#Queen Band Fan Fiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherspastries · 3 days ago

Text

MAY THE FLOWERS REMIND US

WHY THE RAIN IS NECESSARY.

LEARNING TO SHUT UP!

Guitarist!George Russell x Manager!Reader

BAND x Manager!Reader (Platonic)

SUMMARY ☆ George finds himself falling for you, his band's new manager! Unfortunately, he and his big mouth royally screws up.

WARNINGS ☆ George is kind of an asshole, hurt w/ comfort, slow burn?

WORD COUNT ☆ 7.9K

A/N ☆ This writing is pure fiction and does not reflect on the true actions, beliefs, or behaviors of the drivers! Some personalities are exaggerated for the sake of the plot. P.S. Experience may be amplified by listening to music! For George, I suggest songs from The Killers, The Smiths, and Oasis. Also, feel free to go vote for whose chapter I release next!

Reblogs, comments, and all support is super appreciated!

DIRECTORY | MASTERLIST | FAST LANE

“So, uh, what kind of experience do you have?” You’re seated at a plastic, folded table. Across from you are three men, all of varying descriptions. The one in the middle has a curly mop of hair, and he seems to be a little sheepish, like he has no idea what he’s doing here. A stack of note cards in his hand, and a pencil lies lopsided beside him. He’s been scribbling things down after every question as if it were a proper interview.

The other two are on each side of him, occasionally glancing at each other. Their gaze tells you they might have lunged at one another if the man in the middle weren’t present. “None,” you reply casually, shifting in your seat to get more comfortable. The taller fellow reacts visibly, his eyes wide and his hands over his heart– he looked to be quite the drama queen.

“None?!” He repeats incredulously. Your lips are drawn straight to reflect your unimpression of his reaction.

“That is what I said, yes.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but the young gentleman in the middle beats him to it, “And… Why are you interested in…”

“Administering.” The one who had been entirely silent so far finally spoke, assisting your interviewer in pronouncing one of the words on the card.

“Really? You couldn’t have just said managing?”

“Hey, this is supposed to be professional,” The diva refutes.

“I’m reading off of note cards-”

“I’m interested because I’ve always been a fan of rock music, and I think I have the organization skills to keep things well-managed,” You replied, just as you rehearsed many times before. It was a complete lie; you were pulling things out of your ass, but they didn’t need to know that. They just needed to know you were capable. This was your last hope.

He shuffles to the next note card, his eyes scanning the text. He squints and brings it closer to his eyes. Suddenly, he slams the thick stack down on the table, scattering everything. You flinch and sit up straight– The other two eye him suspiciously. “Great! You’re hired!”

“Wait, you didn’t even finish-” The Brit is, once more, cut off.

“You’re a perfect fit. I don’t need to hear more. When can you start?”

“Excuse me, I’m the one in charge of this band. I am the lead-”

“I can start today if you want.”

He stands up, holding his hand out with a huge grin. Your eyes shift from his face to his hand, and with reluctance, you stand to shake his hand, smiling. “Welcome to FAST LANE, Y/N!”

You’re flipping through papers on a clipboard while you walk into the recording studio. It’s primarily full of tour dates and notes from record labels– the basics. “Alright, boys, today we need to–”

“Your shoes are a disgrace!” George shouts towards Max. The latter looks down at his feet, confusion written across his face. “You’re totally sabotaging the whole vibe of the band.” He says it so adamantly, like it’s an undeniable fact. You sigh, leaning against the coffee counter. Oscar shuffles beside you, looking unsettled.

“I wear these every day,” Max counters, crossing his arms over his chest. You can practically see the steam coming from George’s ears by now.

“How long has this been going on for?” You whisper to Oscar. He perks up, nearly dropping his cup of coffee as if he wasn’t expecting you to interact with him. You can’t help but smile at this.

“Uh, just…” He pulled his sweatshirt sleeve up to peek at his watch. Oscar swallows thickly, looking shamefaced. “An hour…”

“An hour?” You repeat slightly louder. When Oscar nods, you sigh loudly and slam your clipboard on the counter. George and Max jump and turn to you, faces frozen in anger and shock. “Alright! Both of you, break it up.” You step up onto the stage. “George, quit tormenting him. Max-” You look down at his shoes and you lose your words all of a sudden. “Max, we’ll… Buy you new shoes for the next show-”

“See, they’re awful-”

“Shut it!” You snap, and George listens. Mostly because he’s just utterly taken aback by your sudden burst of confidence. “You two are always fighting like children, and I’m sick of hearing it. Especially from you,” You point an accusatory finger at George. He throws his hands up to look innocent, making you suspiciously squint your eyes. “Quit being so dramatic! You’ll live.”

When you stormed off to grab your things from the counter, you could just barely hear George whispering to Alex, the band’s technician, “Who do they think they are bossing me around?”

“Who do you think you are bossing around the manager you hired?” You fired back casually. You didn’t even turn to face him; you grabbed your clipboard and flipped back to your itinerary for the day. George clenched his jaw, but kept his silence. Good news for you: You’ve gone up the charts in their mental rankings! It’s rare for someone to get their frontman to shut up. “Anyway,” you try to brush past the serious vibe. This was supposed to be fun. “Today, you all need to run through your set list again, this time with Alex.” You gave a nod of acknowledgement to your technician. “Max, I need you to turn your amp up a bit more, and Oscar, I’d like yours to go down. We don’t want you overpowering the lead guitar.”

“Okay,” The younger member nodded, seeming slightly disappointed with this revelation. We can’t all be in the limelight.

“Lando, try to remember to keep your solos within the time given to you…” You scan the rest of the page and nod. “That should be it.”

“Nothing for me?” George asks, his arms crossed. Everyone else has already scampered off to set up the equipment, but he seems more occupied with targeting you. You look up towards the tall Brit, and then back to the page.

“Guess not,” You shrug.

“So… I’m perfect then? I must be if you have absolutely nothing to say. Are you trying to sabotage me?” Holy air ball.

“Mate, I didn’t get anything either,” Charles pointed out as he set up the stand for his keyboard. Max chuckled under his breath, something that went unnoticed by the band’s leader, but not by you. If you were being honest, you usually sided with him anyway.

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean you’re perfect, just means there’s nothing too obvious to point out.”

“Thank God,” Lando chimes in as he raises the seat for his kit. “George, no offense, man, but it was annoying when you’d point out every. little. detail.” He groans to emphasize the point further. “Like… That one time! We didn’t all need to know Oscar was a millisecond from his entrance. Not that you can hear the guy, anyway, because you’re always drowning him out.”

Ouch?

“So you guys are just fine with making mistakes?!” Everyone stares at him silently, making discreet eye contact like they were challenging each other to step up and say what was on everyone’s mind.

“Yes,” you answered for them. “Now get to work.”

“Wait-”

“Get to work.” You had the expression of a mother dealing with a back-talking child. It quieted him down real fast, at least.

Oftentimes, the boys thought they were being slick. They’d hang out in the studio under the guise of personal rehearsals— they’d even tell you that it wasn’t necessary you attend because it was just tweaking song lyrics and chords. In reality, they’d sit around a large table with drinks in hand and discuss things that weren’t music-related. Some include their romantic lives, celebrity gossip (from the lips of George and George only), and commentary on sports.

