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kiridarling · 4 years ago

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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒

izuku midoriya | ft. ceo!au + praise + exhibitionism + breaking and entering + body worship + f!reader + more! minors dni.

— 3.8k words

“When I saw you this evening, in that ballgown, I knew I just had to have you. But I can't be a gentleman for much longer, as much as I'd like to."

You’ve always hated Chopin.

“L’œuf mimosa, Madame?”

After turning down the poor waiter whose arms quiver under the weight of the plates, you turn back to your red wine and people-watching. The ballroom is full of golds and reds, the amber lighting illuminating the intricately decorated walls. And you sit in the middle of it all—you and your 147 billion net-worth, with a ball gown that’s caught at least half the aristocratic asshole’s attention, not that they were very loyal to their wives in the first place.

You're not here for their attention, though. You’re strictly here for business—and frankly, you want to do nothing more than sock these fat business moguls in their chubby faces until their teeth fall out and demand they pay their taxes. But, seeing as you’re the only woman here who isn’t a gold-digging wife, you bite your tongue.

You’ve always dreaded black tie events, but as you’ve said, duty calls.

A whine filters through the speakers, followed by two amplified taps and a clear of a throat. The murmur down as the auction's owner takes the center of the stage, stilling in front of the next piece of art—hidden behind a black veil—before adjusting the tie to his business suit.

“I’m glad that you all could be with us tonight. I have both a great privilege and honor to host this event,” he announces, bulbous head already growing damp under the heat of the stage lights. “Now that we're almost at the end, I'm sure you won't be disappointed. Saving the best for last, as one does."

He includes a casual wave to his comment and the audience erupts in a flurry of chuckles, though not for long. As he walks over to the piece, hand raised and ready to reveal, silence seizes the room by the neck.

"Well. Shall we?”

The audience balances on the edges of their seats, with millions of wide eyes and thrumming chests in anticipation. A smooth flick of a hand and the black sheet is removed, and there sits the only piece you’ve had your eyes on all night. She’s even more beautiful up close.

“El Bacio, The Kiss. Francesco Hayez, 1859.”

The grip around your glass tightens. The brilliant blue from the woman’s dress in the oil painting may as well burn your eyes, and the surrounding murmurs peak with your interest. You know it's yours without question, though—you can outbid almost anyone in this room. Anyone that matters, anyway.

“This is the original version, originally commissioned by Count Alfonso Maria Visconti of Saliceto. It was donated to the Pinacoteca di Brera in 1886 and went missing in 1937. Starting at ten million.”

You try not to scowl. The fucker jacked up the price by two million.

“Twelve million,” the man says as he recognizes whoever lifted a hand. You sit tight, your hands throbbing in your lap for the right moment as you survey the room for anyone who could possibly pose a threat. You find none.

The bidding continues. The price elevates from twelve million to fifteen to thirty to fifty. You raise a hand, finally, fingers splayed wide and confident to signify a five.

“Fifty-five million.”

The room falls silent; you try not to smile. You know for a fact no one wants this painting more than you do, and you’re determined to have it.

“No one else?”

His eyes scan the room but no one makes a motion. It’s yours.

Until there’s movement from your peripheral.

“Sixty million!”

You eye whoever had the audacity to raise their hand, only to be met with a rather peculiar sight—a man, roughly your age, with slicked-back green hair and a hand twice the size of yours, lifted lazily in the air.

With a huff, you find yourself thrusting another five into the air.

“Sixty-five millio—Seventy million!”

You know that green-haired (probably) trust fund baby has got to be doing this for fun because the poorly hidden smirk hidden behind the hand he rests his chin on is more than obvious.

You dislike him already, immediately categorizing him with the rest—another sleazeball.

“Seventy-five million!”

“Eighty million!”

“One hundred million!”

In your defense, you were getting frustrated.

Either way, the green-haired stranger backs off with a nonchalant shrug, and it makes you burn this discontent. The business mogul-turned-auctioneer steps off the stage for another twenty-minute intermission and folks turn to one another for conversation. You sigh, simply satisfied that you’ve gotten what you came for.

You find yourself faintly puzzled by the boy with the green hair, and you're sure it's solely due to his age. Frankly, you've been the only one under thirty in the Top 100 Richest People since you achieved such a feat, and the fact that you haven't heard of him is...puzzling. But it doesn't matter. Clearly, he’s just another fellow looking to put another pretty thing in his foyer—you doubt he knows a thing about art, and definitely not an appreciation for it. You find solace in the fact that it's the new addition to your precious art collection instead, and will be owned and taken care of by someone who actually enjoys it.

“Good evening.”

You jump. Wrapped up in all of your inner turmoil (complemented by inner bragging, naturally) you fail to notice the greenette cross the expanse of the ballroom and make himself comfortable in the open seat next to you, despite your lack of approval.

“Hello,” you say, unsure of why he's here. He offers a hand to shake, Rolex glinting under the golden lighting.

“Izuku Midoriya,” he introduces, and you suppose shaking his hand won’t hurt.

“Your name?” He snorts, raising a cocky eyebrow. You scowl.

“Does it matter?”

“Not particularly.” Izuku rests his forearms on the table as his evergreen eyes rake your figure up and down. “But if you prefer to remain nameless, be my guest.”

“[Y/N].”

“Hmm?”

“My name,” you clarify. “It’s [Y/N].”

You’re not exactly sure what possessed you to tell him your name so easily. Maybe the fact that most already know who you are, and the fact that this man—this stranger—doesn’t know who you are, irks you a bit.

Okay. It irks you a lot.

“Well, Miss [Y/N],” Izuku tilts his head sideways. “I think that’s a very pretty name.”

Your body betrays you with a light gasp. Stupid thing.

“Well. I’m bored,” Izuku announces childishly, relaxing against the chair. “Lets go somewhere.”

You roll your eyes at his asserted dominance—in no way does he expect you to go with him, does he? You raise an eyebrow.

“No.”

Izuku clicks his tongue as if it were a buzzer, and more importantly, as if you were wrong. “Why?”

That has you scoffing. “I don’t know you.”

Izuku’s eyes flash with a challenge and it’s gone just as quickly. He leans forwards, crowding your personal space yet again.

“I told you my name, no?”

“You did,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest and straightening your back. You feel too small. “But I know nothing about you.“

“Well,” Izuku places an inquisitive finger on his lips, and it’s almost mocking, the way he takes a moment to think about it. “My name is Izuku Midoriya. I like...katsudon and hero movies. I’m here because I have too much time and money on my hands, and I’m, most importantly, bored.”

Your eyes narrow. “What do you do for a living?”

Izuku’s lip curls, and it’s downright sinister, “I'll tell you if you come with me."

You roll your eyes, and he takes both your hands in his. You don’t pull away, but you don’t reciprocate it either.

“Where?”

Izuku shrugs, “Wherever the wind takes us.”

Your stomach growls loudly, interrupting your fairly intimate conversation and dying your cheeks pink. Izuku raises an eyebrow.

“I heard they’re feeding us escargo for dinner.”

“Ugh,” you sigh, shoulder sagging. “Looks like I’m not eating, then.”

But there’s a glint in his eyes, and you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t one in your own. There's an ebb in the discourse, a beat, before Izuku's nodding towards the exit.

“Fast food?”

Wendy’s hits different during a Parisian midnight.

“—and so I had to be like: No Kacchan, you can’t hotwire his car to blow just because your food was, and I quote, lukewarm.”

You snicker behind a fist, digging your fancy heels into the grimy cement sidewalk, Wendy’s frostee in hand. Izuku hasn’t let go of your hand since you two left the fast-food joint, and for some reason, you haven’t pulled away.

"Violence seems to be a reoccurring theme with your friend," you say, laughing when Izuku nods in agreement, eyes stuck on the full moon hanging high in the air.

"You remind me of him, actually."

You raise an eyebrow, unable to see the correlation at all, "Because I'm a loud and angry and I like to blow things up."

"Or, because you're strong—independent. The type of woman to make men turn tail and run, you know?" Izuku turns to you with a lopsided grin.

You hum, averting your eyes to the moon. It's a stupid question, one that's all too loaded yet empty at the same time, and you hate that you hesitate to ask it.

"Why haven't you ran, then?"

"Easy." Izuku lets a smooth shrug roll off his shoulders, "I like strong women."

He continues to pull you to an undisclosed destination, the two of you stumbling through the heart of Paris with his suit jacket around your goosebump-ridden shoulders. People stare, but for the first time in forever, you find that you don't care much.

Finally, you two reach Izuku's "big reveal." You gaze at the magnificently lit french building in confusion, the golden under lights contrasting both of your beings against the navy blue sky.

"The Louvre?"

"Mhm," Izuku says, and he looks more than giddy. "Have you been?"

"Once," your voice is weary and you're sure he senses it, his grip tightening around your own. "For a fundraiser...but it's midnight Izuku, ho—"

But he's already tugging you to the right, dipping between columns and arches until you reach the back of the building. Izuku turns to you and whispers:

"Watch this."

It's hard to tell what he did exactly, especially with no light—it's just a bunch of jingles and ticks. Though, the moment you can't escape the sense that this is beyond sketchy, a lock clicks, and a door whines open.

"Hurry. And take your heels off," Izuku whispers, tilting his head towards the entrance. You hear the crunch of a leaf and see the beginning of a white flashlight curl around the building and fuck, this place has to be crawling with security guards, doesn't it?

"Don't tell me what to do," you grumble...as you take off your shoes. (Because you were going to do it anyway.) You enter and he closes the door behind the two of you, submerging you both in complete darkness.

"Security's only on the outside," Izuku grins. "They don't expect us to get inside, so as long as we're quiet, it should be fine."

"Until we have to get back out again," you say, huffing. Your heart pounds from the adrenaline because frankly, you've never been one for adventures, and breaking into a historical french museum is miles out of your comfort zone. "Seriously, did you think this through at all? What happens when we get caught?"

Izuku sighs, turning to you with a pout before grabbing your free hand again. "Women worry too much. C'mon—I wanna explore."

"You—let go, you misogynistic assho—"

You're cut off by a finger to your lips. Izuku bends down so he’s looking at you straight on, eyes dark as he sternly whispers, "Do you want us to get caught?"

It's not the prospect of getting caught that makes you falter, though—it's the way his stare pins you in place, voice swollen with that air of dominance you claim to hate. You have to tighten your grip on your heels to ensure they don't hit the ground.

"Now," Izuku‘s strangely childish manner returns, tugging your hand once your panicked whisper-yelling ceases, "Shall we?"

You roll your eyes, but your bare feet patter against the cold Louvre tile anyway. And you've got to say, the museum is much nicer when it isn't crawling with people.

"Mona Lisa's forehead is bigger than I thought," Izuku observes with a finger on his lip. He's on the wrong side of the railing, his nose close to kissing the glass protecting the piece. You snort, dropping your head to pinch the bridge. He turns to give you a weird look.

"What?"

"Nothing, just," you shake your head, the cool wood of the railing digging into your forearms. "Did you actually want that painting?"

Izuku frowns. "Which one?"

"El Bacio."

"Mm," the greenette hums as he thinks, blinking to the corner of the room."I suppose. You seemed like you wanted it more, though."

You roll your eyes, "So you cap at eighty million?"

Izuku shrugs, hopping the railing. Seems like he's finally done insulting poor Lisa, "I capped when you started to sweat."

You huff, but stomping instead of walking isn't so intimidating when you're barefoot. "I wasn't sweating."

You see a hidden smirk on Izuku's face once you catch up to him, and it's frustrating and insulting, to say the least. Both of you proceed down a hall of statues. "You're much easier to read than you think, Miss [Y/N]."

"And you're not as perceptive as you think, Mister Midoriya."

Izuku chuckles at that, shaking his head. "Well played, Miss [Y/N]. Well played."

You're not sure why your chest swells, but it does, and it takes both you and your limited lung capacity off guard. But you don't have much time to sort it out—Izuku's grabbing your hand again, and redirecting your attention to the last statue in the hall. You recognize it and frown.

“Cupid and Psyche?”

The silver moonlight pours in through the window, spilling down Cupid’s tipped wings and the softest points of the Psyche’s curves. Izuku hums in confirmation, hands sliding to encompass your hips as his chin hooks on your shoulder.

"Well done, Miss [Y/N]."

His voice deepens—it's coarse and heady, and gets your blood rushing in a way breaking and entering never could have.

"Amore e Psiche, Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. Antonio Canova, 1793."

You fail to understand why this statue stood out to him compared to all the others, but the circles Izuku’s thumb presses into your hips signifies that you’ll find out soon.

"Cupid represents desire, and Psyche, the human soul," Izuku says, running his hands up your sides. "Together, they make the perfect union."

Dipping his nose into your neck, Izuku inhales, and the hands around your waist tighten, if the smallest bit. "Psyche was the prettiest woman in the world; so pretty she rivaled Venus' beauty with her own. It didn't matter if it broke rules—Cupid knew he had to have her."

The gentle nudge of a neck evolves into a set of butterfly kisses, tracing the column of your neck until his mouth reaches your ear. A hand slides to gently cup your breast, and the other to your thigh.

"Miss [Y/N], when I saw you this evening, in that ballgown, I knew I just had to have you. But I can't be a gentleman for much longer, as much as I'd like to." Izuku groans into your neck, hips gently grinding forwards. "So, it's up to you what we do next—I could drop you off at your home to probably never see you again, or...”

Izuku shifts, and you can feel his hardening cock against your back. “I can bend you over right here. Your choice.”

You hesitate, determined to think this through—but Izuku's wandering hands and rutting hips prove to be too much of a distraction.

"Fine," is all you say, before whirling around, grabbing the greenette by his dress shirt, and slamming your lips onto his.

Izuku kisses back with a grin—like he knew you were going to say yes—and places his hands around your waist yet again, backing you up against the marble statue.

"Sit on the platform," he breathes into your mouth. You frown.

"Like, the platform to the statue? Caus—"

"Yes on the statue, now sit," Izuku demands, but he doesn't give you much room to protest, forcing you onto the marble platform. Hiking your dress to your waist, Izuku's calloused palms slide up your inner thighs, spreading them apart to make room for himself in between. He pauses.

"No panties?"

You flush red—from the exposure or the comment, you aren't sure—but you huff in defiance nevertheless, determined to stand your ground and keep some of your dignity. (Though you're positive Izuku can feel you shaking already.)

"I'm wearing a dress," you defend weakly.

Izuku hums behind a bitten lip, lying a heavy thumb on your clit. It's enough pressure to make your thighs tense but not much else, until it flicks downwards.

"I wanna taste you," Izuku growls with dilated pupils once he finally tears his gaze from your exposed body. "Can I?"

Heat surges through your veins, and you let him pry your thighs apart as you respond with an unsteady, "Yeah—yeah, that's fine."

Izuku's chest rumbles with a growl as he closes in on your pussy, hands gripping underneath your thighs. You whimper when he trails butterfly kisses down your inner legs, the grip you have around the skirt of your dress tightening.

