purposefully trying to get her going that she found annoyingly attractive in the worst ways possible, but atop that shimmering desire was just blatant anger at him for disrespecting her things.

“I know you don’t give a damn about books, but if you give a damn about me, then you’re going to have to start respecting my possessions and what is important to me. You disrupting my studies isn’t going to make me want to go out with you and have a good time tonight, it just kind of makes me want to hit you, honestly.”

#likesbeingbad #c; hyde #( main verse ; post thor ) a god among men #( ship ; likesbeingbad ) in this kaleidoscope of chaos we sink or we swim together #( ship ) loki x jekyll x hyde #( long response ) if it were easy everyone would do it

1 note · View note

idolizerp · 5 years

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON IMPERIAL’S MAIN VOCAL KWON JAEYOON...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 26 DEBUT AGE: 22 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 16 COMPANY: 99 Ent. ETC: this member is known for their work with lyrics and production

IDOL IMAGE

DAY.

he’s perfect boyfriend material—he’s got the pretty boy looks, the soft flirty smile, a mouth full of sweet promises and romantic lines aimed to woo girls and capture hearts, and a voice crooning love for all eternity.

he’s got it all and 99 ent. thinks they’ve got themselves a bonafide diamond in the rough—what with his family background and status, the innate talent they’ve honed, the rough edges of his youth sanded down and shaved to the wick until all that’s left is something they can mold, command, and make entirely theirs.

it’s almost too easy—to market him as the charismatic hyung responsible for keeping the rest of imperial in line. easy to turn him into a mouthpiece, give him scripted lines to say during variety shows, interviews, promotions, what have you. he’s an almost leader. just without the official title. they tell him to be the responsible one, to lead by example. he’s to keep his members on a leash and ensure they don’t take a step out of line. he plays the part well enough. he doesn’t so much as yank them by the back of their shirts as he does lean over to whisper in his members’ ears when the cameras flash and the fans are watching.

sometimes, he almost fades into the backdrop amidst his more outspoken members—until he steps foot on stage, the spotlight shines, and the music turns on. with a mic in his hand, a slow acting flame ignites and he lights up in front of the eyes of his fans. he’s magnetic, voice electric. 99 calls it quiet charisma—the way he ignites on camera, on stage, but flickers out as soon as the cameras pan away, turn off. he’s got eyes that burn bright and a grin so small, so dangerous, it’s there one second and gone the next.

it makes him a little more sensual, a little more edgy. from boy to man. like some kind of switch inside of him flicks on and off at will. and when the songs end, he’s back to the humble boy bowing and smiling. boyish, charming, and sweet all at once.

it drives his fans wild. the fans love it—the dichotomy. love him.

to the fans, jaeyoon is the member who holds their hand and remembers them by name at fan signs, who smiles and looks them straight in the eyes, giving them his full attention for as long as he can. he’s everything they want him to be—fantasy boyfriend, the almost best friend, the nice boy with no ulterior motives but a whole lot of love to give them, wherever and whenever.

behind closed doors, everyone (past and present trainees who have left 99 ent. and who still remain in the dungeons, waiting for their chance to shine) calls jaeyoon 99’s lapdog. the golden boy. squeaky clean and with the weight of that crown pressed atop his head, you’d think his shoulders would sag under the burden of such a heavy responsibility.

it should. it does.

just not in the way that the public sees. jaeyoon’s much too professional—too careful—for that.

it’s just a job, after all. a mask. a lie.

NIGHT.

all that danger lingering beneath the humble skin he wears simmers in the day and boils over at night.

on camera, he’ll love you a thousand times over in the way he sings about holding your hand and kissing you sweet, loving you broken and being the boy who will put your heart back together. put your heart in my hands, love, he croons, i’ll treat you right.

but once the cameras are nowhere in sight, watch the smile leave his eyes. watch the corners of his lip slip smoothly into something reminiscent of a smirk. wicked and all kinds of dangerous. when the city is poised at half-sleep, jaeyoon comes to life. the chains fall off, the mask slips away.

and all that’s left in his place is a boy who’s restless, reckless. a man who’s bored and has a penchant for adrenaline rushes, booze, and sex. it’s a far cry from the boyish prince who can do no wrong. the jaeyoon after dark is a predator all wrapped up in head-to-toe designer black with a rebellious curl to his lips.

don’t be fooled by his smile (no matter how pretty he looks). don’t be fooled by his lies.

he’ll love you any way you want him to—be whoever you need him to be. you can kiss him sweet, fuck him dirty, love him raw, broken, and hold him close.

but don’t trust him. don’t fall in love with him either.

because a boy like him doesn’t know how to love.

not anyone. not himself. not anything.