They operated quietly, keeping these secret meetups on the ‘DL’. They had to swear never to tell you because you’d be a raging—uh, let’s go with ‘lunatic’— if you found out. They planned everything out to go behind your back, and even if they felt guilty—

Yeah, anyway, you knew about it.

You discovered it when you pulled up to the studio to grab the laptop you left behind. You could practically hear their loud banter from a mile away. After listening for a few minutes, you decided it wasn’t anything you wanted to be a part of, so you left them to it. It’s not like they needed the extra rehearsal. Your schedule was doing them just fine. What you didn’t understand is why they didn’t just hang out at each other’s houses. It’s not like you’d want to be invited anyway. Their conversations were less than pleasant, especially with George and Max in the same room.

Today was one of those days, though. They told you ever-so inconspicuously that they would be having another private rehearsal session and that you weren’t required to come. And you, ever-so innocently, pretended like you were clueless and gave them the thumbs up to continue. Let them have their fun… Sure.

But you actually needed to do business at the studio today. Plus, they said you weren’t required to come. That didn’t mean you weren’t allowed. With your laptop and clipboard tucked under your arm, you entered with the intent of heading straight to your office. They didn’t even need to know you were there, and you didn’t need to say hello or anything. You just wanted to make a beeline for your own private room.

But when you passed by the door to the studio, which was just slightly cracked open, you heard your name drift out in casual conversation. So, even though you weren’t there to snoop… You did. You paused, ear pressed to the surface of the door.

“Y/N’s to blame for that.” Charles. You’d recognize that accent anywhere.

“For what? The show going smoothly?” George. The… More annoying accent. His voice made you clench your teeth with indescribable anger.

“Yeah. They work efficiently. It’s impressive.”

Your pride is glowing at the compliment. Maybe being a band manager for a bunch of dysfunctional adult men wasn’t the dream job, but you really had adjusted well. Plus, they were all unique and interesting in their own right. Getting to know them all proved to be a fun side gig.

But you were quickly shot through the heart mercilessly. “Please. It’s not that hard of a job. I used to do it just fine.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Lando interjects with a laugh from Max. “Let’s not get things twisted here. Y/N’s a way better manager than you ever were.”

“Someone’s just feeling petty.” Max cracked open another can of some carbonated drink and added, “Did they hurt your feelings?” in a degrading tone. Thanks Max.

“No, I’m just annoyed at being micromanaged.”

“You’re annoyed at being micromanaged by someone else,” Oscar points out kindly. Even in tense situations like this, he remains so polite. It often surprised you how messy and disorganized the sweet kid was. “You micromanage us all the time.”

“They’re not even that great, guys. You’re just blinded by a pretty girl joining our group.”

Oh that pissed you off. You took a deep breath and turned on your heel, choosing to leave after that. If you heard much more, you might have barged in there to give him a piece of your mind. It didn’t matter if you had work to do. It could wait. For now, you have a renewed sense of revenge.

You were gonna prove that idiot of a frontman wrong and be the best damn manager around.

You proved to be an invaluable member of the group. Just in the last week, you managed to book more gigs for them and smooth out more issues within the band than George could ever dream of. Sure, he laughed in your face about your tactics, but in the quiet of his lonely home, he’d have to admit you were doing pretty well. Everything you suggested always sounded absurd, and he rarely took you seriously, but ultimately, you showed him up.

For example, your therapy session idea. It had been a rough week for every member of the band, so you offered your personal consolation through short one-on-one sessions. It wasn’t anything particularly grand, but in George’s mind, it most certainly was ridiculous. You’d first find him dead before you saw him sitting in a room, pretending to be your client while you pretended to be his therapist.

And yet here we are.

“Tell me, George,” You click your pen and push your glasses up your nose. Whether they’re fake or not, they amplified the therapist's look. “What makes you so bitter towards your bandmate, Max?” You peer at him over the lenses, and he scoffs. You take note of this when you scribble something down on a paper attached to your signature clipboard.

In reality, you were just making silly doodles. None of this was actually necessary; it was only meant to be a way for the group to simmer down.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” You meet him with that typical Cheshire grin of yours. He sighs and sinks back into the cushiony chair, his hands gripping the edges of the armrests.

“He’s just annoying.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well… He’s always purposely pushing my buttons, and he acts like I’m the only one picking fights with him, but he’s always trying to rile me up, too.” You hum as you continue doodling on your page.

“Interesting. Go on.”

“The rest of the band just agrees with him, too! It’s like, come on guys, I can’t always be in the wrong-”

“I beg to differ. Proceed.”

He shot you a glare, but this time it felt different. When he saw your playful grin, his spite faded into something else; something new—something soft. It was hard to notice, but you did. How could you not when he was looking at you like you were holding the universe in your hands?

It was a weird feeling. You didn’t like it.

You were thankful when he broke the awkward silence, standing up and stretching out his lanky arms and legs. “That’s it,” He said firmly, shaking his head. “Great session. I’ll send in…”

“Lando,” You finished for him, and he gave a curt nod. As he left, you were abandoned with only one remaining thought. You spoke it aloud to yourself. It was a faint whisper beneath your breath, like a secret shared amongst close colleagues. “What the hell was that?”

☆!

While George behaved in his typical party pooper manner, the rest of the group seemed to love your therapy session idea. Now, they didn’t exactly take it seriously, but it was a way to bond with your bandmates nonetheless. It was finally time for everyone to start acknowledging that you were just as important as the rest of them, and that your lack of musical capabilities wouldn’t be the thing to change that.

“Alright, Lan,” You greeted the drummer by gesturing to the seat in front of you. Instead of the sofa chair, he opted for your personal rolling office chair. He sat in it backwards, twirling his drumsticks around his fingers. It was somewhat of a nervous tic. The gestures made you smile, nonetheless. “What do you have repressed in there?”

“Ugh, you’re not gonna believe it.” He put forward a faux, overly dramatic tone as he leaned back, nearly tilting the chair over entirely. “Every night I wake up in a cold sweat after having the same nightmare over and over again… It’s chilling, it’s terrifying, it’s-”

“Out with it.”

“Remember when we were playing at a wedding and I fell right into the cake?” He’s smiling, and it’s only slightly shameful.

“How could I forget?”

“Hey, don’t make fun of my trauma! That moment is deeply rooted in my soul, I can’t ever escape…” He sighs, burying his face in his hands.

“Sure you can’t. I’m diagnosing you with a case of embarrassment.”

He peeks through the slits of his fingers and then drops his palms, wiping them on his jeans. “Alright, then I’m diagnosing you with a serious case of chronic sarcasm.” You roll your eyes, but before you can refute, you notice he’s giving you a look. That look.

“What?”

“Are you coming on tour with us?” He asks, his tone suddenly serious. He almost looks like a lost puppy. You hum and shrug. This was meant to be a short, summer job, just until you found a new way to support yourself. But… You were starting to really love it. “Seriously, you make things a lot better. I mean… I don’t think I’ve heard Oscar talk as much as he does now since— well… ever!”

“I’ll think about it, Lan.”

“Okay… But seriously, think about sticking around!” He waves to you on his way out. You smile when he’s gone, somewhat proud of his complimentary praise. You’re in an admittedly good mood for the rest of your mini sessions.