"So pretty," Izuku groans, chuckling when you shiver as he flattens his tongue against your slit, "My Goddess."

With that he dives in, almost sending you toppling with the force. The moonlight dyes his green locks a navy blue, and you can't resist seizing them into a fist when he pushes a finger in.

"Feel good, Gorgeous?" Izuku says with a knowing smirk on his sinfully glossed lips. Another digit enters and it has your toes curling as you nod. “Shit, you’re tight.”

Izuku spits on your pussy and it’s downright dirty, before looks at you under forest green eyelashes, the other hand finally letting go of your thigh in favor for pulling at the top of your dress.

“Izuku, wha—“

“I wanna see your tits,” he huffs. You’d laugh at his enthusiasm if you weren’t so aroused, and you find your hands joining in the flurry. The moment they’re free, Izuku’s mouth latches onto your breast in an instant.

“F-Fuck, ‘Zuku—“

“You sound so good when you moan my name, sweetheart,” Izuku groans, and you jolt as he tweaks a bud.

“Say it again.”

He pinches your nipple and clit at the same time, and it has your legs kicking as you squeal his name again.

The Izuku growls and it's nothing but feral, and another yelp of his name has him pulling you to your feet to the point where your noses almost touch. Aggravated from being so close before the greenette ripped his fingers away has you scowling.

"Wha—"

"Can I fuck you?" His breath ghosts your lips. You hide your shock by a roll of your eyes.

"Do you always ask stupid questions?"

Izuku hums in contemplation before grabbing you harshly by the jaw, to the point where your cheeks squish into your eyes and your lips pucker. "Say it, Bunny."

"I just sa—"

"Say 'I want you to fuck me, Izuku,'" he says with a cruel snarl. "’Hard.’"

Your eyes dart from his heavy gaze to the statue, and you can't help but feel more fragile than glass. "I litera—"

"Say it, brat."

"I—" you try but nothing comes out, and you blame that darkened stare of his, "I w-want you to fuck me. Izuku."

Izuku inhales sharply, the fingers cradling your face tightening before he speaks again.

"Good girl."

He spins you so your hands lay on the statue's base, yanking your hips back and flipping your dress so your bare ass is exposed to the cool air.

Izuku's palms caress your behind, kneading both globes before he pulls you against his bare cock. (When he took off his pants is beyond you.) He slaps his cock against your clit until you huff in frustration, turning around to shoot him an angry glare.

"Today, Izuku."

The greenette blinks out of his absorbed gaze on your behind in favor of glowering you down. You waver under his glare despite your best efforts.

His cock kisses your entrance and then all of it is in you at once, and his size is enough to make your inner thighs ache from the stretch. You bite your lip in an attempt to muffle a moan, but that crashes and burns fairly quickly.

"O-Oh shi—"

"You said today, didn't you?" Izuku rasps, before pulling out and stuffing you full at a quick and steady pace. Your hands scramble for proper purchase against the statue—without breaking it, for gods sake—but the harder he fucks you into it, the harder it is to stay upright. "Quiet, baby. We're not supposed to be here, remember?"

You nod frantically, teeth digging into your bottom lip. The thought of getting caught, you, of all people, while being railed against a marble statue—

Izuku moans in your ear, a hand moving between your thighs to rub at your clit. "Oh, you tightened when I said that—you like the idea of getting caught, Bunny?"

You respond with a choked moan, thighs quivering with an impending orgasm. Izuku groans as you tighten around him again, but they quickly turn into shushes.

"Bu—"

"I-I know," your voice cracks and it's absolutely pathetic. "But I can't—"

Izuku's hand wraps around your mouth to the point where his fingertips just barely brush your ears. You whine, eyes fluttering as the new grip adjusts the angle ever so slightly, and pushes him so much deeper.

"You're gonna kill me," Izuku says, wheezing out a laugh. "I—fuck Bunny, I'm close."

You whimper behind his hand and nod as if to say me too, and you're sure Izuku understands from the way he groans before he speeds up in all aspects. "Good. G-Good—cum for me baby, I know you can—"

Your toes curl into the marble floor as the coil in your gut snaps, knocking the wind out of you and sending you thrashing in Izuku's arms. You hear the greenette curse and shudder behind you, stuttering hips slowing to an eventual stop. Both of you stand there for a moment, comfortable interrupting the silence with nothing but your heaving breaths.

"You okay?"

You chuckle. It's dry and scratchy, and your lip throbs from biting it so hard, but it isn’t...aggravating, per-se. "You sound worse than me."

Izuku laughs at that, though it waters down as he pulls out with a hiss. "I don't think worse is the correct adjective here, Miss [Y/N].”

You snort. Back to “Miss [Y/N]” it is, then.

Your ears catch the distinct wail of ever-increasing sirens, but you don't think much of it until the side of Izuku's face starts flashing blue and red. Both you and the greenette falter, sharing a look.

"Police! Hands in the air!"

i wrote this while watching a hysterectomy in physio aah (also yes, the french police speak in english leave me alone skjdhfgk) — sun

#— 𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐊𝐔 #izuku midoriya #deku x reader #deku smut #izuku smut #midoriya smut #bnha smut #mha smut

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pillow-anime-talk · 4 years ago

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genshin month ; third day.

synopsis: You and your fiancé started spending less and less time together.

# tags: scenario; current relationship; romance; mild angst; also fluff; sfw with suggestive ending

includes: female reader ft. albedo & sucrose {genshin impact}

author’s note: it’s time for some fucking angst but with happy end, friends.

You packed a delicious-looking breakfast into a special bamboo box, and then wrapped both the beautifully scented bento and the paper bag with chocolate cookies in a much larger piece of colorful fabric to make it all more convenient to carry. A proud smile graced your face as you turned to greet Albedo, whose footsteps you heard in the distance.

“Hello, darling.” You greeted him warmly and then felt a sweet kiss in the middle of your hot forehead. “Breakfast is on the table, and here, I packed your dinner. Please, eat it later, okay?” You added softly, touching his delicate skin on his cheek by your left hand, and the man nodded gently, after a while, however, nestling your body into his slightly larger and warmer. “Huh? Something happened?”

“Well... I know, I promised you that today we will spend some time together and go for a walk, but I will have to stay longer at work.” He confessed hesitantly, and you sighed under your breath.

“After all, you are our Chief Alchemist, I’m not really surprised. Has Jean commissioned you to do something important?” Curious, you asked, and he shook his head, which made you a bit confused. So you raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to answer you truthfully.

“Sucrose asked me to help her with alchemy, so I’ll stay with her a little longer to help her master some of the things.” He admitted calmly, and your expression becomes blank. Ah, right. You could have figured out that the reason for all of this is your fiance’s helper, Sucrose.

You moved away from his body, then sighed; nevertheless, a weak smile appeared on your face. Not very honest, but Albedo didn’t seem to notice it.

“It’s okay, love. Let’s go eat our breakfast. I made your favorite vegetable and mushroom omelets.”

{ ･ﾟ✧ }

Hours after Albedo left the house, you realized that you forgot to add a thermos with coffee to his large bento. You decided to quickly fix your mistake and prepared his favorite, strong drink. You also took some fresh fruit and packed it in a small cloth bag. On its front there was a beautiful bouquet that you had embroidered yourself a few days earlier.

Even though you were confused by the behavior of your lover, you couldn’t stop worrying about him. He was the most important person for you, he was your beloved second half, he was also the best human you have ever met, so you wanted to repay him for looking after you and making sure that nothing bad would ever happen to you. Albedo cared for you as best he could and you appreciated it like nothing else in the world. However, for a long time you have had the impression that this care and interest in you begins and ends in your shared home, where no one is looking, where no one is allowed to enter.

Your weekly walks around the city were a thing of the past, and you didn’t want to ask for them every time. Your ‘family’ lunches were no longer shared lunches, because you ate them alone while the twenty-two-years-old was in his lab or carrying out his missions. Your tenderness was limited to kisses on the forehead, and you missed kisses on the mouth, on the nose, on other parts of the body. Not to mention about long baths together or time spent in bed (not necessarily reading books, but something... more intimate).

Nevertheless, you weren’t particularly angry, maybe a bit disappointed, but you didn’t feel angry with your partner. The only thing you could feel at that time was your concern about whether Albedo takes care of himself and takes care of his daily menu or the right amount of water consumed throughout the whole day.

The road to the place where the young man’s laboratory was located took you less than twenty minutes. Along the way, you greeted the inhabitants of Mondstadt, who, seeing you, wished you a nice day and asked you to greet, quoting their words, ‘The Great Captain’. At the sound of their joyfull voices you smiled slightly, nodding your head and promising you would do it. And as soon as you got to the right place, you quietly entered the building. You wanted to say ‘Good afternoon’ to your loved one and green-haired teenager, but instead you almost felt that the bag of products falling out of your hands.

You knew Albedo cherished you and would never cheat on you, but it hurt to see him leaning forward next to Sucrose. It seemed that his lips were about to touch her cheek or temple, and it hurt as badly as any other form of cheating. He had so much fun with her and their alchemy, so many topics to talk about, from work to missions they were given, and you? All you two could talk about was only... Yeah, was what?

“Umm... Albedo?” Your peaceful voice spread over the fairly large room, and two people next to the wooden table looked up at your standing figure. “I forgot to pack your coffee in the morning... I’ll put it here and I won’t disturb you two anymore. Don’t overstraining yourselves, okay?” Your faint smile covered a broken voice and trembling lips. “Good luck with your work and study. Do your best.”

You quickly put the silvery thermos and colorful fruit on the dark cabinet, and just as quickly left the room. Albedo, seeing your figure disappearing, apologized to his assistant, and she nodded. But before the blonde alchemist left the room, Sucrose grabbed him by the black sleeve of his clothes and laughed shyly.

“Mr. Albedo, I don’t think I need any extra lessons today, though. We can arrange a different date. Will it be okay?” Her girlish voice reached his ears, and he mechanically agreed, breathing blissfully. “Thank you. Please keep Mrs. Y/N company tonight. I think she misses you really much.”

The knight wanted to answer, but instead he ran after you, catching you up almost at the exit of the brick building. He took your sad face slowly between his all, long fingers and you frowned.

“Why are you leaving? You’re always welcome here, darling.”

“I just don’t want to disturb you two, Albedo. I don’t fit here.” You admitted finely, and your gaze shifted to the mahogany panels under your feet. “Sometimes I wonder why you are with me. I don’t even understand alchemy, you can’t talk to me about it. You should... Maybe you should be with Sucrose? Or with another woman who shares your hobbies...?” You asked tenderly, and he opened his eyes wider, pulling your body into a warm embrace.

“I never thought of leaving you for someone else, dearest. Why are you talking about this at all? What happened?”

Your eyes met his deep blue orbs again, and you shrugged timidly.

“Currently, Sucrose is closer to you than I am. I thought you were bored with me. Moreover – I don’t thi...”

A precious kiss on your blueberry-tasting lips silenced your thoughts and at the same time caused a tiny blush on your both cheeks and ear tips.

“Sucrose is my successor, it’s true. But, my love. You are my future wife and you’re definitely more important to me than she is. Please don’t ever think that I will leave you for someone else. You are the best thing... no, you’re the best person that enter to my life and I love you very, very much. Also... Sucrose always asks about you and says she wants to be like you. Like someone who know how to cook or bake, sew clothes and plushies, make beautiful hairstyles like the ones on my head. She admires you as someone admires their mother. Sometimes I have the feeling that she would rather be your apprentice than mine.” He laughed cutely, and you looked at him in big surprise. After a short while, however, you nodded, resting your head on his smooth neck. “... I know I’ve been neglecting you lately and I’m ashamed of it, but now I promise to make it up to you. Therefore, let’s go home and tomorrow we’ll go for a walk to the lake or for a picnic.”

“Huh? But your job? Extra-curricular activities...? And what about...”

“Don’t think about anything. We’re done now so let’s go, dear. I have to show you how different you are from other people when it comes to my feelings.” Suddenly his mouth was right next to your left ear, and warm breath wrapped around your face. “And I don’t promise you’ll fall asleep tonight.”

“... A-Albedo!”

previous day ; aether ♡ next day ; keqing

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unmaskedagain · 5 years ago

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How about... No!

Yeah, this one was weird for me. It’s started out strong but near the near the end It kind of fell flat. Throughout this I sprinkled in Quotes from one of my favorite shows; I’d watched it every time it was on. Fans will recognize it. Its ugly betty.

When Marinette lost all her friends, she didn’t break down like she thought she would. Or how anyone in class thought she would. There were no tears, no apologies, no anger or frustration. It had happened one sunny Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of class, of month after school started back up again.

Alya, the new class president, had announced in the middle of class after Miss Bustier had stepped out for a moment, that Marinette was an awful bully; she wasn’t the girl they knew anymore, and so… “We’re not your friends anymore.”

“You all feel this way?” Marinette asked.

There were a lot of nods, and yes’s.”

“I didn’t hang with Chloe for reason,” Nino glared. “I’m not hanging with Chloe 2.0.”

“Just another disappointing useless male,” Chloe shook her head.

“You’ve been really mean lately,” Rose said softly. “Sorry.”

“Lila only wanted to be friends with you,” Mylene insisted. “You didn’t have to be so nasty!”

To which Marinette looked at her blankly, shrugged and said, “Okay.”

That was it.

The other students in class didn’t know what to do or say. They had prepared themselves to argue and defend their decision. But what could they say to “okay.”

Nathaniel looked at the rest of the students like there were stupid, “I’m still your friend, Marinette.” He got glares.

Adrien nodded, “We’re still friends,” he assured. “Though,” he glared at the rest of class, “Some people should definitely lose my number.”

The statement got shocked looks. No one expected Adrien to side with Marinette. At worst, when the lines were drawn, they expected him to be neutral. They didn’t know the boy as well as they thought. Lila looked dismayed as she had thought the boy to be a pushover.

“I wouldn’t mind a permanent truce,” Chloe offered. The Bluenette and the blond’s had entered into a truce that had slowly turned into a good friendship. “Maybe i’ll take over the spot as the new bestie.”

Marinette snorted.

Adrien glared at his oldest friend, his hair raising on ends; if Alya was officially out of the way that meant technically he had the number one friend spot. He wouldn’t lose it to Chloe. That wasn’t fair! “It’s taken!”

Chloe smirked, “For now!”

Marinette smiled. She would be just fine.

The class, however, wouldn’t.

It took them three days to realize that ending their friendship with Marinette had consequences.

The first time was when in the middle of lunch, Rose let out a happy scream, “Prince Ali is coming back to town. He’s invited me to a fundraising gala for the children’s hospital. This Saturday.” The other girls immediately launched into excited screams.

The four, who had been exiled from the rest of the class, ignored them. Mostly because they were all going to the gala as a well. Adrien because of his father. Nathaniel because his art was being displayed. Chloe because she was Chloe. And Marinette because her great aunt was hosting it.