IDOL HISTORY

his parents are diehard workaholics, married to their jobs more than they’re married to each other. right around their prime, he comes along—an actual surprise baby. finally, an heir to their legacies. it’s no wonder his parents—his mother, in particular—look at him with practiced smiles and sky high expectations.

sometimes. all the time. when he fails to be perfect:

(a 99 is unacceptable, jaeyoon-ah. your father and i did not raise you to be a disappointment.)

when he gets disciplined for cheating on a test:

(he didn’t. he was framed. but he’s seven and not a genius. not smart enough to be manipulative. not smart enough to know the tricks of the trade. can’t kiss ass worth a shit. so the class president gets everyone’s sympathy—including that of his parents.)

when he runs away for the first time, his nanny panics.

his parents don’t. they don’t even know he was missing for a whole six hours. they weren’t even in the country. unreachable. unavailable. frantic phone calls going straight to voicemail.

typical.

he’s used to it.

the pushed-upon expectation to be independent. to follow the letter of the law (household rules and all that jazz) to the T. they know better than he does that he can’t survive outside the gilded cage his birthright puts him in.

he’s a silver-spooned child, through and through—whether he liked it or not.

ii.

if success is equated to money, his parents could probably roll in it. he could, too. if he actually gave a shit about reputation, legacy, and rubbing elbows with the top 1%.

(he doesn’t.)

success only robs him of normalcy, of a childhood that doesn’t involve an empty villa (the one his parents call a home. the one he calls a cage—a prison). obligations and responsibilities mean he practically eats alone seven days a week and having a blur of faces who go from wiping his ass as a baby to picking his clothes to driving him to and from school and hagwon to making him breakfast, lunch, and dinner to being dismissed permanently at the tender age of ten.

because he’s old enough now—responsible enough—to take care of himself.

(he doesn’t tell his parents he’s been doing it since he was as young as six years old. it’s not like they care, anyway.)

iii.

if childhood is lonely, his prepubescent years are even worse. in the span of ten years, he can count the number of times he sees his parents for longer than 24 hours on both hands—give or take a finger or two—and the number of times the three of them are actually even in the same room (and eating dinner together!) on one hand.

there’s no hope in ever being enough to hold his parents’ attention for longer than five minutes—ten minutes, tops.

getting into a prestigious prep school is a piece of cake. he’s been busting his ass for years, going to hagwon after hagwon after hagwon, and he finally gets in. (maybe he got in through his parents. who knows what kinds of connections they have. because, lord knows he probably didn’t make a good impression at the interview.)

but bringing home straight A's—whether forged or acquired through his blood, sweat, and tears means nothing to them. because on a scale of one to ten on how important he is compared to their career, he will always rank somewhere in the negatives.

it shouldn’t hurt to know this, though. he’s used to it.

it still hurts. it always does.

iv.

at thirteen, puberty hits him—and it hits him hard. the growth spurt is a blessing in disguise. so is the adam’s apple and the voice change (thank god, no more voice cracks). he’s got his parents’ good looks and he finally grows into them.

it turns heads, helps him make friends, brings him attention.

just not the kind he really wants.

his mother is abroad nowadays. paris, hong kong, new york. he’s only resentful that she’s never loved him enough to take him with her. his father, though still in seoul, rarely comes home—he practically lives in his office. he’s not naive enough to think his father would (or is) betraying his mother. infidelity isn’t something he’s even remotely worried about.

neither of his parents hate each other enough to seek pleasure and comfort in someone else. he wondered, once upon a time, why his parents didn’t just file for divorce. until he learns theirs is an arranged marriage and in holy matrimony (for fear of gossip and backlash) only in death will they part.

he doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.