“Charles!” You’re sitting in your office when you hear George shout from the studio. You peek at the clock, one eyebrow quirked with your findings.

“George, it’s 12 in the morning- Why are you still here?” You poke your head out, calling back to him. You don’t get a response for a minute. You wonder if he’s asking the same question, but you have an answer. You had just finished meeting with some agency groups, but they lived halfway across the world, so the timing was bound to be screwy no matter when you scheduled it. You opted to be the one to stay up late, even if your selfish internal voice suggested otherwise.

“Charles!” He calls again as if he’s completely ignoring you— You don’t doubt that he is.

“Charles isn’t here. It’s 12 in the morning,” You reiterate, which draws out a deep sigh from the guitarist. “What do you need?”

“Nothing.”

“No, no. Just tell me. I can relay it to him tomorrow morning.” You and Charles are always the first to the studio for the day. It used to be that mornings were filled with awkward silence and the occasional attempt at small talk, but now it’s actually fairly lively. “Maybe I can help anyway.”

“As if,” He scoffs. You take that as an invitation to enter the studio. He’s sitting at the center table with a notebook and pen, staring at the blank page as if it personally offended him. Knowing George, it probably did. “I’m just trying to write some lyrics, but I can’t get the flow right.”

“Oh, and you think I couldn’t help with that?” His gaze slowly travels up to you with a deadpan expression. You chew at your cheek thoughtfully, brows knitted together. “Yeah, don’t answer that.” You’d hate to be wrong. “Can I see your ideas?”

You seat yourself beside him. You’re close enough that you can sense his arm hairs standing on edge like he’s suddenly become hyper aware of your presence. George hands you the notebook, and you flip back a few pages to see his scratched-out ideas. You can barely make out the words under layers of scribbled ink.

He abruptly stands up and walks to the mini fridge, digging around until he comes back with two cans. You accept when he offers you one, and mindlessly crack it open without even glancing at the label. You’re too focused on the lyrics you’re reading. You take note of where he sits. Close, but further away than he was before.

“These don’t make any sense,” You state firmly, tilting your head as if looking at it from a different angle will help.

“It’s rock music,” George states. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

“What? That’s awful. All songs should have meaning.”

“Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it doesn’t have meaning.” You take a sip of your drink and nearly choke on the bitter taste. He grins at your reaction. “I thought you said in your interview that you liked rock music?”

You freeze, hand on your chest like you were just hitting it with your fist to help the choking subside. Damn. Almost forgot about that. “Uh, well… You know. I usually only listen to rock with lyrics that are… Coherent. You know?”

“Uh-huh. So you don’t like any of the greats. Pearl Jam? Nirvana? Pink Floyd?”

“I never said I didn’t like them. Hey- What the actual hell is this anyway?” You gesture to the drink, and George laughs. It’s casual. He’s leaning against the back of the sofa, sitting sideways with one leg tucked under himself to face you. From what you can tell, he was already a bit tipsy when you walked in. Nothing beats getting drunk when you’re alone at 12 am. Hey, at least he has a drinking buddy now.

“I don’t know, I think it’s Max’s.”

“What!? George,” You groan. “He’s gonna be pissed when he sees I’ve taken one of his drinks.”

“At least it wasn’t his RedBull. Then you’d really be screwed.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” A shiver runs down your spine at the thought. You pick the notebook back up and flip a few more pages back. George is eyeing you cautiously— Almost nervously.

You hum one of the band’s latest tunes under your breath as you skim over the words. No matter how much you read from the journal, your mind keeps returning to one draft in particular. It’s a romantic song— Or, it’s written to be one, but it’s missing something.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice somewhat slurred. You turn to him, and then back to the page.

“It just lacks… Feeling. You’ve got all the lyrics, but it doesn’t seem genuine.” Despite your display of distaste for the drink, you chug a few large gulps of whatever alcohol George offered you. The taste settles in your stomach like a pit of negativity. You bite your lip to refrain from hurling. But it would be a waste just to toss it.

“I can see that,” He nods in agreement. This isn’t something you’ve encountered often. George is typically scolding you nonstop, or he’s shooting snarky comments your way. Constructive criticism usually ends in him insisting he’s flawless and can do no wrong.

You like drunk George. He’s a lot sweeter. It softens your heart.

“I should probably leave the romance to Charles. He’s a lot more…”

“Whimsical?”

“Yeah. Whimsical.” He smiles. George likes you finishing his thoughts. Which is weird, because he’s never thought that before.

He’s thinking a lot of new things right now, like how pretty you look in the low light of the recording studio, and how soft your voice is when you’re not competing with five other people to be the loudest one in the room, and how lovely your eyes are when they’re not shooting dagger-filled glares his way. Are those hearts in his eyes, or is it just the light reflecting off his irises? Either way, he’s entranced by you all of a sudden.

“Did you know that Lando sometimes reads fanfiction of himself?” He blurts it out like he didn’t mean to say it. George covers his mouth right after, hiccuping to top it all off. You’re frozen in shock, but it melts away into warm laughter that has him easing up.

“I can see that, actually.”

“I don’t think he’d like me telling you that,” George admitted.

“It’s alright, I can keep a secret.”

“Good,” He looked stressed, and then… “Also, Charles is afraid of the dark. Fuck, sorry-”

“Do you not know how to keep your mouth shut or something?” You tilt your head, laughing again. “Maybe you should cool it on the spilling of secrets.”

“It’s just really hard keeping it all to myself! I feel like everyone needs to know.”

“Well, for future reference, they don’t. I think they can all be glad I’m the only one you’ve told.” He goes completely silent, and you raise a brow. “I’m the only one you told, right?” His silence tells you all you need to know. “George!”

“I can’t help it,” He cries out. “When I get drunk, I tend to share more than I should.”

“Is this why you and Max are always fighting?”

He whistles and looks away. “Nice weather we’re having.”

“George Russell.” Unfortunately, you didn’t know his middle name. You’d have to ask around for future purposes.

“Alright, yes! I may have shared one too many of his secrets.”

“I’d hate you too,” You joke. He should have taken it like an insult with that typical George Russell reaction: hand on the heart and a look of total offense, but instead, he laughed. He laughed, and it sounded like all of your worries floating out the window. It was a sound that encouraged you to make him laugh more, which wasn’t a goal you often set out for.

“I can balance out the damage,” He insists, and you wait patiently for a further explanation. You’ve finally finished your rather volatile drink and tossed it into the nearby trash can— Clink! It hits the rim and falls out, landing unceremoniously on the ground. You’re too lazy to stand, so you just groan in distressed defeat. Oh, the agony! “Wanna hear another secret?”

“No way,” You tilt your head to look at him. He appreciates your soft, sleepy eyes that gaze upon him so sweetly. “Haven’t you shared enough?”

“It’s my own this time.”

You consider it, and then shrug. “Up to you.”

“I’m terrified of goats.” It takes him only half a beat to answer, and the response has you grinning like crazy. “Don’t laugh, this is a moment of vulnerability.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why?” You chew at your bottom lip, tongue pressed to your cheek— anything to hold back your giggles.

“They have square pupils.” You blink, moving your hand in a circular gesture to suggest that he continue. “Is that not reason enough?!”