When four was the first to make it back to class and sat in their seats in the very back; talking amicably, they barely noticed the other students come in. But they did notice Rose when she ran to the back of the class with a huge smile on her face.

“Marinette!” Rose chirped. “I need a dress for the gala; something formal. Something sparkly.”

Marinette nodded, “Have your measurements changed.”

Rose shook her head quickly, her eyes still sparkly as she daydreamed about dancing with Prince Ali.

Marinette opened her bag and pulled out her brochure that Chloe had insisted she get to hand out. It included examples of dresses she previously made and prices for things like dresses, skirt, suits, anything. It had her phone number, her website information; everything. Adrien had gotten tips from his dad about how he started out and relayed them to Marinette. It made her feel like a real designer.

She handed the brochure to Rose, who took it absentmindedly. “Ok, then it would be about $475. $550 if you want the full princess look.”

“Wha-What?” Rose asked confused.

The other students in class looked confused as well apart from Adrien, Chloe, and Nathaniel who bore smirks.

“The dress you’re commissioning,” Marinette said slowly. “The estimated price for a rushed custom dress is between $475 and $550. It would’ve been a bit cheaper but you’re ordering it at the last minute. All my prices are in the brochure; standard for everyone. I would actually just purchase one the designs on my website; it would be less expensive than having me create something specifically for you.”

Rose looked at the brochure, her mind struggling to process. “But you-you always make my dress for free!”

“I didn’t really like to,” Marinette shrugged. “But you guys never really asked you just demanded; like you did when you walked in.” Rose looked a bit ashamed; because yes, she did just demand. “Materials are really expensive. Every free dress or any custom piece I gave out I had to increase the price for the rest of my commissions. It never seemed fair to my other customers. Which worked for me because I opened up my own design studio and office. MDC Designs.” It was in a richer part of Paris; in an unused part of an office building. It had tons of natural light and an amazing view; plus it was private. “Though for some reason, the high price just attracted more people. But you were my friends so I did it anyway. Now we’re not friends so I don’t have to anymore.”

“Rich people,” Chloe explained. “The more expensive something is, the more they want it.” The blond had become Marinette’s social media manager and business manager as well. Because of her MDC was becoming Instagram famous and had featured clothes on various runaways. She always hired all the models.

A devastated look appeared on Rose’s dress; she couldn’t afford a fancy new dress. She didn’t have enough money saved up for one. She never thought she’d have to save money for a dress. Marinette always made anything she wanted.

“And you wonder why no one likes you,” Alya hissed that the two girls.

Marinette leaned back in her chair, “I could make an effort to be liked but I rather be hated than inconvienced.”

“You don’t need her, Rose!” Alix snapped. “We’ll find you much better dress than she could ever make.”

Alya crossed her arms, “And it won’t look as tacky.”

“Good for you,” Marinette said happily, and went back to talking with her friends.

While shopping for Rose’s dress, the girls decided to pull up Marinette’s website so they could make fun of outfits. Unfortunately, they were hard pressed to find anything wrong with the fabulous dresses. Even Lila spotted several she wanted for herself.

Rose didn’t find a better dress than the ones Marinette’s website. At least not one for a price she could afford. She ended up re-wearing an elegant blue dress Marinette had given her the year before for a dance.

Though she had stumbled when The Emily Gilmore, world around philanthropist millionaire, brought her niece on stage and it turned around to be Marinette. Marinette wearing the most gorgeous silver dress Rose, and most of the party guests, had ever seen.

“That is a friend of yours from school, yes?” Prince Ali asked. “I didn’t know there was a Gilmore in Paris. They contribute much to my Go-Green Projects. Will you please introduce me?”

Rose froze. Because no, she wasn’t Marinette’s friend. And it was highly doubtful she’d get anywhere close to Marinette.

“They’re not friends actually,” Chloe said swooping in. “A bit of a falling out. I’m rather close with Marinette though. I’d love to introduce you now if you’re ready. Marinette was the one to get the Gilmore foundation to really take an interest in Going Green. They are always looking for new ideas.”

Prince Ali gave a quick look at Rose, “I’m sure it will not take long. Is it okay with you if I go?” Rose forced a happy smile on her face and nodded. “Thank you!”

Rose was forced to watch Prince Ali offer Chloe his arm.

“I’m surprised you did bring Lila Rossi?” Chloe drawled as they walked away, leaving Rose, alone in the middle of party where she hardly knew anyone. “I’ve heard so much about her own contributions to your Go-green projects.”

“Who is Lila Rossi?” She heard Prince Ali asked. And just like that, a little bit of Rose’s world came crashing down.

It was two days later, before the first bell rang, Alya rushed to Marinette’s desk, with big smile on her face and hope in her eyes. “Did you see the new heroes?” She asked excitedly. “BrightRoar and Killer Bee!” She shot a mean look at Chloe. “I guess you got replaced for being such a lousy hero.” She turned back to the bluenette. “I need another interview with Ladybug, like stat! When can you set it up?”

“I can’t,” Marinette said and went back to pulling out her school books for the day.

“Of course you can,” Alya insisted. “You always do it! You’re the one who got me my first interview with Ladybug and everything.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. Yet another demand. “No, I can’t.”

Chloe tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the desk, “What my best Mari (Adrien growled, “I will end you, Chloe!” Marinette was his best friend. But the other blond had been slowly invading Marinette’s room; leaving clothes and shows. A blanket on the top bunk though she knew Adrien had called dips.) is saying is that it’s not that she can’t, it’s that she won’t.”

“Why not?” Alya stomped her foot. “I need the deets on this now if I’m going to scoop Aurore and her BugOut site.”

“You’re not friends anymore,” Chloe taunted. “Why would she help you?”

“I-well, it just!” Alya struggled to find the right words to say. Because she never considered that Marinette wouldn’t want to help with her blog anymore. Or that she only did it because they were friends.

Marinette sighed, “No. I mean I really I can’t. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t even if I could.” She told her ex-friend and the other classmates listening in. “Ladybug only gave you interviews because we were friends. She always thought you were a bit much. When I told her we weren’t friends anymore, she decided to not work with the Ladyblog anymore.”

“That’s a lie!” Alya yelled.

“Then why don’t you ask Ladybug herself,” Chloe told her.

“I will!”

While Ladybug was patrolling that night it was to no one’s surprise that Alya stood of a roof top of a building and waved the hero down.

“Do you need help?” Ladybug asked the girl kindly once she was on the roof.

“I need an interview!” Alya said, her phone was out and she was live streaming. “Why did you replace Queen Bee? Is BrightRoar a lion or a tiger? Are they permanent?”

Ladybug looked puzzled, “I thought Marinette told you already. I won’t work with you or the Ladyblog anymore.”

Alya stepped back, shocked. “What? Why? I thought she was lying.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That you thought I was a bit much,” Alya growled darkly. “That I only got the interviews because I was her friend. Which was a lie; I got them because I’m an awesome reporter. And she said I wouldn’t get anymore interviews.”

Ladybug shook her head, “Marinette left out a lot of what I said,” At this Alya’s expression turned smug. “I did say you were a bit much. But I also said you’re blog had become a tabloid full of incorrect information that I just couldn’t support anymore. It keeps getting worse every day; I swear if I have one more person asking me about some girl named Lila Rossi, I’ll lose it. I don’t know a Lila Rossi, and she is not my best friend. Also, Chat Noir and I are not and will be never be dating; stop insisting that we love each other. I told Marinette, you were a bad journalist who needed to learn to check your sources and cite where your information. I should’ve stopped dealing with you a long time ago. Honestly, I thought working with you was a bad idea from the start. But I owed Marinette a favor, you are her friend. Oh sorry, I meant you were her friend.”

Alya stood stunned as the words washed over her.

“I wish Marinette wasn’t so nice sometimes,” Ladybug sighed, though Marinette was practically dancing on the inside. “She should’ve told you what I really said. I guess she just didn’t want to be mean. Good luck with everything, Alya.” And with that Ladybug swung away.

It took Alya another five minutes to realize she was still live streaming.

Alya thought she’d wake up to the entire world talking about her encounter with Ladybug but they weren’t. Sure there were dozens and dozens of complaints accusing her of lying to them but nothing to extreme.

Her friends comforted her as soon as she got to class. Alya barely noticed to down in the dumps. Lila had assured her that Ladybug was only trying to protect her which was why she pretended not to know the Italian girl. This relieved one of Alya’s concerns. Still, It was a hard pill to swallow but she realized that technically she owed all of the Ladyblog’s success to Marinette who had helped arrange multiple interviews and convinced Ladybug to work with her in the first place. All because Alya was Marinette’s friend. The Ladyblog was doomed.

Said Bluenette had walked passed Alya’s desk without so much as glance in her direction, instead talking amicably to Chloe.

A few hours later during the middle of a history lesson, every phone in class starting pinging rapidly with new notification to the point where Bustier instructed them to turn off their phones completely.

Bad idea.

“Bugout posted an interview with the entire Miraculous team,” Rose said excitedly.

Everyone was watching the interview within seconds, almost everyone Chloe watched Alya instead; drawing a suspicious look from Adrien. Bustier just sighed and got her phone out as well. To their surprise it wasn’t just four heroes, it was six.

Aurore gracefully interviewed Ladybug and Chat Noir about the coming and goings of everyday hero life. Then ask the big question; who were the new heroes.

“They are the new permanent members of Team Miraculous!” Ladybug announced with a smile on her face. “Killer Bee,” Chloe preened. She had to change her name and costume but she got to keep being a hero. “BrightRoar.” Nathaniel fought not to blush. He still couldn’t believe that Marinette chose him. “Viperion!” Luka had been thrilled to be offered a place on the team. “And Renard blanche.” Aurore had been given the fox miraculous and had created an illusion of the new fox hero so she could do the interview.

“What happened to Rena Rouge and Carapace?” Aurore asked.

“Permanently retired,” Killer Bee sniped. “They’re actions outside the mask were… untasteful. They showed themselves to be unworthy of being heroes. They were fired! At least Queen Bee got to resign with her dignity.”

Alya dropped her phone and rushed out of the room in tears; Nino and a few of her other friends following her. Nearly everyone in class thought it was because Aurore got the interview she had been wanted but four knew the truth.

“let’s take a quick break,” Bustier said softly, already mentally preparing for another akuma attack.

“That was mean.” Adrien told Chloe.

“No that was deserved,” Chloe stated. “Alya tried to get Max to hack into the MDC website and ruin it. I’m lucky Claude runs helped with our internet security or we’d have been screwed. Mean, was me taking your little Cat Bed and tossing it on the pullout. And replacing with it with a comforter set worthy of a Queen.”

Adrien’s eyes widened and he rushed out of the room, probably to Marinette’s to defend his territory. Honestly, Marinette thought, he was behaving more and more like a cat every day.

Marinette gave Chloe a look, “You’re still as horrible and evil as the day that Satan himself placed you in your mother’s arms.”

Chloe preened, “Oh, darling, that’s sweet.”

When Mylene got an amazing idea for a short, she immediately went to Nino to ask if he could direct. He said yes. While in Class, they immediately started making plans and cast roles and assigning jobs to the other members of class. . “We can start filming this weekend.”

“Marinette, you’ll do costumes again.” Nino said quickly. “And food! We need food.”

“No.” Marinette said back.

Nino was so busy making plans that it took a minute to process what she said. He looked up shock. “No? What do you mean no?

“I’m too busy with other commissions to take on your project,” Marinette said easily. “Plus even if I don’t design the clothes myself, there is a consultant fee; not to mention contracts to sign.”

Alya glared, “Contracts? For what? Its a school project!”

“No, it’s not.” Adrien snapped back. “It has nothing to do with school. We’re not being graded or anything.” He reminded them. “Marinette has a brand now. She has to protect it and her clients. That means non-disclosure agreements, security agreements. A contract will lay out just what she is responsible for and what she can bill you for. It keep that waters clear.”

Mylene frowned, “We don’t need all that.”

“You might not,” Adrien said defensively. “But people are starting to recognize MDC all around the world. A contract will stop you from using her name to boost your movie. Or maybe even stop you mentioning her in the credits all together.”

Marinette nodded, “Besides on my website and on the brochure on the class board, it clearly states for big projects like this; I need at least a three month warning. I’m swamped.”

Nino wanted to point out there Marinette always made time before. But he remembered Marinette saying not too long ago that she always made time for her friends. And they weren’t friends anymore.

In the next few weeks and months, the class got used to hearing the word No from Marinette.

Alix asked about getting a banner. Marinette said No.

Alya asked about getting food for the bake sale like always. Marinette told her she’d have to make an order at the bakery and pay for it in advance.

Kim needed a scarf for his mom. Marinette gave him her brochure.

Birthday party planning. Sorry, Marinette no longer provided that service; please review the brochure if further clarification is needed.

So to get back at the Bluenette, the class got her, and Chloe and Nathaniel, excluded from the Class field trips and class parties on the grounds that Marinette caused too much tension in the class. Lila insisted that Adrien would come around.

The four retaliated by no longer helping with any of the fundraising or contributing their own money. If they couldn’t go on the oh so special class trips, then why should they help pay for it? Unfortunately for the class, they had forgotten that a majority of the money donated came from what Marinette raised/Donated and what Chloe contributed.

Bustier’s class trips went from the envy of the school to “oh god, why are they on a farm?” Really fast.

And for every “amazing” trip the class went on and for every party they had, the four hosted their own events that ended up the talk of the entire school.

It took until the end of the school year for Lila to be finally be exposed.

Chloe, Marinette, and Aurore were having a mini spa day in Marinette’s room. Their faces were covered in green mud masks and their hair was in curlers and their wore pajamas.

When Adrien burst in the room, he screamed, “Akumas!”

Marinette through a pillow at his face, “That’s not funny, catboy.”

“Catman,” Adrien corrected with a laugh.

Marinette stated back, “Please! I’m more man than you’ll ever be.”

“Nino texted.” He kept forgetting to block his old friend’s number. “Dude! Lila’s a liar! Alya’s losing it.” He read the text of his phone. “Then five minutes later. Man, we screwed up big time, huh? A minute later. Sorry.”

“About time,” Aurore shook her head. “For a self-proclaimed amazing journalist it took Alya way too long to figure Lila out.”

“She didn’t want to believe it,” Marinette shrugged. “She’s not big on admitting when she’s wrong. Or when she’s gone too far. I admittedly enabled her for a long time.”

“Everyone did,” Adrien frowned.

Chloe rolled her eyes, “The class is going to come groveling back on Monday.”

“Let them,” Marinette narrowed her eyes. “I’m done with fake friends.”

The girls nodded. The low sound of small click got their attention. All eyes went to Adrien who still had his phone out.

Chloe stood up, “I swear, Adrien, if you took a picture of me on your cell phone; I will kill you and eat you.”

Adrien held his ground, “Surrender the top bunk or I post it on Instagram.”

Aurore blinked, and then looked at Marinette confused, “They know this isn’t their room right?”

Marinette face-palmed, “I don’t even know anymore.”

Monday, as Chloe predicted, the class did come groveling back.