(it’s neither. but at this point, he doesn’t give a fuck anymore.)

somewhere in between thirteen and sixteen, he discovers a knack for music. rhythm. and the way his body’s able to move—fluid and clean. he finds a niche in bass drops and hard hitting lyrics. more often than not, he finds a pen in his hand in the dead of the night, turning his loneliness (his resentment, his insecurities, his obligations) into metaphors about locks and chains, cages and barbed wire.

he finds it easier to drown himself in music. beyond closed doors, he creates himself a sanctuary—an escape—where it’s just him, the beat of the music, and his body popping and locking. free and unrestrained.

he falls in love. hard and fast and dirty.

and he never stops.

vi.

he’s sixteen when he auditions for 99 entertainment. it’s on a whim and comes on the heels of an epiphany he has in the midst of university applications and talks of getting into either of his parents’ alma mater.

for the first time in sixteen years, he wants something for himself. decides to pick the road of fame as his target. his next conquest.

when he makes it in, he smiles for the first time in a long time.

in response, his parents disown him. not publicly. they’d never do that. but they don’t speak to him again. (when have they ever?) the only reason he knows they know he still exists is the numbers in his bank account increasing at the same monthly rate.

he tells himself he’s fine with that. it’s nothing different, after all. some things will never change, no matter how much he wants them to.

vii.

he takes to trainee life like fish to water. drowns himself in it: dance practice, vocal lessons, body and weight training, academics and a social life. it’s hard and something’s gotta give.

he sacrifices university without a second thought.

his parents retaliate by changing the passcode to the villa and sends him the keys and the deeds to a new accommodation. a place all of his own, far far away from them.

(you are an abomination—a disgrace—kwon jaeyoon.)

(tell me something new.)

at eighteen, he could’ve had the world in the palm of his hands, but he gave it up for a lucrative dream he didn’t even know would actually come true.

viii.

trainee life isn’t as easy as he imagined. victory doesn’t come without some kind of sacrifice.

one year in and he’s pushed into more intensive training and thrust into vocal classes. from dancer to vocalist, it’s no wonder his peers look at him like he’s filth, wondering how a pretty boy who was rumored to have gotten in for his looks (and his money, his family connections, so the rumor grapevines say) could possibly be on the same level as them.

the resentment is palpable; he feels it every time he turns his back on them. feels it in their stares every time he makes some kind of progress, makes ripples big enough to earn praises from his trainers.

the competition only thickens, grows cloying and suffocating when POIZN’s tentative lineup is announced and he finds his name on the bottom of the list. the anger ripples. as does the hatred. the jealousy.

jaeyoon says nothing.

ix.

two years in and he ignites under all the negativity, his temper constantly held at bay. (all those reprimands when he was a child certainly comes in handy. control, his mother hisses in his ears at every single wretched parading of children like some kind of auction show disguised as the latest social gathering amongst the rich.)

he’s no longer a child seeking validation, needing acceptance. he cares for nothing but success. wants to win. wants to debut to prove them all wrong. wants something to call his own.

two years in and jaeyoon’s still there. practically living in the practice rooms, the booming speakers blasting the latest hit POWer song for the nth time, training his body to ride the beat and flow of lyrics and hard hitting beats.

when POIZN debuts without him, he almost quits. he should’ve known. should’ve known he’s not quite there yet—not good enough, not rough, not tough enough. always second best. second choice. backup.

he should’ve been angry. resentful.

(he was. is. hides it under a clenched jaw. hides it under sweat-soaked shirts and worn-ragged sneakers.)

the anger fuels him. makes him train harder.

he dances until the soles of his brand new shoes wear out. (he has ten pairs. it’s fine. he’s fine.)

he sings until his voice goes hoarse. cracks. until he loses it. (he tells himself not to panic. tells himself he sounds good. not pitch perfect, but getting there. tells himself to take it easy. he’s doing fine. just fine.)

six years fly by and finally, he comes out a winner.