“Relax! No goats then…” You sigh, shaking your head. “Great, there goes all my plans for future shows!”

“Don’t even joke about that. I’d seriously run off stage.” You both laugh, and the room falls into silence again. But it’s not awkward or tense; it’s like the silence between lifelong friends; you’ve already shared so much, and it’s hard to think of more. But he does. “I have one more.”

“I’m surprised you’re able to keep your own secrets.”

He takes a large swig of his drink and winces right afterwards. George can already tell this night is gonna be a major headache in the morning. But for you, it’s worth it. “This might ruin me.”

“Share with the class— Don’t be shy,” You playfully elbow him.

“Alright…” He sighs, taking another sip to work up the courage. “A year ago, I tried to launch my own candle line and it failed miserably.” He stares at you expectantly.

You blink.

“Sorry?”

“Candles. Artisan bullshit with ridiculous undertones and fancy packaging.” You lock eyes, and he groans. “All based around me.”

“You did not. I don’t believe it,” But you’re smiling and laughing like you do.

“Dead serious, Y/N. It was awful— I’m not surprised it didn’t get anywhere. I had everything planned out. The colors, the labels, the names-”

“Name one.” You say it like a challenge.

“…” His silence speaks loudly. “Guitar strings and sweat.”

“You’re fucking lying.”

“I wish I were.”

“You tried to sell a candle that smelled like rusted steel and body odor?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder it flopped.” You snorted, covering your mouth just as the sound left you. George felt proud in the moment, just because he liked seeing your genuine, raw laughter. “You smell like fancy shampoo and flowers. Why not go for that?”

“That would totally ruin my punk rock persona.” George leaned in just slightly. You could smell the alcohol on your breath, and the tiny sliver of you that was sober knew you probably weren’t any better off. “What about you, Y/N? Got any secrets to share?”

You hum. If you were sober, you’d say no, but you’re not, so instead you say, “I only applied for this job because I was trying to prove my family wrong.” You sigh as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “They own a huge business and want me to manage it someday, but I don’t. They all kept insisting it was my last hope, so… I proved them wrong by finding my own job.” There it was—your moment of weakness.

Before he can even reply, you stand up straight and dust yourself off. “I should probably head home— You should too. It’s late, and there’s early practice tomorrow.” Early meant 10 AM, but you liked to get your beauty sleep!

“I can walk you to your apartment,” He declares as he stands up. You want to say no, but it’s pitch black outside, and having George there offers a sense of comfort, so you allow him to display his chivalric side. The walk home is quiet— not a word is exchanged. He’s just letting your previous confession sink in.

The night officially ends with a wave as you enter through the front door. He lingers for just a bit longer, wanting to ensure your safety until the elevator. Once you disappear past sliding doors, George heads out for the night.

Slowly but surely, those late nights start to turn into a normal thing. It was typically once a week, and now it seemed like every night that George lingered around just a bit longer. You assumed that at first he was just there to work on songs, but slowly he started to migrate into your office, and that feeling faded into an assumption to keep you company. Make sure you had someone to rant to about the difficulties of beginner graphic designing and the struggles of trying to find other artists willing to collaborate with a team that could barely collaborate with each other. However, improvement had undoubtedly been made. It had been a long time since the last serious fight.

Tonight was different. You didn’t have to stay, but you did, for your own sake. You were getting seriously involved with this band, and considering they had a worldwide tour coming up, you needed to extend your knowledge of rock music. You spent hours watching performances from various bands. Your research offered artists from grunge bands like Hole to classic pop-rock, like The Beach Boys. You felt the tragedy of Dexter Holland singing about his near-death experience, but you also experienced the joy of freedom and expression behind Freddie Mercury’s Don’t Stop Me Now.

It took George longer to make his appearance that night. He slithered into your office in a discreet fashion, eyeing you carefully. You hadn’t seemed to notice him— Your eyes were focused on the bright screen that illuminated your face in the pitch black of your office. His attention fell to the contents of your media consumption, and he paused. Your efforts have led you to an interesting place.

You were watching him. It was one of FAST LANE’s original performances, back when they were just a local band trying to get by. They all looked young and dumb, but happy. Free from the merciless jaws of fame and fortune. Your eyes sparkled with wonder. You sat at the edge of your chair as if the sight was a suspenseful horror movie rather than a crappy performance recorded on an old digicam to preserve the nostalgia.

“What are you doing-”

“HOLY SHIT-” You actually jumped out of your chair, scrambling to cover your monitor. You looked like you had been caught watching sketchier subject matter. Your heart was pounding so loudly you could barely hear the soft rhythms coming from the speakers in your room. George stood there, his face barely lit by your device. “Jesus fuck, George… You scared the shit out of me.”

You slowly fell back into your chair, pausing the video to take a deep breath. He laughed, seating himself at the cushioned chair in the corner of your office. He played with the frayed seams of the arms. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m watching an old performance. Thought I should brush up on my knowledge,” You were somewhat embarrassed to admit it. Weeks ago, you had kept telling yourself this was only a temporary job, and now you were preparing to go on tour with five idiots that had completely won you over. You were invested. There was no getting you out now. “Look how young you look!”

“I look like a newborn baby.” He sighed, rubbing his smooth chin. “Still do.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s what I do best.” He stared at his former self for a moment longer and then laughed. “I think it was only a year or so before this that I made a shitty audition for a boy band.”

…

“You’re joking.”

“If only.”

“I will be scouring the internet for that later.” He shakes his head and laughs, looking down at the object clutched in his hands. You peek at it, and then look back at him. “Why are you still here?”

He gave you a rather pointed look, and you giggled. You knew why he was there, but you wanted him to say it nonetheless. “Working on song lyrics again.” He knew what your next question would be, so he handed you the book before you could even ask it. You flipped to the dog-eared corner, which represented the last page you had read. “Let me know what you think.”

You scan over the words again, nodding your head along. You learned to imagine beats and rhythms as you read his writing. It was a lot easier after spending so much time around music. It eventually started to consume you and your mind. You couldn’t count the number of times your brain was fixated on things like quarter notes and triplets rather than genuinely concerning matters.

“I like it,” You reply genuinely as you flip to the next page. He suddenly reaches forward, tearing the notebook from your hands. You don’t question it, but you do raise a brow.

“Thanks,” He scrambles to flip it shut. You have to wonder what the hell was in there. Maybe you’d get him drunk one day, and he’d just end up spilling it on his own.

The air was tense.

“It’s late,” You state. It’s just an actual fact, but George knows what it means. It means you want to leave, so he lets you.

But first, he asks, “Are you okay with driving home?”

“Yup.”

No personal escort necessary. Not tonight. He leaves shortly after you, scolding himself for always making things awkward.

It was a bright and sunny day out— Perfect for a bike ride, which is just what you were preparing for. You were about to finish tying your shoes when you heard the overfamiliar tune of your ringtone. You reached over to the coffee table, fumbling with the device before straightening it out to read the caller ID.

Mom!