Marinette, Chloe, Adrien, and Nathaniel walked into class only to see that everyone had rearraged the seats again to what it was originally before Lila came.

The bluenette nodded, “Time to get serious!”

Chloe and Adrien’s expressions turned cold. Chloe cast a look at the still friendly looking redhead, “Nathaniel, put on your game face.”

Nathaniel quickly tried to look stern.

“Not your gay face,” Chloe hissed. “You’re game face.”

“They’re the same face,” Nathaniel whispered.

Marinette crossed her arms, “What’s going on here?”

Alya frowned, “This is our way of saying sorry. We should have never believe Lila. The rotten liar turned us against you.”

“No!” Marinette shook her head. “Saying sorry is saying sorry. And don’t blame Lila for you chose to do.”

Chloe marched to the back of the class, and glared at Rose and Juleka, “You’re in our seats!”

Rose tried not to panic, “It’s not your seat anymore. You’re up front with Sabrina again.”

“Let’s try this again…” Chloe leaned down, and glared hard. “MOVE!” She yelled.

The girls scrambled out of the chairs.

With a huff, the remaining three walked to the back of the class without another word.

The four sat down and glared at the rest of the class.

“You guys can come on the class trip with us now!” Kim offered.

Nathaniel snorted, “Yeah, i don’t do camping.”

“We couldn’t any way,” Chloe said. “While you’re camping for a week. We’ll be in England for our own class trip.”

She got envious looks.

“We can come with!” Alix smiled. “It’ll be a blast.”

“No,” Marinette said. “We had to save up all year for this trip. We already made reservations. You can’t come. I wouldn’t want you to anyway. It’s too much tension. Why don’t you go find Lila? I’m sure she’d take you back.”

“Girl, didn’t you hear us?” Alya said. “We’re sorry!”

“Oh I know you’re sorry,” Marinette said coldly, “I just don’t know why you think that matters.”

#ml fic #ml salt #marinette dupen chang #adrien agreste #class salt #chloe bourgeois

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crystalas · 3 years ago

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It’s only a matter of time part 2

part 2 of a Monkie Kid fanfic wherein MK and Red Son are being trained by Macaque against their will. Trapped in a mountain dojo with the skillet and Bands of Guanyin keeping them prisoner the two have to work together for any hopes of escape.

warning this contains the fan theory that demons in LMK universe eat humans, painful punishments and well angst

Chapter two: Meal times.

MK was embarrassed to find that he had fallen asleep as he nudged awake by Red Son who was staring at the cell door, Macaque’s shadow clone was standing there with two covered bowls, two jugs of water and wooden cups on a tray in his hands. He knelt down and pushed them towards the two boys who looked at it with suspicion and disgust.

“One of the things I was commissioned to do was to break a certain demon boy out of some bad habits, so I have decided that while you train under me you will be on an au natural diet.” The clone declared. MK picked up the lid and to his surprise his bowl was full of several bits of fruit, handfuls of different nuts and seeds and to his revulsion three giant crickets.

“For Monkey boy a monkey diet, don’t worry I’m not stupid enough to give you anything you can’t eat” Macaque laughed as MK stuck his tongue out at the idea of eating bugs. Red Son looked extremely hesitate to lift the lid on his bowl but the clone did it for him.

At first glance MK thought that Red Son had just been given a raw shank of meat presumably pork, but then he noticed that the joint of meat ended with a hand…

“For demon boy, a demon diet of raw human…”

MK froze and stared at Red Son who looked like he was going to puke.

“I can’t eat this!” Red Son declared pushed the bowl away.

“Aw don’t worry its fresh”

“I don’t care I can’t eat this!”

“Tough!”

MK took a fruit from his bowl and was about to hand it to Red Son but gave a loud yelp as his skillet gave him a warning throb.

“No sharing, that’s the only warning you two are getting!” Macaque’s clone scowled, “and don’t think I won’t noticed if you try. I’m not called the six-ear macaque for nothing” Red Son turned his back on his bowl with a growl of indignation and stayed there. MK felt his stomach betray him as he took the fruit, he was going to give Red Son and began to slowly chew on it. he didn’t realise until he shallowed the first mouthful how hungry he was and quickly began to eat everything else. [except the crickets…no…not hungry enough for bugs and he really hoped he never would have to be.]

“Enjoy boys and try to get a good night sleep, tomorrow the real training begins” and with that the clone vanished into the floor.

MK looked at Red Son who kept his back to him during the entire time MK had eaten his meal not a single word was spoken between them.

“Red Son…” MK began but was quickly cut off.

“Yes, demons eat people, but I don’t, okay?” Red Son snapped his hair rippling with fire, “I don’t care if that might make me the laughing stock of the demon community I. Don’t. Eat. Meat!”

“It’s ok I’m kind of glad you don’t” MK said quietly, “I’m guessing vegetarian demons are unusual?”

Red Son gave a heavy sigh and MK could see him gripping the sleeves on his robe tightly.

“More heavily frowned upon… a lot of the old school demons don’t get that for us inner city demons we can’t just go picking up the nearest human to snack on without alerting police. So, it’s easier to just not to.”

“Wait…how did Macaque know about this? How did he know about your quote unquote ‘bad habits’?”

“I don’t know, just add that to growing list of ‘things we have no idea on’…” Red sighed he scooted himself so he was leaning against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. Another hour of awkward silence filled the air as they both tried their hardest not to look at the human limb sitting in the cell with them. MK decided that maybe the best thing to do was sleep, but despite curling up and trying he just couldn’t.

“It’s just a limb nothing to be scared of…” Red Son said suddenly after ten minutes of him trying to sleep.

“I’m not scared!” MK retorted. Well not scared of the limb, I’m scared of everything else going on but not that.

“Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m cold!” MK groaned “It might surprise you that cold stone floors do not make for good sleeping arrangements!”

Red Son looked at him before giving a weary sigh and scooted closer to him, MK looked at him as he put his hands out and a fire blossomed into existence. MK closed his eyes and the warmth seeped into him.

“If we are to get out of here, we need to work together” Red Son whispered “Which means I can’t have you dying from the cold.”

MK was already drifting off to sleep.

“You know…for a bad guy…you’re pretty nice…” he mumbled as he fell asleep.

Red Son looked at him before glancing at the limb then back to MK. Don’t focus on the hunger, focus on the flame he told himself just focus on anything but that…meat.

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

“Please. Wake up!” MK woke up instantly at the voice of Macaque who was standing there holding in a snigger, MK looked to Red Son who had fallen asleep and was resting his head on MK’s shoulder. MK pushed him awake and when he realised what he was doing sprung away as he had received an electric shock.

Another bowl of fruit, nuts and bugs.

Another bowl of human meat, this time it looked to be a mix of organs. MK didn’t want to try and identify what kind but he was pretty sure he saw a heart; he didn’t dare look at it too long in case it moved! Red Son turned away again clutching his stomach.

“Eat up, you have thirty minutes to be ready and then we are starting” Macaque declared coldly before walking away. MK couldn’t help but watch Red Son as he ate wishing he could do something that didn’t result in both of them rolling around the floor screaming for mercy.

They were led by a shadow clone under the same command of “Please. Follow” Back to the training dojo floor that they had wandered through yesterday, instead of the dark gloom the room was lit up but what looked like glowing glass orbs. Macaque stood there waiting for them.

“So, let’s refresh ourselves, shall we?” he said happily despite the death glares he was receiving from the two ‘students. “You do what I say when I say and you don’t have to worry about struggling to breath or having your skull crushed, are we clear on that?”

Both boys continued to glare at him.

“I said are we clear?”

They managed another beat of determined silence before Macaque got a very quiet “Yes…”

“Good from now on you shall refer to me as Master, got that?”

Another very quiet and strained “Yes…”

“Yes what?”

“Yes…Master” MK had to swallow back the bile in his throat as he did.

“Good boys, let’s start with the basics, shall we?”

And so began the training programme which started out with running laps, then lead on to push up, pull ups and squats. MK tried to figure out how many Macaques actually wanted out of them but it seemed that he just wanted to see how many they could do before they collapsed before starting the next one.

“I need you two at your very best for what’s to come” Macaque told them after the morning was over and MK and Red Son sat there trying to not drown in their own sweat and try to move their aching bodies.

“Which is?” MK asked wearily.

Macaque just smiled at him, and throw the two bottles of water which they chugged greedily.

After an hour break, they started doing combat excerise, to MK’s annoyance it was the same stuff Macaque had tried teaching him the first time he was his “Student”. Red Son was taught more hand to hand stuff rather than the staff maneuverers which made sense seeing as anything Red Son held would not doubt combust if he used it. After what felt like endless hours they were told to go back to their cell, they both just collapsed against each other too exhausted to move or talk. They only did so when supper arrived.

Another bowl of fruit, nuts and bugs.

Another bowl of human meat.

Red Son just curled up and tried to sleep off the gnawing hunger that had now settled in his stomach, he could smell the meat now even from across the room. He gave a flinch when MK sat down next to him gave a tired smile to try and encourage him, Red Son tried his best to smile back before igniting the flame to keep him warm.

Eight more days past each one where they worked and train till, they would nearly puke from over exertion and barely walk anymore and then they would just collapse in their cell afterwards. Eight more days of Red Son not eating anything and MK could see that it was beginning to take a toll on him as the fire he was making to keep him warm kept getting smaller and smaller till he couldn’t maintain it longer than a few minutes. His hair was turning a horrible shade of dark grey that reminded MK of dying embers and Macaque noticed he was struggling to keep up, but didn’t care.

It was on the ninth day of their ‘training’ when during morning laps Red Son crumpled to the floor. MK ran over to him to help him up when he gave a startled gasp. Horns seemed to be growing out of his skull, a tail now whipped around slowly and where there had been toes where now cloven hooves like a bull… Red Son tried to get up as his body changed.

“Red Son…what’s happening to you?”

“His glamour is wearing off which means he is basically at the end of whatever strength he has…” Macaque declared walking over to him and pushing Red Son onto his back with his tail. “The fact you can barely keep that spell going means you are on the brink of death, is the great Red Son going to die from starvation of all things? How pathetic” he growled.

“F…fuck you” he managed to wheeze, Macaque was not impressed and activated the bands. Red Son could only whimper as the pain rampaged through him. MK knelt down next to him and tried to support him to sit up.

“You’re going to kill him!” MK cried “Let him eat something!”

“I am!” Macaque snapped back “Not my fault he’s too stubborn to eat what’s natural to his kind!”

“Take him back to the cell, if he’s still alive tomorrow we’ll continue our training then” Macaque growled and walked off. MK just glared at him as he left the dojo before fighting tears and dragging Red Son back. He laid Red Son down on the floor, before looking at the bowl of human meat before kicking it away angrily. He grabbed his bowl of food and got out one of the fruits he had left that morning, seeing Red Son practically starve to death had killed his own appetite.

“Come on you can have this!” MK said gently, Red Son sat up and reached out to take it, only for MK to convulse and fall to the floor clutching his head. Red Son didn’t even have the energy to reach out to him but could only listen to MK’s screams of pain. He put the fruit back down and MK fell still whimpering as he held his head. Red Son rolled over and looked at the meat, he could feel drool dripping from his mouth and he gave a shuddering sigh as he took the bowl…

MK tried his best not hear the sounds of teeth tearing into flesh, or the wet crunch as bones were consumed. And he tried really hard not to listen to Red Son gag and dry heave after he put down the empty bowl.

#monkie kid red son #Red Son #monkie kid mk #monkie kid macaque #Red Son is a vegetarian

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faterpresources · 3 years ago

Text

Anonymous:

Do you have any advice on how to start an rp blog? I feel like there's so much to do and so many specific things, it looks intimidating, but I really want to get into it (and your blog seems like a safe space to ask as a baby in the matter)

Hi! Thanks you for asking and for trusting. I do admit that rping on tumblr can look daunting and there is a series of things that are considered “etiquette” that might not be obvious for newcomers. And the only way to learn is to ask, right? As I’m not sure if you would like something more specific or a step-by-step, I’m going to go through the whole process.

note: this is a repost from an ask in a more reblog-friendly format

1. Setting up the blog

You might want to make a new e-mail account for each blog you want. I recommend making a gmail/google account, so you may be able to use other services and associate them with your blog. I’ll go into more details in a minute.

Some people would rather have a personal blog and then making the RP blog as a side-blog. Or a “hub” blog and many side-blogs so they have everything centralized. The downside is that you can’t follow people with side-blogs, only the main – and some rpers are a little suspicious of personal blogs, so if you intend to go this route it might be a good idea to state somewhere in your blog that you have a RP blog.

Tip : It isn’t said too often, but I recommend saving your blog’s e-mail and password somewhere, maybe a flashdrive or even google drive. This way, if something happens you will be able to retrieve your account.

When picking the URL, for a very long time tumblr had problems tagging URLs with a hyphen ( - ). I’m not sure if it has been fixed or if there are still some issues, so I recommend only using letters and maybe numbers. Other than that, pick anything that sounds nice to you!

Themes are nice, but not entirely necessary. Not everybody has photoshop skills and all that. Some people do have commissioned themes, but if you want to try your hand at it my first stop is usually @theme-hunter or @sheathemes . They reblog many themes from many creators, so there are always many options that might suit your needs. Some creators offer very newcomer-friendly themes that you can configure a lot of things without much hassle but some might require basic HTML knowledge – a few creators have guides on how to properly set up their themes and are willing to and answer questions, so don’t be afraid to contact them! You can also send me an ask, I’m not a specialist but I can certainly help walk you through the basics.

Tip: @glenthemes have very good themes and a basic installation guide here.

When fiddling with the options, try to pick colors that have nice contrast and are easy to read. If you are bad at picking colors or have problems in finding the code for them, I recommend trying this link. There is also this one that auto-generate palettes.

Tip : If you mess with your theme, remember there is the Theme Recovery.

Tip: If you use Chrome or Firefox you can set up different profiles and associate each with a different blog, so you don’t need to log out from any of your accounts.

There are two pages that I recommend having: one is an about your muse. If they are an OC, it is always a good idea to have at least some information out there to make things easier. If they are from a canon source, not everybody is familiar with the material so it might be a good idea to state. For example, if you are going to roleplay as Altria/Arturia, it is a good idea to have a “RP blog for Saber (Altria Pendragon) from FGO/FSN “ somewhere visible. The other page that is a good idea having is a rules/guidelines page. This one can be a little intimidating, but it is usually a way to communicate important things. For example: are you comfortable writing violence? Do you have any personal triggers? There is something you absolutely won’t write? There are things you may figure out along the way and it is absolutely ok to fine-tune this session every now and then. Some people also credit source for their icons and graphics in general in their rule/guideline page.

If you are using the tumblr default themes, when you create a new page you can turn on the option to show a link to the page. If you are using a custom theme, most of the time you will have to link it manually.

Oh, and if you are planning to do a multimuse, it might be a good idea to list which muses you have. The same goes for a hub blog; list the muses and link to the pages.