(congratulations, kwon jaeyoon. welcome to imperial.)

interludes—some more significant than others, but interludes all the same.

a) life’s a competition. he knows this as soon as his agency pits him against other trainees (brothers, he’s come to call them. friends.) in a reality show about survival. they’re all hopeful talents. none of you are expendable. at least, that’s what he says on camera. in private, all he can think about is darwin’s theory on evolution. survival of the fittest. the last one standing—he wants it to be him.

b) he meets her for the first time in the last practice room down the hall. (this is the one he’s claimed as his own. the only place that’s seen his sweat, his tears, his self-criticism.) beautiful, he thinks when he watches her dance like no one’s watching, her voice stable despite the way her hips sway and her body rolls. beautiful, he thinks even when he sees her stumble; her body seizing momentarily, her legs giving out on her. beautiful, even when he thinks she’s going to break down and call it quits. (she doesn’t.)

beautiful, he smiles as she gets back up. over and over again. until she hits every beat with grace and a smile.

he meets her weeks later at evaluation and learns her name. he calls her yellow, instead. like gold. like sunshine. beautiful. still beautiful.

c) 2014 and imperial’s debut is a whirlwind. success doesn’t come easy—it’s a hard lesson learned. their music isn’t for everyone—they don’t have the bad boy hype or the boy-next-door vibe. they’re a delicate, oddball in-between, riding a peculiar mix of r&b, hip-hop and alternative pop. but their fans—loyal to the core and dedicated—keep them afloat. keep them riding a shallow current upstream towards success.

he doesn’t give up. he doesn’t know how. (imperial is all he has.)

d) 2016 and success comes in the form of an upgraded sound. sentimental breaks the mold. gives them their very first win, their first taste of fame. and jaeyoon, greedy for attention and the sound of the audience raving, gets a little more addicted. a little more corrupt.

e) three years post-debut and they’re on an slow, but steady upward climb to the top of the world. (he’s almost there. almost.) they’re fine. he’s fine. (is he, really?)

f) four years and he hates it.

hates the delusional fans. the sasaengs. hates POIZN and their constant scandals. hates 99 ent. and their shitty clean up methods. hates knowing imperial exists as some fucked up version of a janitor, created to clean shit up and sweep things under the rug. being underestimated and overshadowed by POIZN’s infamy grate on his nerves, ignites that flame always festering beneath his skin.

he hates everything: how he has to watch his mouth, his temper, his goddamn image. the pretty boy with the mouth full of sweet promises and a cheeky grin. he seethes because that’s not him. he’s not nice. far from it. rugged, reckless, and ruined, he’s a bad boy fronting a nice guy image for the sake of popularity and fleeting fame.

this is what he sacrificed his youth for—the flashing cameras, the ninety-degree bows, the plastic smiles, the made up stories designed to capture noona hearts, the soft romantic looks meant to awe, to tame, to capture.

it’s not him at all.

a mask. a lie. a job.

and he hates it all.

g) five years almost and his mask is starting to chip piece by brittle piece.

the nice guy image is getting old and jaeyoon’s getting more and more restless. he’s grown tired of the perceived notion that fame can keep them afloat. grown tired of the routines, the fake smiles. he's bored. and boredom makes a restless man dangerous.

he aches for the want of something more. wants to ruin the illusion of perfection just a little bit. wants to test boundaries, test patience, wants to push buttons. and little by little, jaeyoon starts growing fangs.

and so, his greed and ambition starts making appearances here and there in small snippets of magazine interviews or on the occasional variety show appearances he’s required to make to keep imperial on the radar. drops soundbites on instagram about his desire to keep producing and writing lyrics for bigger names, to sing on a brighter stage and a bigger audience.

like this, the muzzle slowly comes undone.

like this, he creates himself a storm. turns himself into the eye. a hurricane in human skin.

he counts the days when 99 ent. would regret loosening the reins, trusting him to keep himself at bay.

because once a predator, always a predator.

and reality is, jaeyoon has always been dangerous. a wolf in sheepskin.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.nam joohyuk

0 notes