You bit your cheek thoughtfully before deciding to answer. She rarely called anymore— A talk might be nice. Plus, it could be important family news. What if someone was sick or injured, or maybe—

“Y/N, what the hell is this?!” Her voice sounded distressed. You started to worry, but you had to remember that she always was one to get her feathers in a bunch over trivial matters. “Do you understand what you’ve done? I can’t believe you, going around my back like that-”

“What, Mom, slow down!” You stand up, nearly tripping over your untied laces in the process. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

“Have you not seen the news articles? Good grief, child, open my messages!” You switch her over to speaker phone, tuning out her fast-paced rambling as you slide to your text messages. Sure enough, she had sent you a link alongside a bunch of cursing emojis. You tap the article, your eyes scanning with haste. “They’ve got it printed out everywhere! What a disgrace this is-” You hang up.

L/N heir abandons her family to work for a bunch of grungy losers.

What a headline. You almost laugh, but the further you read, the angrier you got.

The band’s frontman, George Russell, claims that Y/N confided about her family background once. “It didn’t sound pretty,” said Russell.

That’s all you needed to see. You stormed out to your car, shoes untied and clothes askew. You drove with the anger of a betrayed woman; you were aggressive. All you could focus on was reaching the studio. You didn’t care if you were interrupting their ‘private rehearsals’ because this was far more important.

You grabbed the rolled-up newspaper from the mailbox as proof of your rage on the way in. The bell rang out loud and clear, indicating your entrance into the building. You could hear laughter from within the walls of the studio. It stopped when you barged in, knuckles pale from how hard you were gripping that phony bullshit of news.

“Oh, shit- Y/N,” Lando greeted with a sheepish tone, embarrassed that you had caught them all slacking off.

“Shut it,” You snapped. You felt guilty for yelling at Lando, but you were clearly pissed off. It was his fault for poking the bear! You stomped your way to the table where they were all sitting, each of them gazing at you with surprise, fear, and… Maybe a little amusement. You slammed the newspaper down onto the table, and it made a resounding ‘SMACK’ of a noise. “What the fuck is this, George?!”

“I don’t-”

“Read it, dipshit!” You take a small step back, crossing your arms over your chest. He winces like a hurt puppy at your scolding and reaches out for the article quickly. His eyes scan over the words, mouth falling agape and eyes widening.

“Y/N, listen, I-”

“Save it.”

Lando snatched the paper from George, and Charles and Oscar both leaned in to skim it over as well. Max is just staring between the two of you, trying to get a full read of the situation.

You lock eyes with your culprit. He looks… Scared, uncertain, and for some reason, that only worsens your anger. Without another word, you storm out of the room. You can hear heavy footsteps as he chases after you, his hand making contact with your wrist just as the door to the studio shuts, giving you guys an ounce of privacy.

“Look, I’m sorry!”

“Do you know why you’re sorry, or are you just saying that because you think it’ll fix all of this?!” You rip your hand from his grip, and he seems to falter. George doesn’t even know what to say. His silence speaks loudly. “God, just when I was starting to like you, too.” You mutter.

He can feel his heart shattering into a million pieces.

“Good luck finding a new manager who’ll put up with your bullshit. It’s not worth it anymore.” That’s the last thing you say before you leave. He doesn’t follow you. He sits there, dumbfounded and confused.

Worst of all, he truly is sorry. He just doesn’t know how to say it.

He wanders back into the studio where everyone else is waiting. When they see that you’re gone and that George’s head is hung low, they know.

Lando’s both the first and last to speak for the day, “Guess we’re back to our old management.”

It was hard to fill the hole in your heart. No more of Charles’ deep, philosophical advice that actually made no sense in reality. No more of Lando’s stupid jokes that had extremely predictable punchlines. No more of Oscar’s sappy song lyrics that he seemed so embarrassed to share. You even missed Max and George bickering.

You tried to find a new place to call home within a different band, but it wasn’t the same. They were all particularly stuck-up and selfish people, blinded by their own fame. FAST LANE was a treat, you just never got the opportunity to realize that. I guess the saying is correct. You don’t know how good you have it until it’s gone.

But it had to happen. You miss George’s fat mouth the least. That was something you could do without, and you had to keep reminding yourself of that. It was time to forget about how melodious his laughter was, how sweet his smiles were, and how genuine the lyrics he poured his heart into seemed to be.

The band was preparing to go back on stage for their encore. The crowds were loud, screaming their name like it was life or death. The lead guitarist bumped into you, scoffing afterwards. “God, can you just… Not be in the way?” The group seemed to laugh, making eye contact subtly. It was a big inside joke, and you were the punchline of it all.

“Yeah, okay,” You mutter between clenched teeth as you remove your headset. One month of this bullshit? Yeah, you were done. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

You start to grab your things. The bassist, who’s sipping from her water with that stupid smug grin, calls out in a degrading tone, “Where are you going? Off to cry? Did we hurt your feelings?”

“Nope,” You reply casually. You even send them a grin as you walk towards the door. “I quit.”

You felt relief as you left the performance hall, exiting out into the warm summer day. No more musty rooms that smelled like awful body odor and unwashed clothes. No more loud, annoying music that lacked proper rhythm. No more bands. Period. It was time to move on.

“Y/N.”

God damnit.

“George,” You mutter with certainty. His voice makes you stop, slowly turning to face him. He looks the exact same physically, but you can see in his face that he’s been through it. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is messy, his clothes don’t really match, and there are bags under his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t a guy enjoy a performance?” You blink, and he deflates a noticeable amount. “Alright. I just wanted to… Check on you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” You grumble. “I mean, seriously, I don’t want you to.”

“I’m sorry,” he calls out before you can leave. “And I finally know why.” This catches your attention, so… You stay where you are, your back turned to him. Maybe it’s not apparent, but this was your way of giving him the time of day. He’d take what he could get. “Because you trusted me, and even if I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, it clearly was. It wasn’t the fact that your secret got leaked that upset you, but the fact I was the one to do it.”

“You really hurt me, George.” You state firmly, your fist clenching around the strap of your bag.

“I know.” As always, the silence seems to settle uncomfortably. It invites itself into spaces it’s unwanted. It speaks louder than words. Always. But this time, George doesn’t let it. “I actually got accepted into that boy band, but Max told me it was a bad idea, so I quit before it even started.”

“What?”

“And I have a secret playlist full of sad modern pop songs that I cry to, even if I have nothing to cry about.” You turn around to face him, tilting your head. Has he gone crazy? Is the lack of sleep getting to him? “I pretended that the makeup tutorial I made a year ago was just for jokes, but in reality, I practiced that winged eyeliner for weeks.”

“George-”

“My notebook is full of secret love songs about you.” Oh. “Because I’m… Well,” He’s gone fidgety, which isn’t common for him. He’s always so full of confidence and maturity, but when he’s around you, he feels like he can be vulnerable. Even when you’re angry… Rightfully so. “I’m in love with you.”

You don’t have anything to say. Your gut is a mix of emotions right now. Anger, hatred, confusion, uncertainty— There’s this weird, fuzzy feeling that makes you feel light, too. But you keep trying to push that one away.

“I’m not just saying that because I miss you, either. I’m saying it because I told everyone your secrets, so now, if you want to, you can tell everyone mine.” You have to avert your gaze because he’s looking at you with those big eyes of his, and it makes you feel incredibly nervous. “It’s not the same without you. We’re fighting nonstop. They all blame me, and I understand why.”