Icons aren’t necessary but are considered commonplace. You can find some icons I’ve done here but there are plenty of other sources. If you want to do your own icons, keep in mind to don’t make them too big, as a courtesy to your mutuals.

Tip: Anything larger than 300 pixels will be stretched to fit the post. As of today ( 4/29/2021 ) the posts are currently 540 pixels wide. This can be useful as making banners for your blog.

Tumblr allow users to “pin” posts. This mean that they will always visible if you access your blog, even on dash/mobile. You can use this to set up a post with basic links for mobile users or something else. For example, if you are out on vacations and won’t be able to do replies, you can pin a hiatus notice and then remove the pin once you are back.

2. Introducing yourself

Time to officially join the fun! (insert a “Hi, Zuko here” joke) Don’t worry if you don’t have a fancy promo graphic or anything, most people make their initial introduction with a simple post.

(as you can see, I’m not very good at saying ‘hi’)

Try to introduce yourself in a few lines, but make sure to state which muse you RP as. Some people also like adding their pen name/alias and establishing a brand. Follow as many people as you want that reblogged or liked your post, and tumblr is going to start recommending other blogs that are related to the tags you use normally or have any relation to the people you follow. You can put as many tags as you want, but tumblr will disregard more than 6 tags in their system. Try tags like “<fandom> rp” and “<fandom> roleplay” along with the media, such as “movie” “video game”, “anime” and so on.

It might also be a good idea to follow a few RP memes blogs. They often have options to break the ice, like one-liners that your mutual can send you.

Tip: Don’t forget to turn on the asks and the anon

3. Practical advice

Alright, now that you have a few mutuals, it is time to get to some general tips:

Tumblr can be a little “iffy”, and a great quality of life extension for RPers and navigation in general is installing the New Xkit extension. They offer a number of options to enhance your tumblr experience, but the ones I consider essential are the “editable reblogs”, “quick tags” and “blacklist”. Get it for Chrome or Firefox.

As a rule of thumb I recommend writing your RPs using Google Docs before posting or replying. By doing this you can do some spell check and if your browser crashes for any reason you can easily recover your work. You can also use Word, Open Office, or any text editor you feel like.

Because I’m a bit of a perfectionist, I also have Grammarly ( Chrome / Firefox ) installed for an extra layer of spell/grammar check. There is a subscription option, but the free one works perfectly fine.

To make things easier to locate, always tag the URL of your RP partner when doing a reply. There are other useful things you can tag, such as open starters, memes, and such.

Risking being obvious here, but when you are not interacting as your character it might be a good idea to tag as “ooc” or “out of character”.

Some people like making google docs with basic info and other useful stuff for easier access on mobile. It is a recent trend, it might be easier to edit as opposed to going through tumblr page editor and dealing with the HTML. You can find some templates here and here.

Tumblr’s activity can be unreliable, so don’t be afraid of contacting your partner to see if they have gotten your reply after a few weeks. However, some people also enjoy using the RP Thread Tracker in order to be on top of things. It might be a good idea to check it out.

Because of Tumblr shadowbanning and shenanigans, it isn’t unusual for people to have NSFW sideblogs (sometimes referred as ‘sin blogs’). If you want to write smut, it might be a good idea to consider making one.

Some people don’t like replying to asks, as Tumblr won’t let you remove the initial ask. It has become common to see people making new posts to reply to asks. This is a simple example:

As you can see, I used the mention to have the RP partner notified then I copied and pasted their question on my post and used the quote to indicate it. You can also have fancy graphics, like a line to separate the contents, just do whatever you feel like with the formatting or keep it simple.

To make sure your partner got the answer, I recommend copying the link to the post and pasting on the ask and then replying it privately. An example sent to my rp blog:

4. Basic Etiquette

Ok, this is a little subjective most of the time but here are a few things that are considered universal courtesy.

Never reblog someone else’s headcanons. If you enjoy it, maybe it should politely contact the author and ask if it is ok to write something based on their original idea but you should never downright copy or lift something from another creator. It is considered rude, or even theft in some cases.

Don’t reblog threads you are not involved with. It is ok to leave a like, but never reblog. This is because Tumblr can mess up the notifications and disrupt the flow of the RP.

Don’t copy other people’s graphics. It is very rude and sometimes they commission (aka: paid) for it.

Trim your posts. What does that mean? Every time you reblog with a reply, the post tends to get longer and longer, and it can cluster your and your mutuals’ dashes. This is why the New X-Kit’s “editable reblogs” is an almost must-have tool. If for some reason you can’t install X-Kit (if you are on mobile for example), then remove the previous post or ask your partner to trim for you.

Never take control of your RP partner’s muse. This is called “godmodding” and it is heavily frowned upon. It is ok to control your muse and the possible NPCs that you inserted, but never seize someone else’s character. Likewise, it can also be very upsetting if you use what people call “meta-gaming”, applying knowledge that your muse shouldn’t know about the other. For example, let’s say your RP partner’s muse is a vampire, but they have never disclosed that information to your muse, who also doesn’t have an excuse to know that (for example, being a vampire hunter) so it can be quite jarring sometimes. When in doubt, contact your partner.

This should go without saying, but RPing sexual themes with users under the age of 18 are illegal. It doesn’t matter if the age of consent in your location is lower, once you join Tumblr you are abiding by their user guidelines and the law of the state they are located in. If you are an adult, don’t engage minors with these topics, maybe a fade to black would be a better option. If you are a minor, don’t insist or you might cause a lot of legal problems for others.

Try to tag anything triggering. Violence, gore, NSFW. Both Tumblr and the New Xkit have options to block keywords.

When picking PSDs or graphics for your blog, you should avoid templates that change the color of the skin of POCs muses and try to pick the right race/ethnicity of the muse you are going to RP as. I won’t go through a lot of details, as it is a rather lengthy subject in an already lengthy conversation but keep this in the back of your mind.

Some RPers don’t like when you reblog memes from them without sending anything. Try to always reblog from a source or to interact with the person you are reblogging from, it can be rather disheartening to be seen as a meme source rather than a RP blog. This isn’t a rule and some people don’t mind, but it is always a good idea to try to do this.

This might be more of a pet peeve of mine than proper etiquette, but it is ok to use small font. What is not ok is use small font + underscript. Some people have disabilities that might make it harder for them to read it, so it might be a good idea to refrain from using it. Maybe if you feel like doing something fancier every now and then, but I wouldn’t recommend making this a habit.

Mun and Muse are different entities. Remember that it isn’t because a muse does something (especially a villain one) that the mun condones something. Never assume anything about the mun, when in doubt talk to them.

Be mindful of your partners and treat them the way you would like to be treated.

As a rule of thumb, always talk to your RP partner. It is only fun as long both of you are enjoying it.

5. Closing Words

This got longer than I expected.

Despite all of that, don’t be too worried about not being very good at first. I assure you that you will get better with time, so don’t be afraid of experimenting as long you feel comfortable. And don’t be afraid of saying “no” if something bothers you.

My inbox is always open to questions and ideas, so feel free to contact me anytime!

I would also ask my followers: there is advice I missed/overlooked? Anything you would like someone have told you when you first started? Add your thoughts so I can update this.

Happy RPing!

#roleplay advice #roleplay help #rph #rp reference #rp resources

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jojo-reader-hell · 5 years ago

Note

Jonathan with a girlfriend who is absolutely spoiled, stuck up, always completely dressed up, and a daddies girl? She tries to spoil him all the time with expensive items and throws a fit and starts bawling because she doesn’t know how else to show her affection?

MY BABY 😭🥺 I needed to write something hopeful and sweet for my hubby ❤️❤️ GIVE JONATHAN LOVE.

“What say you to this color?”

Jonathan blanched, seeing that familiar dark scowl cross your face as you approached from the other side of the room. Your father was sitting placidly across the way from where you had been playing inspector, draped on a couch and smoking his pipe away from where the tailor displayed the many suits of clothing you’d commissioned for your future husband. No less than twenty full ensembles, including his wedding attire with more on the way to be delivered tomorrow. As if Jonathan didn’t already feel like a burden accepting your father’s kindness to stay at your home until the wedding, now he felt as though you were trying to dress him up like a show poodle.

“Now love…” Jonathan murmured meekly, but you didn’t hear him.

You slowly looked towards the tailor, the fabric of Jonathan’s wedding clothes between your fingers. It looked sharp and attentive on the mannequin, and from the greedy eyes of the man you hired he was already calculating in his mind how much he could swindle out of your purse.

“This is a joke to you, tailor?” You said, so lowly it was almost a whisper.

“Madam?!”

“Pray tell me sir, if you think this…” with one quick motion you ripped the sleeve of the new suit clean off and held it out, “… is a joke? A spectacle, a farce. I told you it was of the upmost importance that you use the fabrics and the stitches I recommended. Are you perhaps under the assumption that we are performing a production of ‘Twelfth Night’?! You were told this was a wedding, were you not?! SO I AM VERY PERPLEXED AS TO WHY YOU INSIST ON DRESSING MY FUTURE HUSBAND IN THIS INSULT OF A MONKEY SUIT-…!”

Oh great… There you went… When you got like this, not even Jonathan in his most commanding tone could get you to calm down.

“THE NERVE… NO, THE AUDACITY OF INSULTING HIM AFTER HE HAS GONE THROUGH SUCH A PAINFUL ORDEAL!”

He felt as though you would be so busy going over your individual trousseaus that you’d miss both the wedding and the honeymoon abroad you and your father had planned right from under him.

You hadn’t even waited for his wounds to heal or for the embers to be extinguished in what remained of the Joestar estate, no sooner had you invaded his sick room that you began to take over every aspect of Jonathan’s life. It was you that decided what he ate, what clothes he wore, what time he went to bed, he’d never felt as weak and helpless as he sank into his chair while you continued to run off at the mouth. You’d be married in a week (thanks to a bit of your prodding and encouraging he finally worked up plenty of nerve to ask you to be Mrs. Jonathan Joestar), and despite the general excitement of your household and the exorbitant costs, Jonathan was starting to feel the tiniest tinge of regret in his heart.

“Well, all I can offer you is luck for your wedding old boy.” Speedwagon had clapped him on the back, “Seems your lady wants it her way, and I hope she means well taking control.”

For some reason Robert Speedwagon’s usual talent for judging character had gone muddled. He didn’t quite know what to make of you. You tended to Jonathan like he was a child by spoiling him with gifts and trinkets, and tempting him with sweet things, all the while scolding your servants and your father with a sharp tongue, despite the fact that they all seemed eager to bend to your will. You’d been rather abrupt with Robert, turning your back to him and catering to your beloved Jojo as though the other man didn’t exist.

How many times had Jonathan scolded you about your selfishness over the course of your short courtship? Too many to count. He insisted gently at first that he didn’t need anything, your love was more than enough... Only to be blatantly ignored as you chided him for foolishness and delved for hours into the places you’d both go, and the clothes and toiletries you’d need for honeymoon in France and Italy. As of late he’d been rather curt with his tender feelings, trying to quell the resentment that had been building up.

What had he gotten himself into with you? The love you shared was hurried, as though fleeting, like a thief in the night you charmed Jonathan and easily stole your way into his heart because it was where you wanted to be. He knew it. Everyone knew your intentions for the charming specimen, and it was only a matter of time before he found himself inexplicably tied to you with a red string of fate, a chord binding the two of you for better or for worse. Call it the desire of the young to sow his wild oats, call it boys will be boys, call it the beguiling seductions of a temptress, call it whatever you please, all he knew was that this was to be his future if he cared one iota about reputation.

“For the price your crooked practice has tried to extract from me, I expect you to get it right the first time.” You growled to the tailor. “Make sure you do not make the same mistake twice.”

“Yes madam! Anything...! My apologies to your fiancé as well, I beg a thousand pardons sir.” The shriveled old man bowed out, and as you smoothed your skirts and pretended nothing had happened Jonathan stood to make his exit.

“Oh dearest! Please stay seated, if you need something presently I shall send Benson to fetch it!” Your voice rose a few octaves, and you darted towards him like a sparrow when you saw he was preparing to take his leave.

“I am quite alright, thank you.” Jonathan replied, his voice tight and low as he played off dodging your grasp as him trying to grip the arm of the chair to center himself.

He had to insist that he was fine. It would be alright. He just had to take care of some personal things before he could come back. But he instead hid away in the one place in the entire manor you wouldn’t think to look for him.

Surrounded in your own miniature museum, Jonathan sequestered himself in a bay window behind heavy drapes, and dropped his face into his hands as he began to cry his frustrated tears. This helplessness was consuming him. He could do nothing except submit to your will, and in his delusion of masculinity it hurt him and made him feel helpless and lonely. Despite his resolve to never let anyone push him around again, it only applied when his tormentor was a man apparently. What could he do? He couldn’t do anything to you except bow to your whims, already in debt in over his head and trembling at the trap laid out for him; it was a deadly combination of convention and Christian morals that dictated of a man to rise up and be counted responsible for his actions. Where could he go now? His choices of shelter were nonexistent. There was no Joestar estate to return to, at least not until you both returned from your bridal tour abroad when the workers your father hired projected its completion. Heaven help him, he even found himself pining for his lost love, feeling a heaping dose of Christian guilt whenever those thoughts crossed his mind. But there was no comfort even in emotional infidelity. Erina Pendleton refused to hurt you. During the nights she nursed him she rebuffed his reaches towards her, and only told him to treat you tenderly, to make an honest woman of you considering the nature of your close relationship, and to accept the kindness you had extended to him in the form of a place to recover. And there was no way, no chance in hell that a gentleman would betray the expectations of a lady. Even if you drove Jonathan crazy and made him wish that he had never agreed so rashly to marry you, he couldn’t go back on his word. Hadn’t he made a big to do about your engagement? Something he promised his late father pertained to you, a promise just before he went to school he assured his father the same thing he did for you: He would not force you to suffer shame or subject you to the horror of your father’s desire to marry you off to one of his rich friends to save face. If he made the choice to know you, he would take the responsibility of taking care of you as his wife.

They that dance must pay the fiddler after all. His father informed him that his late mother quoted this often. And what a shame it would be to her, if she were alive today and knew that her own son didn’t maintain the morals she wanted for him.

Surrounded by your “curios” and decorations from the Orient, Jonathan tried for many hours to steel his nerves. It took him until it was time to eat with you and your father, the hunger and promise of a feast coaxing him from his corner and to the dining hall where he sat distantly at the overly large table. He supped quietly, refusing to answer your questions as to why he was so late, and simply pretending as though nothing was happening in his mind. Sometimes he made polite conversations with your father, but any time you or the wedding were brought up he avoided the subject like the plague. Hard to do when all your father talked about was you, with the slight possibility he might throw in a morsel or two about his horses. Once in a lull where your father was prying lobster meat from the shell, Jonathan looked up from his plate that he had cleaned nearly five times to see that you barely touched anything, your shoulders withdrawn and your lips pressed tightly together. For a minute his heart twinged with anger, only to soften when he wondered if you’d even eaten anything at all. You looked so pale, and did you always have that green tint to your cheeks? Jonathan watched quietly as you told one of the many servants at your side that you just didn’t want anything right now, but in his heart he knew you weren’t starving yourself for the sake of fashion, nor was it because you were upset.

Jonathan couldn’t let the facade of his anger alienate you… It wasn’t right. Especially not in this condition where the slightest misstep could only make the situation worse. Even if you were with fault and not at all the perfect image of a lady, hadn’t he learned to see passed that to see the beautiful qualities you possessed? Hadn’t he been able to see passed the glitz and glamours you hid your true self behind? As was expected, you were favored by men for your wealth and quick wit, among the women you were hated for the ease with which you could capture a beaux with a simple beckon of your fingers.

It was odd really, among the other ladies of your pedigree you stood out, a bluejay among robins with the temperament to match; none of the ladies were safe from your sharp beak. A beautiful blonde daughter of a marquis would pale in comparison to you, even though you possessed no traditional qualities of beauty that they did. Your face was far too severe, brow perpetually pulled into a look far too sly, and your smile seemed to come at a price as well. Anyone who spent more than a few hours couldn’t fail to notice your short temperament and disdain for the delicate flowers of England. And yet when asked there was never any shortage of complements: your jewelry always sparkled the brightest against your clean skin, your hand was never empty, always clasped by a dancing partner or in fervent confessions of love, and your clothes were always of the finest French silks, fitted in ways to emphasize the assets you did have. Yet the compliments were more superficial, whereas most romantics like Jonathan wanted a Jane Eyre, you were more Blanche Ingram, all French lace and jewelry and coveting any little trinket you could get your hands on.

Yet there were hidden qualities you possessed that you only allowed Jonathan to catch a glimpse of. As much as you threw money towards your curios and your dresses and jewels, you were just as obliged to give it all away to charitable causes. He never forgot the blue coat school you showed him one day when he was itching to go outside for a bit of fresh air. The building bearing your family name was only a few hours ride away from your home, the halls as spotlessly clean and well equipped as your manor, and all the chubby cheeked little orphan girls knew you by name and ran up to kiss you and put bluebells in your hair when you told them you wouldn’t be visiting for some time. They cried at first, thinking you were abandoning them, only to squeal in delight when you told them you were getting married to the handsome man that had accompanied you. He remembered the parties he attended where he’d started to show interest. Your quick with and sharp intellect endeared you to the men, each one pushing Jonathan in your direction when they noticed your demeanor changed for the better whenever he was around. He would always remember the times you purposefully snubbed the advances of one Dio Brando, much to Jonathan’s secret delight, merely because you “did not like the look of his eyes” and that you would not forget the injustices committed against your sweet Jojo.

There were many other things… The times you’d prattle on and on about your fossil collection and all the things you learned whilst collecting them, bonding over a mutual love of history and listening to his own prattling about the stone mask, asking about his hopes and dreams, mourning his father with him on nights where his injuries were too painful to ignore… Even appreciating the friendship and love of Erina Pendleton, because she made him happy during a time where you did not know him. That had to be when he’d truly fallen in love with you. Your heart was wholly good, you only wanted his happiness, whereas any other woman would have flown into a rage because he had never stopped loving another.

Jonathan was so lost in thought about you, he rose from the table without speaking once the meal was concluded, and went automatically towards his sanctuary of your own miniature museum, he didn’t hear your footsteps following eagerly after him.

“Jojo??”

Your voice sounded so innocent, so tiny and sad, that Jonathan paused his journey and allowed you to catch up to him, your jewelry and the knickknacks lining the halls in curio cabinets rattling with your steps as you ran towards him. For every one step he took, you needed to run very far, and it took a while for you to catch up. Yet you did eventually catch up to him winded and looking more pale than before. Gently, like a little girl beseeching her father, you tugged his waistcoat in the hopes that he’d turn to look at you.

“Jojo...” your voice was the tiniest whimper. “Jojo... Are you going to leave me?”

“What?!”

Hours ago before he ate he might have considered breaking the engagement out of anger, but now that he had remembered his love for you (and been fed) he couldn’t dare think of destroying you like that.

“Why would you ever think-…”

“You have that look about you Jojo. I’ve seen it so many times, the first night I saw it, you were making our engagement known to Erina. Now... I... Jojo, please... Forgive me.”

Your hands were shaking. He could see you tottering in your heels and knew immediately when he grabbed your waist to balance you that your mood had only been dictated to anger because you were poorly. Dressed like a doll and smothering in your clothes because your father demanded it of you, and here Jonathan was only making it worse.

“Why... no, I should not pretend as if I do not know the cause of your pain.” He murmured as he pulled you close into his chest. “While I will not deny your tempers vex me, I must beg your forgiveness too... my love, I’ve told you over and over so many times: I have no need for earthly possessions. Your love is all I need. I don’t want to leave you, I only beg of you to let me take care of myself. I wish you wouldn’t spoil me so.”

“B-but Jojo...”

“Shhh... my love, you’re ashen.” He murmured softly into your neck. “You need to have something my love. I can send for a meal to be brought to your room.”

He tried to lead you to your room, but you refused to budge and only tugged on his clothes again, begging him to look at you.

“But Jojo... I... my only wish is that you should want for nothing.”

“I don’t need gifts and trinkets my love.” Jonathan murmured gently. “I just need your love and understanding, and for you to always be happy with me.”

You couldn’t help but melt into tears by his words, explaining through your hiccoughing that you never wanted him to feel unloved or unwanted, citing the many wrongs done to him and the burden it left on your heart to know that while you were blissfully unaware of your future husband’s suffering, you had merely been collecting and hoarding your obsessions and waiting for a man to come and take you away. It frustrated you, you went on, because Jonathan had lost everything, and for once in your life you had the means to give him back what he lost.

“I... I know I cannot turn back the hands of time and return those you have lost...” you whimpered, your tears wetting his cravat and making his own burst forth onto your hair. “However the least I can do is give you clothes, a home, a good meal...-“

“Oh my love... I only. Need. Your. Affections. Nothing else.”

Each word he spoke was punctuated with fervent kisses to your lips, his good arm pressing you tightly against his chest as you lost yourselves to passion. He very nearly lost control there in the hall, not caring that anyone including your father might walk in and scold you both for acting in perversion. But eventually he pulled away from your enticing lips, his heart swelling and beating out the things he thought in anger, your sweetest kisses reminding him of why he asked you to be Mrs. Jonathan Joestar in the first place.

“I had wanted to show you after we took care of your clothes,” you gasped, breathless from his canoodling, “Plenty of other things came today as well, come, before you take me to my room.”

You took him gently by the good arm, directing him into a room he knew to be your nursery in childhood. It wasn’t far from the area you assured him would be your own shared chambers (your father insisted you’d remain with him for the time it took to completely restore Jonathan’s home), and when you opened the door you assured him the setup within was only for a little while.

“Just until the little creature is strong enough to make the journey back home with us Jojo.” You told him with a smile as you lead him into the room.

Seeing the bright pretty colors, as well as the miniature items and clothes, Jonathan couldn’t hold back his happiness. He glanced at you, his lips open in a smile and tears dribbling down his cheeks, and gasped in pure delight to see the items you were squirreling away inside.

“You... you did all this?” He grinned widely.

You nodded eagerly, smiling as he picked up soft swaddling clothes, ran his fingers along the supple wood of a cradle, and looked around with wide, lovesick eyes.

It was as though finally he could see the promise of happier times in these possessions, and realized that you were only trying to give him happiness in the one way that you could. In truth, he still preferred you, and the gift you would give him in a few months time.

#jojo’s bizzare adventure #jojo’s bizarre adventure phantom blood #jonathan joestar x reader #jonathan joestar #erina pendleton #shes such a bro in this story #robert eo speedwagon #he babey #jjba pb #jjba x reader #jjba reader insert #victorian era #jjba fanfiction #tw depression

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backdeck-potato-novelist · 5 years ago

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I Get the Feeling that I’m Right Where I Belong

AO3

Word Count: 1096

Ladybug had recently decided that she was not paid enough to deal with this shit. In fact, she did not think she was ever paid enough to do any of the shit she had to deal with in her civilian life too. She made a quick mental note to see about raising commission prices, and then quickly had to yo-yo off the chimney she had been (rather precariously) balanced on when a beam of light broke it into a million small brick shards.

She landed on a larger roof, and was joined by Viperion and Ryuko. Chat Noir, Queen Bee, and Rena Rouge continued to taunt the akuma, a bus driver who had evidently gotten very annoyed with traffic this morning and now went by the name Red Light (Chat Noir had spent the first five minutes of their fight lamenting how Hawkmoth had no creativity and was running out of quality puns way too quickly. Queen Bee, after Chat Noir’s fifth traffic pun in a single sentence, had smacked him upside the head with her yo-yo and reasoned that first, he and Ladybug had been fighting Hawkmoth for more than three years now, and second, he had run out of good puns by the end of their first akuma and so really had no leg to stand on). Carapace hadn’t yet returned from making sure all the civilians had escaped their little battlefield, but Ladybug knew he’d be back soon. Nino was never one to miss the chance to pun with Adrien

“Have you figured out your lucky charm, Bug?” Ryuko asked. She nodded down to the bicycle wheel Ladybug had been holding for a few minutes now.

“No, but I’m really getting annoyed at this point, so I might just yeet it at him.”

Viperion snorted. Ryuko nodded solemnly, though her eyes glittered with humor.

“I like this plan,” she replied. “Simple. Stylish. Meme-worthy”

Carapace, Chat Noir, Queen Bee, and Rena Rouge landed on the roof at once.

“So, we’ve got about a minute, because Butterfly Bastard is being overdramatic and monologuing again,” Chat Noir announced. “We have a plan yet? The lucky charm working out?” All the superheroes glared at the red and black bicycle wheel as if it held all the answers (which, technically, it did, given that it was the literal inanimate personification of the goddess of luck and creation).

“Anyone object to a Formation G yeeting?” Ladybug looked around her group. After no objections, she continued. “Great. To quote our dear dragon here, simple, stylish, and meme-worthy. Let’s go make the internet proud.” All seven reached their fists in, quietly cheered “Team Miraculous”, and then split.

After the first two years of dealing with Hawkmoth, Ladybug and Chat Noir had learned that the Lucky Charm had two options: the recommended way and the other way. The recommended way was complicated, overdramatic, and safely effective. The other way usually involved property damage, head injuries, and on the odd day when Twitter became involved, some very disappointed Kwamis. Expanding Team Miraculous to a larger permanent roster led to the other way being used significantly more often. Explaining the recommended way would take too long, and if you hit someone on the head with invisibly small to absurdly large projectiles thrown with speed, they are always disoriented enough for seven superpowered caffeine-fueled spite-driven sleep-deprived over-scheduled high school seniors to take them down in seconds.

Ladybug and Carapace ran straight at Red Light, leaping off the roof and rolling into the ground before continuing their sprint. Ryuko and Queen Bee broke left as Chat Noir and Viperion went right. Rena Rouge waited a few seconds, and then used her Mirage. She threw the illusion at the akuma, and suddenly, Ladybug and Carapace were still running exactly the same as they had been. A quick check from Red Light showed that, indeed, all seven Miraculous wielders were doing the exact same thing as before the illusion had been cast.

That was when a bicycle wheel, thrown with enough force to achieve escape velocity, appeared from nowhere and hit him in the forehead.

The akuma fell over backwards, stars pulsing in his vision. Hawkmoth was desperately trying to communicate, but Red Light was so dazed and in pain that he couldn’t focus on anything except not blacking out immediately.

Ladybug landed her Carapace-assisted jump just as Chat Noir reached the garishly colored (I mean, come one, who would ever willingly wear traffic light colors? Ladybug thought to herself, pointedly choosing to ignore thinking about her boyfriend, because his brother chose those colors before he was even born so it didn’t really count) collapsed figure. He grabbed the ID badge pinned to the middle of the yellow section of his clothing and whispered “Cataclysm,” dissolving the little plastic rectangle into nothing.

Ladybug quickly purified the butterfly and threw the bicycle wheel into the air. Rena Rouge joined everyone on the street for the ceremonial fistbump. Six of them split off to go detransform in private and pretend they had simply hidden during the attack. Carapace stayed behind to talk to the bus driver and help get him to the police, if necessary. There had been a time when they had cycled through who had to deal with the cleanup, but the schedule was quickly dropped after everyone realized Carapace was by far the best people-person and the only one of them who would never outwardly show his annoyance with the press and the police.

Five minutes later, Chloe Bourgeois, Adrien Agreste, Nino Lahiffe, and Alya Cesaire walked back into school, having fled in fear when the akuma first started rampaging around the city. Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Kagami Tsurugi emerged from the bathrooms they had hidden in when the screams had started. Luka Couffaine got back on the motorcycle he had pulled into an alley to protect, and continued on his way to pick his sister up from school, which would be ending soon. He had made sure to take an indirect route that stopped by the Marinette’s parent’s bakery. He had promised Juleka and Rose croissants, and no akuma would ever stop him from keeping a promise, especially to his sister. Besides, he always had time.

No one suspected anything of them. They were just six high schoolers and one college student who, like everyone else in Paris, were reasonably scared of Hawkmoth and his akumas, and like everyone else in Paris, preferred to hide or run when Hawkmoth and his akumas struck. They were seven perfectly ordinary people with absolutely nothing to hide. Nothing at all...

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #chloé bourgeois #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #kagami tsurugi #luka coffaine #chloé x kagami #adrien x luka #alya x nino #daminette #my fic

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

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On Her Father’s Wings (The Umbrella Academy S2 Fic)

CHAPTER ONE: NEW SIDEKICK What if there was one more thing left in Five’s care at Hazel’s untimely passing? Something more precious than a briefcase, more useful than a tape, and infinitely more infuriating. A smart-mouthed girl determined to pick up where her father left off and help save the world, whether the Hargreeves like it or not.

Word Count: 2300 Rating: T for canon typical language, violence

Cross-posted to AO3: here

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Piper Rofa tapped her hands on the steering wheel in time with the radio, waiting impatiently at the mouth of a Dallas alleyway. She had seen the figure matching her target’s description rather unconventionally enter the building at the end of the alley and was just hoping that he’d come back out the same way. She had maneuvered her vehicle so that he would be blocked trying to exit and would have to stop and talk to her, but she also knew from intel that he had ways around conventional means of movement that might make things more complicated.

Still, she jolted up in her seat from where she had slumped while she waited when she saw him appear in the alleyway once more, shoulders hunched and face scowling, as he moved closer to her car, she rolled her head from one side to the other, psyching herself up.

“You must be Five Hargreeves? Please collect your belongings and come with me,” she called in an obviously overdramatic attempt to be sinister, before popping open the door of her ‘Daytona Blue’ Stingray invitingly.

He stopped short, glaring at her.

“I don’t have any belongings. And I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me who you are and what you want,” the apparently pubescent boy replied with all the authority of an aged general.