“Because you’re an idiot,” You finish. He smiles. It’s weak, but it’s genuine.

“Because I’m an idiot,” he repeats.

You slowly walk over to him. He doesn’t say anything— just watches. Waits. For anything. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” You mutter right before taking hold of the collar of his shirt and pulling him in. Your lips are pressed to his, and weeks of unrequited, ignored feelings are flowing out into one passionate kiss.

It takes him a moment to find his balance. He feels utterly elated at the sensation of your soft, plump lips and the way your warm, delicate hands hold his face. But finally, after what felt like years of poking and pushing and yearning, George kisses you. His hands settle on your waist, but when you pull away, he realizes he’s not ready and wraps his arms around your torso to keep you there a bit longer.

It’s not perfect, but that’s why it’s so lovely. Nothing should ever be perfect. That’s why you’ve chosen to forgive the idiot.

The vibes are down when you both walk into the studio. He tugs his hand away from yours, and you don’t argue. Maybe it’s best to hold off on telling them— Except for the fact he announces it as soon as you walk in.

“I got the girl!” He cheers as he barges in. They all flinch, and their eyes immediately look towards you.

“Y/N!” Lando shouts. He jumps up to pull you into a hug, squeezing you so tight that your back pops quite loudly. You wince when he lets go to grab your shoulders. “You’re back!”

“Alright, relax,” George ushers him away, guiding you to sit down.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be on tour?” You finally ask, settling in beside your re-established companions.

“We learned we can’t operate without our manager,” Charles admits, making you grin with pride.

“Good to know.”

“George, isn’t it kinda unprofessional for the two of you to date?” Max asks, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

George pauses. He looks at you, then at Max. “I don’t know, we'd better ask our manager.”

They all turn to you, and you laugh.

“Your manager says it’s fine.”

BONUS!!

You’ve all brought out endless drinks to celebrate your return, as well as your laptop to hash out revised tour dates, and a planned apology to the public. George has his arm around your waist and his head on your shoulder, watching you type away through sleepy eyes.

Everyone is winding down. Hardcore rock has faded into soft music as you all settle on the sofa, squished together like sardines. Without even thinking, you blurt out…

“Did you guys know George cries to pop music?”

“Hey!”

It's good to be home!

Taglist ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶♥︎

@teamnovalak @taetae-armyyyyy @at-a-rax-ia @saudianna

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polin-erospsyche · 1 year ago

Note

I know there wasn’t time in the show, but I would love a scene of Colin picking out/designing the engagement and wedding ring and just see his thought process. Any fic writers out there, please feel free to write us one!

Ok, anon, know that when you send an ask like this to a person who writes fan fiction for fun that person will go "oh what a great idea! I'll have a go at it!" and then you end up with a 2K scene of Polin fluff. It's not exactly what you asked for but I hope you'll like it, especially considering that I haven't written fanfic in the longest of times (preferring playing with my own characters) and I was afraid of writing for Colin and Pen and not make their voice justice. I tried my best and I had a lot of fun writing it!

The quill's scratch against the thick paper resonated loudly in the quiet room. Penelope's thoughts raced faster than her hand could write. The gossip of the last few days created a frenzy in her mind, an unusual state for her. She had been writing for years and had always controlled the words she put down on paper. Yet recently, it had become harder somehow. The growing pressure from the Queen and London’s elite weighed heavily on her. People knew who she was, and she had vowed to use her quill more consciously. There was no more hiding behind her words and her column.

What she had failed to account for were the demands from the ladies and gentlemen. The socialites and aristocrats, with their veiled threats and insistent flattery, expected her to navigate their intrigues and scandals with care, yet with a sharpness that would entertain and inform. Each letter she received and each whispered rumor added to the weight on her shoulders. Her reputation had become a double-edged sword, granting her influence but also binding her to an unwritten contract with her readers. She remembered telling Eloise once that she had power; now she was fully realizing that power always came at a steep price.

She returned her quill to its inkwell on the desk, leaned back in her chair, and let out a long exhale. Her hands momentarily covered her face before gently sliding down to rest on her pregnant belly. Absentmindedly, she twirled her wedding band, tracing the contours of the bee and flower, finding comfort in the familiar ridges of the ring.

“You seem pensive.” The voice startled her from her thoughts. “How’s the writing going?” She looked up to see Colin standing in the doorway, a familiar and knowing grin on his face. He knew she had been struggling to write anything of note lately.

“How’s Thomas?” Penelope asked back without missing a beat. Their son was always a good topic of conversation; the state of her writing, not so much.

"Fast asleep," Colin replied, his grin softening into a tender smile.

"Of course he is. You spoil him too much. Did you know he won’t sleep unless you’re the one putting him to bed and singing him to sleep?" Penelope teased lightly.

"I'm certain that's not true."

"Well, it's been fifteen minutes since you put him to bed,” she glanced at the clock striking nine fifteen, “and here you are already. Yesterday, it took me a good half hour. I think I'm losing in this deal we made."

Balancing their household duties, social and professional obligations, and caring for their toddler had made finding quiet writing time increasingly rare. They had agreed to take turns putting Thomas to bed, granting each other much-needed solitude. Lately, though, Thomas had developed a clear preference for his father's bedtime routine, falling asleep in a matter of minutes, leaving Penelope with very little quiet time indeed.

“I can leave if you need some time,” Colin offered.

“And leave me to face the blank page?”

Colin furrowed his brows and strode purposefully across the room to stand beside her. Peering down at the paper she had been writing on, he remarked, “Calling it blank might be a bit of an overstatement.”

Words had been jotted down, so technically, it wasn’t a blank page. However, it was not a good page, and she could not publish it in this state. Yet she needed to submit something tonight to the printer—the Queen was expecting it.

“I think you’re overthinking this,” he added. “I think you need to step away from your desk.”

“Colin, I can’t. The Queen is waiting. I have to finish writing this tonight. Apparently, I’ve become an entertainer to the Queen and an ear for everybody else’s gossip,” Penelope said with a hint of frustration.

“Weren’t you always listening?”

“Believe it or not, there’s a difference between lurking behind a potted plant, eavesdropping, and having people visit, hoping for a favor in return,” Penelope retorted with a touch of irony.

“I, for one, am very glad you are in the center of the room. Really, you should be in the center of every room.”

At that moment, she looked up at him with eyes devoid of humor, only to meet his gaze filled with love and admiration. For a brief moment, the air seemed to escape her lungs. They had been married for months. They had a child together. They had settled into a routine that suited them both. Yet, sometimes it all still felt like a fleeting dream, almost too good to be true. It was everything she had endlessly dreamed of as a young girl, and now it was real, tangible. She wondered if she would ever fully grow accustomed to the way he looked at her before deciding that she preferred to always be pleasantly surprised.

He gently placed his hand on top of hers, stopping her fidgeting with the ring. Interlacing his fingers through hers, he gently pulled her towards him, and she moved with very little resistance. He slid his arms around her. This close, he smelled of ink and baby powder, a scent so comforting that she felt the tension release a little from her shoulders. Before she had time to fully sink into the safety he provided, she felt him pulling her closer still, slowly leading her away from the desk until they were standing in the center of the room. Tilting her head up to meet his blue eyes, she saw a glint of mischief, as if he was proud of himself for successfully drawing her away from her work. It was as if he whispered to her - it’s all right, the Queen will wait, the words will wait.