“What about the briefcase?” she pointed out as if it was obvious. And then a sudden horror dawned on her, face falling. “Shit! Am I early? He’s going to be so mad if I’m early.”

“Wait…briefcase? You’re with Hazel?”

“Duh? Didn’t he mention that?”

“No. In fact, he said he was alone. He said he was done with the Commission and their crap, just keeping a promise to his dead wife.”

A shadow passed over her face. “Yeah, well I’m not Commission, so that part was true. He likes to pretend I’m not working with him, as if that will maaaagically make me stop being involved. Total denial of reality.”

She bit her lip before plastering a slightly fake grin back on her face. “Anyway, if you know he’s here, he must have given you the briefcase, yeah? Where is it?”

“Some very unhappy Scandinavians with very large guns destroyed it.”

She rolled her eyes. “If those things are so important to the Commission, I don’t get why they’re not made smaller and less conspicuous. Or at least bulletproof.”

“I’ve been saying that for years.” He shrugged, the expression on his face almost pulling into the tiniest of smiles before growing serious. “I’m sorry, but Hazel…they killed him.”

“What?” she scoffed incredulously, only to sober when she realized he wasn’t joking. “No. That’s not possible.” She shook her head vehemently. “Da was among the best the Commission ever had. He wouldn’t have gotten caught with his metaphorical pants down by some mercs in the 60s.”

Five stared at her in unrepentant shock and disbelief. “Hazel was your father?”

“Yep. Piper Rofa, at your service,” she said, offering a mocking salute, trying to hide her trembling.

He sighed. “Shit.”

She watched a hundred minute emotions dance across his eyes as she fixed him with a narrowed gaze, even as her eyes welled with tears that threatened to spill.

“Awfully convenient that you survived and he didn’t. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! I…we had no warning, there was no time…he…I couldn’t save him.”

She growled in frustration, torn between blaming him simply for surviving and trusting him as her father had assured her she could.

“Look, we look like idiots and are drawing attention arguing through an open car door. And time’s a wasting. Get in the car, and I’ll drive you to the sanitarium. We can have a more detailed conversation about what the fuck happened later.”

“I could just teleport there.”

“You could, but the fact that you haven’t yet tells me I’ve sparked your curiosity enough that you’re not going to just disappear and potentially lose track of me.” She smirked and raised an eyebrow, challenging him to prove her wrong.

He flopped into her passenger seat, slamming the door behind him.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy on my baby, she didn’t do anything wrong,” the girl scolded, turning the key and swinging cleanly out into the street, laughing as Five rolled his eyes.

“How did you know I was going to Holbrook Sanitarium?” he asked.

“Well you’re looking for your siblings right? The one in the sanitarium is the easiest to track down since he’s not going anywhere.”

He nodded, seeming surprised at her deductive skills.

“Also you’re still holding a newspaper article about him.”

He looked down at his hands, as if surprised to find the paper clutched there. “Hm.”

The pair were silent for a while as she guided the car smoothly and swiftly through the downtown Dallas traffic.

“You’re worried about them,” she observed, not looking over at her passenger.

“What?” Five asked, startled out of his thoughts.

“Your siblings. You’re worried about them, and about whether you’re going to be able to find them and save them all in time.”

“Of course I am,” he snapped. “They’re my family and the world is going to end in ten days. And it’s my fault they ended up stuck here in the 60s in the first place, scattered and alone. I have no idea how I’m going to find any of the others besides Diego, or if they’re even okay, or how we’re going to stop the apocalypse. It’s all down to me, again.” He waved his hands agitatedly while he spoke, and she let him.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not on your own, then.”

He scoffed. “Diego’s not exactly my first choice of sidekick.”

“I wasn’t talking about him,” she rolled her eyes. “Did you think I was just here to be a quick substitute to a taxi?”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because you’re trying to save the world, which you know, is a place I live.” She shrugged. He watched her knuckles whiten as her grip tightened on the wheel almost imperceptibly. “And because you’re trying to save your family.”

He fell silent, catching the obvious implication of her tone. The air in the car seemed to grow heavy as once again neither of them knew what to say. Finally she pulled into the lot and turned the engine off.

“So I’ll just wait here for you to go get your brother and we’ll…figure out a plan from there, yeah?” she asked, an almost hopeful lilt to her voice.

He found himself surprising them both by nodding.

“Sure,” he said almost dismissively, exiting the car, being careful to shut the door gently, which brought a small smile to her lips.

“Shouldn’t there be two of you?” Piper asked as Five returned to the car.

“That was a total waste of time,” he grumbled, largely ignoring the question. “He’s right where he belongs. And I’m right back where I started from with no useful leads.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well that weird guy with the satellites told you how to find one of them. Do you think he might know more?”

“How did you know where to wait for me?” He turned sideways to study her more carefully. “Why did you wait at that alleyway?”

“Commerce and Knox? Well that’s your protocol when tracking a target isn’t it? Start at a fixed point and work your way outward. The only fixed point you have is where you dropped out of the sky. So I waited there.”

“But how did you know that I arrived at Commerce and Knox?”

She shrugged. “It’s what Dad said. That you…” her eyes widened as something dawned on her. “That you all landed there.”

“So he knew that would be a convergence point…” Five muttered, clearly thinking rather than talking to her. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah, that I should stay out of it and stay away from you because apparently you’re ‘dangerous’ and ‘get people killed’,” she threw air quotes around the words in more a violent manner than Five was used to but she didn’t give him a chance to interrupt, shouting now, as tears welled in her eyes again. “Well look who’s talking now Da?”

She paused for breath before finally looking back at him. “What was my point again? Oh yeah, your siblings. I don’t really have anything to go on, other than knowing where they first arrived but if you have any more information like dates or hell, telling me what they look like, I can help you track them down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you done?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sorry. I just…needed to get that out?” She smiled sheepishly and he shrugged.

“Whatever. Elliot had photographs, we might be able to make something out from them.”

She nodded, starting the engine. “So you’re really leaving your brother in there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“You can just drop me off,” Five said as Piper guided her car back into the spot it had previously been parked. “I’ll handle things alone from here.”

“Uh, no?” she said incredulously as she tucked the keys in the pocket of her dress.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

She circled the car to stand in front of the man, poking her finger into his chest. “My Dad thought you were worth dying for. His last act was to save your life so you could save the world. I’m not letting you out of my sight until you make his sacrifice worth it.”

Her lower lip trembled and she brushed angrily at the tears forming the corners of her eyes. “So sorry, Old Timer, you’re stuck with me.”

Five felt his heart clench. She was right, he knew she was. But he didn’t know how to work with a partner after so long. And more than that, he felt like he owed it to Hazel – did she have to use the same nickname as her father did? Did she do it on purpose to make him feel more guilty? – to keep his child safe. He stared at the fire in her eyes, melding with the tears she seemed to now be pretending to weren’t falling. He sighed, and turned, headed for Elliot’s loft and assuming she was following close behind.

“Elliot,” she said, smiling sweetly and hoping to charm (rather than threaten as Five seemed to have picked as his go-to method) more answers out of the odd man. “You said that the big guy came and went most often. Elaborate.”

“Well…uh…he…” Elliot swallowed nervously, fiddling with his hands. “He came back every couple weeks for a-about three months? He’s stand around calling for Allison, or asking people…for an hour or-or-or so. Then he leaves again.”

“Is there ever anyone with him? Does he walk or drive?”

“I-I-I…I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Five growled, leaning menacingly closer and making Elliot shrink with a muffled whimper. “Answer the question or I’ll kill you.”

Piper rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Are the threats helping?” she asked sweetly. “Here’s a hint: the answer is no.”

Five glared at her which only made her smile all the brighter, obviously trying to get a rise out of him.

“The last few times, he came in a big black car…”

“License plate number?” she asked, fairly certain that a paranoid conspiracy nut like him would have that sort of information.

The man scrambled up to rifle through a pile of papers on the table. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and rattled off a string of letters and numbers. It was all she could do not to smile smugly over at Five or make some quip about honey versus vinegar.

“Great. Well Elliot, you’ve been such a doll. I just need one more favor. Can I use your phone?”

He gestured to it as if to say ‘be my guest.’ She smiled, and plucking the paper out of his hand and sauntered over to it, dialing a number.

“Hi, I am so sorry to be a bother, but I just wanted to report…well I think I saw someone breaking into a car. It’s a big black one…” she paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. “Mhm. Well I know the license plate number is…” she hesitated, faking uncertainty before she read off the sequence.

“Oh honey, you must be mistaken,” the woman on the other end said. “That’s Jack Ruby’s car. No one in this town is dumb enough to mess with that. Especially not parked outside his place.”

“Oh, of course. My mistake. So sorry again to bother you. You have a lovely day.” She hung up before turning back to the two men.

“I know where to find your brother,” she smiled. “But it’s going to be a challenge getting to see him. This time of day, he’ll be at the Carousel Club.”

“That’s a…burlesque club. No kids or women allowed, except, you know, the dancers,” Elliot proffered hesitantly.

“Well, we’ll just have to break a few rules,” Five said with a smirk.

“We?” Piper asked, a little startled that he wanted her to tag along.

Five paused. “I meant I. It’ll be easier if just one of us goes.” He explained, his gut twisting when she stuck her lip out in a pout.

“Oh yeah, of course. I’ll just…see what I can figure out about the rest of your siblings here I guess…?”

He nodded before disappearing in a flash.

“Do you want some coffee? Or I could make food?” Elliot suggested with a nervous smile.

Piper laughed. “That’s sweet, Elliot, but I’m not actually getting left behind.” She kissed his cheek flirtatiously before bouncing cheerfully out the door. “See you later.”

#On Her Father's Wings #The Story of Hazel and Agnes's daughter #new fic #The Umbrella Academy fic #TUA season 2 spoilers #The Umbrella Academy season 2 spoilers #season 2 canon-alteration fic #not a reader insert #car color taken from the fact that there's a dark blue car in the background of the shot of Five going to Elliot's #also I researched that shit for no reason to make sure it was a sporty fancy new car #Hazel took Agnes's last name #do Five and Piper have a bit of a Hazel and Cha-Cha dynamic? maaaybe #This Will Not be a Five x OC fic #I don't know if Piper will have a love interest yet but if she does it won't be Five

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okamigekidoo · 4 years ago

Photo

Review under “keep reading” section.

Guess what everyone? Sam (my custom suit of my fursona) is DONE!!!! I originally didn’t plan on there being whiskers buttt....the maker said it would look super cute on her, and finish them off. So...I said yes! I also love seeing peoples interpretations of my characters, and I love seeing the implementations of my style the maker used, to give my fursona yet another touch of myself in the creation process.

(The shape of the ears, the big teeth, and the snout spots where the whiskers are. Lets not even talk about how much I ADORE the seperate, round eyebrows on the suit!!!)

The work they did is absolutely phenomenal, and I cant WAIT to get em in the mail. I feel like I could talk all day long, about how much I LOVE the outcome, and how kind the maker was.

I’ll leave a little review under the cut here, as it’s more simple to read, than watching my video on it!

Who is the fursuit maker? The fursuit maker is @/frouzon ! His commissions are currently closed, but I believe he’s opening back up sometime in early 2021 for more commissions, but don’t hold me to it!

Waiting times? I was originally given a wait period for roughly 4 to 5 months, but due to covid, and personal life occurrences, I waited for 9 months or so (and still counting as of this minute! Sam has still gotta have a finishing touch done and to be shipped < 3

Durability? Frouzon sent me a video of him holding the suit by its teeth, and then it’s ears, and slung Sam around. The suit didn’t seem to be bothered one bit, and most of his sowing on the head, is done by hand, I believe. (I also believe he not only sows, but glues the head to the base, and the sows part of the fur, to the base itself.) I also watched him pick it up, as if there was no worry in the world of how he picked it up. It shows he has no doubt about the quality and durability behind hs work, and that in itself is a very comforting thing to see (as, many of you may know, a custom suit is NOT cheap)

Communication and customer service? Oh my GOD where do I even begin? This makers utmost best quality, is their communication. Something came up, that may halt fursuit making? Cool! He tells us what's going on, and roughly how long the wait will be. You want to add something, or change something? Awesome! He responds fast, and answers all the questions you’ve got. He even compensated for the waiting time, by throwing in some free eyelids, that I was gonna purchase from him to make! This may sound strange but-it’s almost like talking to a close friend, weirdly enough! I’ve never felt as comfortable with someone I was commissioning, than when working with Frouzon. Maybe it’s just his vibe, I’m really not sure-but what I AM sure of, is that when it comes to finishing a full body suit? I know EXACTLY who I’m going to. My mom might even be getting a suit from him, isn’t that cool?

Style? I really believe the suit matches the style of the prototype sketch I was given. Of course you cant expect it to look exactly the same, but I was definitely given the gist of what this sketch represented when I initially commissioned him. I adore the way he emphasized on the big ears, toony eyes, and big maws-it’s the main features of my fursona so I’m glad to see them represented so perfectly!

Price? Dude, I’m gonna be real-you get MORE than what you pay for. His prices are rather cheap for the quality, look, and finish for these suits. One of the reasons I was attracted to said suit maker’s, style-was because of the “affordability” that came along with it. (Also, can you please go look at their bird suits? If I had an avian sona I promise you he is the first person I would book it after, I’m not even kidding) You can check out his prices here, and take a look for yourself! Fursuit commissioners will get why I say he’s on the more afforable side of the spectrum. His kindness is proven through a statement I believe he said, where his prices were lower to make suits more affordable to those who really want one. Which that is the SWEETEST shit I’ve ever read. Not only is it considerate of those less fortunate in the fandom, but it makes the pure kindness of this maker more apparent than you could even fathom.

Security, and Quoting? Quoting was very simple to do. I DM’ed him, we went through a few ideas, and he continued to give me prices for what I asked for (and lemme just say he was very patient with me, and I was very indecisive). In the final decision, I was sent a legal document which we both signed, stating his TOS, and everything to expect. It had a few other things on it, but I don’t think it’s quite my place to share such a document. I believe things like that are more personal!

Links:

Frouzon//TWS Telegram channel: https://web.telegram.org/#/im?p=@FrouzonUpdates

Trello List: https://trello.com/b/6StKU6R0/threads-workshop-queue

Frouzon’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/frouzon/?hl=en

Frouzon’s Twitter:https://twitter.com/frouzon?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor

TWS Twitter: https://twitter.com/TWS_Fursuits

#sam talks #okami talks #frouzon #frouzon suits #tws #tws suits #fursuit #fursuit maker #threads workshop #partial fursuit #fullsuit #furry fullsuit #furry #furrie

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mystery-deer · 5 years ago

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Commission (70′s Holt/Kevin)

Raymond watched through half-lidded eyes as Kevin neatly pecked at his typewriter, mouth in a thin line of concentration, eyebrows furrowed. He was gorgeous, even more so due to his complete silence while typing.