“You know how I know you are preoccupied?” he asked, still holding her, his fingers drawing small circles on the small of her back.

“I’m absent.” She bit her lower lip. She knew she had been. There but not entirely, part of her chained to her desk, to the next words she had to write. They were both like this, maybe it was the affliction of being a writer, a wandering mind. But he seemed to have a much easier time concealing his wandering. She envied his ability to be fully present with the ones he loved, giving them his undivided attention as if nothing else in the world mattered. It was part of his charm.

He gave a low chuckle. “No,” he said, to which she raised her eyebrows, so he quickly added, “I mean you are a little...” He paused as if choosing his words carefully, “...away sometimes.” She gave a resigned sigh. She was aware of her distractions, but she really would have preferred not to address them tonight. Before she could entirely withdraw from him, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. His gaze still held hers, intense. His breath warm against her skin. Then his thumb trailed over the wedding band she had been fiddling with. “It’s your tell.”

“The wedding ring? Is it a tell that I’m married to you?”

“You play with it when you are anxious or preoccupied. I see you, I know.”

Of course he did, just as she knew his tells. The way he furrowed his brows. The way he sometimes seemed to be searching for the right words. The way his quill hung in the air just so when he was writing, as if ready to catch the next word mid-air. She knew some of those tells, but living together, they had become mirrors for each other. They saw each other, they knew each other—sometimes, she thought, better than they knew themselves.

“I find it comforting,” she said to him, her hand suspended in the air between them. “Even if my writing days end up in ashes, I have this, I have you. It’s a promise that things will be all right.”

“That will not happen. It’s just a new normal, but by now, I believe we are adept at dealing with new normals.” He gently caressed her belly. “I think you’ll be writing as long as you’re breathing, and I love you for it. But for what it’s worth, I’m very glad you love the ring. I was so nervous the day I had it designed.”

“You, nervous? Why?” He had been rather swift in his proposal and securing the rings, but she could imagine him poring over ring designs, trying to guess which she would prefer. She wished she could have told him that it didn’t matter; as long as it was him she was marrying, she would have been happy with any ring. But she particularly loved the one he had chosen, so she asked, “How did you choose it?”

At that, he smiled wider and brought both of her hands up so that the rings were visible, his thumbs gently caressing over them. “This one,” he said, holding the hand with her engagement ring more firmly, “reminded me of you. Its simplicity and delicacy reminded me of your voice in the letters you wrote me. Also, the jeweler told me it symbolized loyalty and faithfulness. This one,” he continued, bringing up her hand with the wedding ring, “was to symbolize the Bridgerton family.”

“Our family,” Penelope chimed in—a representation of the family she had always, in some ways, been a part of, whether unofficially or more officially now through marriage. A family that loved her, and she loved them as her own. A family that had welcomed her with open arms.

“Yes, our family,” Colin agreed, nodding. “I’m not sure why the bee became our symbol, especially considering...” He trailed off, his face somber, lost in a memory he seemed reluctant to revisit. “Well, you know,” he finished, his expression sober. “But then again, in the morning, the world had Hyacinth, and what an absolute force she is—both a joy to us and a threat to the world. So, the bee represents us, a cycle of our family, and apparently it also symbolizes celebration, prosperity, unity, and resilience.”

She looked at her rings and then up at him again. He had never fully explained why he had chosen those rings, but now she understood it better. “It’s a representation of us,” she said.

“Yes, us and what I hope our marriage will be.”

“Resilient,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “We certainly are that.”

“You more than anyone else I’ve known, although don’t let Eloise know I’ve said it.”

Penelope let out a small chuckle. “I don’t always feel resilient,” she admitted, her tone more serious.

“That’s what we do; we’re a team. We remind each other that we’ll find our way. Besides, you’ve faced much worse and come out of it.”

She leaned into him, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder. She allowed herself to be enveloped in the warmth of his embrace, and as they swayed gently in the flickering light of the surrounding candles, she felt the weight of her responsibilities, the demands of the Queen, and the expectations of the ton seep away. For a moment, she was a girl again—not a mother, not a famous writer—just a girl dancing in the arms of the boy she loved, who, by some twist of fate, loved her back just as much and had decided to intertwine his life with hers.

After what felt like an instant but must have been longer for the clock now struck close to ten, Penelope stopped their swaying. “Would you stay? Would you write with me? Or read? But stay until I’m finished?”

Colin gently kissed the top of her head and whispered, “I’ll always stay with you.”

She rose on her tiptoes, her hand coming around his neck, pulling him down to her. Their breath mingled before his lips found hers, pulling her closer as she let out a small moan. His hands traveled up her back, sending shivers down her spine, while her own hands gripped at the lapels of his jacket before finding their way into his hair. His lips moved downward, along the side of her mouth, down her cheek, then her neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses. His hands grew more frenetic, gripping the fabric of her dress.

“Colin,” she whispered between a protest and a pant, “Colin.”

“Mmmm,” he hummed, the vibration warm against her collarbone.

“I have to finish... the Queen... the printer...”

She tried to grasp for words, for sense and logic, even as she attempted to push him away in vain. Truth be told, if he didn’t stop kissing her now, she wouldn’t care much about anything else besides their own needs and desires. That's how quickly Penelope had become pregnant after giving birth to Thomas.

“Colin,” she said more insistently, feeling her resolve to finish her column hanging by a thread.

“All right, all right,” Colin said, stealing one last kiss before meeting her eyes with hooded dark blue eyes. “One day, I’ll have a word with the Queen.”

“And tell her what? That you’d prefer me in our bedchambers rather than behind my writing desk?”

“Now that’s an idea!” he exclaimed, beaming as if it were the best idea she’d ever suggested.

“I’m afraid she’d find it preposterous, considering she’s the queen and managed to have a plethora of children.”

“Does that mean you’re open to the idea of having a plethora of children?” he asked, playfully stealing her words.

She chuckled, “Let’s have our second, and then we’ll discuss the possibility of having more.”

“Discuss? Because you want to discuss what we’ll do in our bedchambers if having more children is not an option?”

“You know what I’d really like to do right now?”

“No, tell me.”

“Finish it,” she said, looking back at her desk and the half-written piece of paper, “so that we may go to our bedchambers and discuss all of this afterwards.”

He seemed to catch her suggestive look, as he did not protest. Instead, he kissed her forehead before leaving the room momentarily, returning with a fresh stack of paper and settling down at his own desk, positioned next to hers.

Penelope smiled as she watched him concentrate, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. She felt a renewed sense of purpose and returned to her desk. The page was no longer daunting; it was a canvas waiting for her to paint with words. With a deep breath, she picked up the quill once more. This time, the words flowed more easily, each sentence building upon the last. The gossip and intrigues of the ton found their place in her column. She wrote with a clarity and sharpness that had eluded her earlier.

As the clock struck midnight, Penelope set down her quill and read through her work. A smile of satisfaction spread across her face. It was done.

She stretched before standing and walking to stand behind Colin’s chair. Sensing her presence, he had stopped writing, but his focus remained on the page before him. She slid her arms around him, her hands running up and down his chest. She whispered, “Want to go discuss your writing in our bedroom?”

“Absolutely!” he said, rising and kissing her passionately.

#I guess I write polin fic now #I actually had a lot of fun writing it #hopefully you like it even a little #I'm not sure it's very good and I'm sure it's very long #polin #bridgerton #bridgerton season 3 #polin fanfiction #mine #my writing

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cherrylng · 2 months ago

Text

Muse Special Interview - Matt Bellamy [THE BIG ISSUE (JP) (September 2022)]

“‘The will of the people’ is an amazing thing that should be honoured,and democracy should be something we try to protect. But sometimes it can be something to be frightened of.” MATT BELLAMY - MUSE

Special interview Muse Matt Bellamy

Blending reality and fiction, the latest album from his stay in the US after two full years of a heart-breaking pandemic

On January 6, 2021, the US Capitol was attacked. A crowd of more than 2,000 people, waving stars and stripes, guns and placards in support of then-President Donald Trump, rushed into the federal seat of power. Matt Bellamy was watching the mayhem from his home in Los Angeles, far from the capital Washington, where the attack took place. He had been away from his hometown of the UK for a long time due to the COVID-19 pandemic, and had just begun work on the ninth album for his rock band Muse.

The numerous political upheavals in the United States that had a major impact on the production

“It was a pretty special creative period,” Bellamy recalls of the last two years. “If you’re going to make something good, you have to take what’s happening a bit more seriously.”

When the new coronavirus began to hit the US, Bellamy was at home in Los Angeles with his wife Elle Evans and their dogs. The assumption that he could return home whenever he wanted was now a thing of the past, and Bellamy was no exception. Recalling London’s walkable streets and lush parks where dogs could play freely, he felt shocked, as if he had been banished from his home. “I missed the UK so much, more than I expected,” he says. The album that came to fruition during this period, Will of the People, is Muse’s most ‘American’ album, both musically and thematically. “During the two-year pandemic in Los Angeles, I was immersed in the American way of life, the politics of the country and the events that were happening at the same time. The many turmoil that occurred between the presidential election and Biden's inauguration certainly had a big impact on the production.”

This album was born amidst the pandemic and political unrest. The album, a song about people's will for the future, expresses Bellamy’s feelings about the duality of the crowd. “Democracy must be protected,” he says. “On the other hand, the out-of-control popular will can lead to horrific events, such as the attack on the US Capitol. We should be wary of populism that loudly proclaims the rights of the masses. In chaotic situations, popular will can do good or be abused.”

Muse has maintained a brilliant rock‘n’roll spirit with a “flamboyant is good” aesthetic. That's why the band’s fans have been able to listen to their hard-hitting songs that get to the heart of things without feeling self-conscious. The band’s style, which takes place in a dystopian virtual world, remains unchanged, but the album also has a geopolitical essence that links it to the problems that infest the world today. “By blending reality and fiction, we have the potential for timeless, evocative expression.”

“The album is packed with songs from all the genres Muse has worked with,” says Bellamy. “We had a proposal from the record company about doing a greatest hits album, but we didn't want to do that as a band. So we decided to make a ‘greatest hits’ album with only our best new songs on it.”

In May of this year, Muse held a charity concert in the UK in collaboration with The Big Issue

Muse performed for charity in Hammersmith, west London, for two consecutive days in May this year. The venue chosen was the Eventim Apollo, where iconic British bands such as The Beatles and Queen once played.

The last time they held a live show was back in 2019, before the COVID-19 pandemic. They felt that their performance in front of an audience after about two and a half years had great meaning. So they decided to raise money through their performance for an organisation that works to support people living in difficult situations.

The hall, which can hold around 5,000 people, was filled with fans on both days, and on the second day a special night was held to celebrate the 30th anniversary of The Big Issue UK Edition. Three sellers were in front of the venue selling the issue with Muse on the cover, which reportedly sold fantastically well. Bellamy, who says he has been reading the magazine for more than 25 years, was inspired to work with The Big Issue by an experience in Los Angeles.

“We did most of 'Will of the People' in our studio in Los Angeles,” says Bellamy. “The homeless problem in the city was quite severe and every time we passed downtown on the way to the studio, we had to pass by people sleeping on the streets. This experience definitely influenced the album. The Big Issue also came to mind when we were discussing how we as a band should be involved in the world’s problems. So it was a natural progression for us to collaborate on a show in our home country for the first time in a long time.”

“I first came to London in the mid to late 90s. I used to buy the Big Issue just outside the tube station. When I think back, I always had either The Big Issue or Time Out [a London magazine] in my hand when I got on the tube in London.”

It's the 21st century! Tragedy in Ukraine Recalling the Northern Ireland conflict

Muse are also raising money for both Doctors Without Borders and War Child, which support victims of the war in Ukraine, at a live performance the day before their charity performance for The Big Issue.

“There is a terrible tragedy happening in Ukraine right now. Families are being separated, many people are injured and losing their lives. My heart breaks for the women and children who had to leave their husbands behind and evacuate,” says Bellamy. “I can't believe we are seeing this in the 21st century. The whole world is in crisis.”

The war in Ukraine broke out after a long period of political unrest around the world. Democracy in the US is in dire straits, many countries are grappling with the threat of the new coronavirus, while in the UK the social and economic impact of leaving the EU is becoming more serious. This has led Bellamy to turn his attention to Ireland, where he has his roots. As his mother was born in Ireland, Bellamy is eligible for an Irish passport. He says that the dual citizenship he can acquire by virtue of his roots in an EU member state is a valuable asset for a handful of lucky Britons.

“I'll probably end up applying for an Irish passport too. My mother probably already has one,” says Bellamy. “I was surprised when my mother, who saw the film ‘Belfast※’ with me, said, ‘That's exactly how it was when I was a child’. I was moved by the scenery in the film because my mother grew up in Belfast city.”

There is a key scene in the film where a mother and her young sons hide under a dining table to escape the mob outside. This scene illustrates the fact that the global upheaval we are facing is not so unusual historically. The film reminded Bellamy of his childhood memories.

“Every summer,” he recalls, “I would visit Belfast and the town of Ballymena a little further afield with my mother. At the time, we were still in the middle of the Northern Ireland conflict. I remember there were riots in the streets. My mother and I would sometimes close the front door and hide under the dining room table. The history of my mother's life, the reality she went through, and the memories of what I experienced in that place in the mid-1990s. Thanks to this film, I remember all of that.”

We find meaning in chaos through the means of art and expression.

(Laura Kelly, The Big Issue UK/Editor)

※An autobiographical film directed by Northern Ireland-born Kenneth Branagh about his childhood.

Translator's Note: Given that this is interview was translated from English to Japanese, and then using machine translation to translate it from Japanese back to English, the article may not appear the same as its original English version.

Seeing the difference in the UK cover and JP cover for Muse by The Big Issue, I actually like the JP version more in how they didn't cover it with too many words. It gives off a nice minimalist design.

Also, this article has new information that gave a lot more context to explain Matt's Irish roots. It is sadder than I have expected.

Please do support me via my ko-fi! ☕

#Matt Bellamy #Muse #Muse band #Will of the People era #smol meerkat #my scan #translation #interview #The Big Issue #The Big Issue September 2022

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