In his precinct he had to deal with so many people mouthing the words, mumbling along or just plain reciting whatever they were writing out loud. It was maddening in a way that was difficult to notice until you were somewhere silent. Such as your boyfriend’s apartment.

He was renting somewhere quiet but pulsing, where the sidewalk rumbled under their feet and you could see the silhouettes of people dancing from the windows. Raymond enjoyed his visits but couldn’t imagine living there. His own apartment was much quieter. “That’s because you live in a building largely inhabited by senior citizens.” Kevin had protested when Raymond brought it up, staring out the window and sipping coffee. He didn’t know how he did it but Kevin always made any coffee Raymond bought him taste good.

“At least my building doesn’t reek of narcotics.” He’d countered. “It’s not a narcotic.” Kevin had replied, lifting Raymond’s head by the chin and kissing him. Smoke slowly billowed out from his lips as he smiled softly.

“It’s for medicinal purposes.” Raymond felt himself begin to get hard but resolutely hummed and went back to shadow watching. “Nonetheless, my point still stands.” The conversation had ended there as Kevin went back to his previously interrupted work and Raymond kept himself busy by reviewing cases, perusing Kevin’s literature collection (It sent a shock of warmth to his heart to see him incorporate his recommendations), and going on a brisk walk.

“Hey, you’re the professor’s man aren’tcha!” A woman called from her too-small balcony. Raymond squinted. She was topless and seemed in the process of necking with a male friend who looked annoyed by the interruption. He rocked on his heels, feeling around in his pockets for change. Kevin had asked him to buy bread from the store. He wanted to get him something to surprise him though he didn’t know how much there would be to impress Kevin Cozner at a corner store.

“I’m nobody’s man.” He settled on, turning away from the woman and continuing to walk. She laughed and began to half-sing half-moan “Right on, right on, right on…” And the rhythm stuck with him as he walked through the puddle ridden streets, listening to his shoes squeak as he opened the door to the store.

He bought white bread and in a dusty corner saw a shelf of porcelain figurines. Some were far too...vibrant. Most were. All were, except for a small brown thrasher bird figurine that had been cruelly kept out of sight by a mug bizarrely shaped like a hamburger.

“Hey buddy.” The shopkeeper, who had been unsubtly following him around with shifty, anxious eyes piped up. “You buying something?” “Yes.” He said, making a split second decision to buy the little bird. “That’s why I’m in your store.”

_________

“Oh, Raymond it’s beautiful.” Kevin breathed, examining the bird on all sides. Raymond couldn’t help the proud grin that snaked its way across his face as he began toasting bread for dinner. “I believe it can be used to store coins as well but I trust you wouldn’t dream of tarnishing it like that.” “Your trust is not unfounded.”

“Good.” He paused. “A woman yelled at me from her balcony just now - well, fifteen minutes ago.” “Oh?” Kevin said, a protective glint in his eye.

“She asked if I was, and I quote. ‘The professor’s man’ end quote.” Recognition spread across Kevin’s face and he nodded. “Ah. Sandra. She’s a reporter at the New Yorker you know, we’re quite friendly.”

“I see. I didn’t know whether or not to confirm or deny so I gave a non-answer.” Kevin was quiet as he placed the bird delicately on one of the shelves in his kitchen. It was slightly crooked as they had tried to assemble it themselves and kept putting off fixing it. “Because of me?” He asked quietly. “Hm?” “Because I’m...I know I’ve been a bit more private about us than you’re used to-”

“Oh!” He interrupted, understanding now. “No, it’s- I didn’t want to put a target on either of our backs.”

He walked over to Kevin and kissed his cheek. “Contrary to what you might think I haven’t made a habit of telling strangers my sexuality or who I’m dating.” He looked Kevin up and down. “No matter how much I might like to.”

He’d meant it flirtatiously but Kevin grimaced, taking it as a jab. “Kevin-”

“I’m going- I want to tell people, I do. It’s just...difficult.” He knew it was. He knew Kevin had grown up far away from city smog and laced cigarettes and free love girls who shouted shirtless from balconies. Kevin had told him in snippets. Over breakfast, over the phone. Mumbling through stories in the dark as their bodies intertwined, He’d grown up in the suburbs.

He’d grown up in country clubs and private schools, yearbook photos where all the girls’ hair was long and combed to shining and all the boys sneered instead of smiled for the camera. Kevin looked lost in those photos. His eyes were dull and his lips were pressed together, holding something back.

He’d grown up with “Be a man!” and Sissysissysissy trailing him wherever he went. He’d grown up with girlfriends and lush green grass and fair weather friends that told him it was okay, they knew he wasn’t gay, those assholes were just trying to get a rise out of you.

He knew perfectly well how difficult it was. How telling his parents he was gay might be the last thing he’d ever say to them.

He wanted in that moment to rush out the door holding Kevin’s hand, wanted to catch a cab or take the subway to his mother’s house and introduce them. Wanted his boyfriend to hear what Raymond heard all the time during the monthly phone calls with his mother, “I love you. You’re always welcome here.”

Instead he kissed him.

Kevin made a startled noise, back against the countertop as Raymond blocked him in with arms on either side of him. They separated slightly, just enough to talk but not enough to need to open their eyes fully. Raymond watched a slightly blurry Kevin breathe and watch him back. “I believe a change of topic would be perti-” “Fuck me.” Well, what kind of a monster would be he to deny him? Kevin’s bedroom was organized impeccably but simply too small to keep from feeling overcrowded. Bookshelf half blocking one window and framed newspaper articles or playbills lining the walls.

As they got into bed Raymond heard a crash and looked up, startled to find Kevin’s typewriter on the floor. “It’s fine.” His boyfriend insisted, pulling at Raymond’s shirt. “I’ll get a new one.”

“Why not a computer, Richard Rich Jr?” He teased, pulling Kevin into his lap and running a hand up his back which arched as he went along. Kevin rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance but Raymond knew he was amused. Could see it in the way his mouth twitched and feel it in the warmth that washed over him when their eyes met again.

He leaned down for a kiss and Raymond obliged, letting Kevin run his fingers through his hair. “You need a haircut.” He observed. His hand had vanished up the palm in Raymond’s hair. The man in question shrugged.

“I never have time, when I get out of the work my barber’s closed.” He could see his boyfriend bite back a comment about working less, see him switch and soften. It was amazing. He’d never been able to read a partner like he was able to read Kevin. The man was fascinating.

“I’ll cut it for you.” He finally said and then, realizing he might sound bossy added, “If you’d like.”

Raymond nodded, grinning in that cocksure way of his that made Kevin’s heart leap into his throat. He observed him, slowly allowing himself to smile back. No one made him smile like Ray. “I’d like that very much~” He purred, hand sliding lower and squeezing Kevin’s ass. Kevin arched an eyebrow and ohh that was...not fair.

“Rather presumptuous of you.” Kevin commented in a tone that would surely send chills down any potential future student’s spine. Though not for the same reason it sent one down Raymond’s.

“Well I only assumed based on past experiences.” He countered, watching the man in his lap unbutton and slip off his own shirt and immediately make quick work of Raymond’s. “Oh?”

“You’ve very adamantly voiced your approval in the past.” He elaborated, smile returning. Smooth now, confident and flirtatious as he pulled Kevin down, bending him by the hair until he could kiss his chest. It was warm and he could feel his heart beating. Fast, excited. “I know you’re not as delicate as you look, Professor.” At that Kevin unexpectedly broke Raymond’s grip on and shot up faster than the other man could register. It was only his police training that stopped him from screaming. And only his extreme trust in Kevin that stopped him from blocking or countering, instead easily willing himself to be still as he soon found himself pinned to the bed, wrists held down by his boyfriend’s hands.

“No.” Kevin agreed, peering down at him. His eyes were a piercing blue and stole his breath away as he felt his face heat up. He shifted his legs, heart pounding in his chest. “I’m not.” They kissed again and as they did Kevin unbuttoned Raymond’s bell bottoms.

After a moment they separated and Kevin wore a devilish smile as he moved back, taking Raymond’s cock in his hand and beginning to stroke. Raymond huffed but didn’t moan as Kevin continued, hand warming. The sounds that filled the room became louder and louder and they were both torn between thinking them erotic or embarrassing.

Kevin evidently decided the latter, getting off of his boyfriend and rummaging in a bedside drawer with his clean hand. He ripped the wrapper with his teeth and after inspecting the condom thoroughly to make sure it was unbroken, applied it.

Raymond watched with bleary awe, blood obviously not rushing to his brain at the moment. He thought to himself that Kevin looked handsome, quick, sure of himself. Hot as hell. Kevin noticed him staring and returned his heated gaze with a smile before laying down and tucking a bit of hair behind his ears as he wrapped his lips around his boyfriend’s cock. The room grew warmer and warmer as different sounds began to fill the air. Raymond’s labored, shaky breathing. Kevin’s light moans. Wet noise and the occasional almost-cough or harsh exhale as he took too much at once. It was heavenly. rightonrightonrighton... He would later say about the experience, “It was in a way bizarre. That your brillant mouth was wrapped around me.” And Kevin would reply that his mind was often occupied with thoughts of Raymond, why shouldn’t his mouth be? And they’d laugh softly. rightonrightonrighton…. But in the moment he could think of nothing coherent. Only half sentences and Kevin Kevin Kevin Kevin-

And then not even that.

Kevin deftly removed and disposed of the condom and went immediately into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Raymond knew he should get up. Shower. Clean. They’d need to change the sheets, surely.

But he found himself falling half asleep instead as he listened to the sounds of Kevin opening cabinets and running water. It was...domestic. It felt right, like home. When Kevin returned Raymond greeted him with a tired “What, no post-coital cuddling?” and a smile.

Kevin looked at the bedsheets eagerly and then at his boyfriend’s nearly sleeping form. “Leave it until the morning.” The man in bed suggested, gesturing for Kevin to join him. He sighed but climbed in. “Yes, forgive me. I have a habit of brushing my teeth after I put anything in my mouth.” He shrugged, leaning down and replacing his typewriter on the nightstand. “My brother’s in medical school so that might have to do with it.” Raymond opened one eye, surprise clear on his face. “You brother?” “Oh. Yes, my younger brother. Martin.” Kevin fidgeted with the bed sheet, peering down at it as if it were telling him something entrancing. “He will like you.” He said resolutely, turning off the lamp. Raymond laid in the dark, feeling a sort of happy restlessness that he couldn’t describe in detail. Kevin had a brother. Kevin had told him about his brother and he would meet him one day. This was a far cry from; “Do your parents know?” “Please specify?” “About me.” “We...aren’t close.” “We’re dating!” “My parents and I aren’t close.” He knew nothing about them. Martin was studying to become a dentist. Martin would like him. Will like him.

It was hope, he realized. Hope for a future with this brilliant, wonderful, clever man that he loved. A future where they had a family, where they didn’t have to hide, where they could be exactly who they were and be loved unconditionally. As they loved each other.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, light flooded the room once again as Kevin sighed and began removing the sheets.

“I’m sorry, but I really do have to change these sheets.” He said, almost to himself. And Raymond only smiled fondly in response as he moved to help him.

(I got explicit permission from the person who commissioned me to post this!)

#long text posts like this sometimes get words jumbled so let me know if the words are jumbled #writing commissions #my writing #b99 fic #fanfic #kevin cozner/raymond holt #it's hard writing characters in character but also younger and in a different time period #please consider commissioning me! thank you v_v #I have no fixed rates bc writing is very variable #Holt definitely thinks 70s Kevin is a bit of a bad boy rebel

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glassbangtan · 5 years ago

Text

love lyrics {yoongi x reader}

Words: 11.8k

Summary: Min Yoongi is a Modern Arts student. You are kind of a Modern Arts student. Min Yoongi lives and breathes his music, would die for a good grade. You are hopping from course to course, still trying to figure out what you want. Two seemingly opposite people somehow form a connection in the mess of trying to complete a relatively difficult homework assignment that focuses on the topic of love - something Yoongi is completely oblivious to.

Genre: angst - fluff - high school au

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions!

----

Min Yoongi is fairly certain this is the stupidest thing he's ever been told to do.

Ever.

He's a Modern Arts student – he's learning to produce music, for crying out loud. So, why is he being forced to sit down and write some stupid love poem for a person he doesn't even know?

The assignment came from his music teacher, Miss Seymour. Miss Seymour, a pleasant elderly lady who prides herself on the fact that she's married to the music, is someone Yoongi usually respects a great deal. In truth, she's taught him almost everything he knows, has paved the way for the future he wants to pursue once he leaves the hell hole that is Daegu High School.

However, this morning she'd walked into class, chipper as anything with her usual flask of coffee in her hands, and she'd told each and every student in that room to sit down and write about love.

Yoongi could have honestly slammed his head into the desk.

Yoongi isn't a hopeless romantic by any stretch of the imagination. He's read romance books (mostly because of Namjoon) and he's watched romance movies (mostly because of Jimin) but never before has he taken that side of media and applied it to his own hobby – writing music. Never before has he even wanted to, because the minute you start mixing complicated feelings into a piece of music, it can start deteriorating very, very fast. The song can quickly become something you don't even want to look at, let alone properly record and release to the world.

Nonetheless, Yoongi needs this grade. He needs to keep Miss Seymour's respect, and so he ducks his head down and starts scribbling on the piece of paper he's pulled from his backpack.

Nothing happens.

He's moving his pen. He's pretty sure there should be words on his page, but instead, all that appears is a tiny doodle of a hedgehog in the top left corner. Beside it, a smiley face. Soon, an entire little family of bizarre doodles have taken up the space of his lined page, and there is not a single word or flowery lyric intermingling amongst them.

Miss Seymour makes her usual rounds of the classroom. Yoongi tries to shield his page from view, folding his arms over the top of it, ducking his head into the tiny box he's made. However, Miss Seymour is actually a decent teacher, and she really does worry about the work of all of her students – Yoongi isn't getting away with this one.

She taps his shoulder. He doesn't move. Maybe if he pretends he's asleep, she'll realise just how exhausting it is to be a student, will take pity on him and leave.

“Yoongi.”

He squeezes his eyes closed. “Hm?”

“Can I see what you've got done so far?”

Yoongi knows he has no choice. Haltingly, he slides away from the desk and shows off his doodles. Part of him is quite proud of the little hedgehog – maybe Miss Seymour likes hedgehogs.

She tilts her head, grey eyes narrowed behind her wire-framed glasses. Yoongi sees her purse her lips, and he knows then and there that he's done for – he's nearly wasted an entire lesson, nearly an entire fifty minutes scribbling stupid doodles rather than doing this stupid assignment, and now he's going to fail, and-

“Not quite what I asked for, Mr Min,” she says.

Yoongi nods slowly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Are you struggling?”

“I just. . . don't know what to write.” He looks up. “You know I'm more of a hip hop writer.” And she does know, because she's praised Yoongi so many times on the different pieces he's shown to her. She knows this isn't the kind of thing that comes easy to him.

She hums, settling herself down on the only other seat at the desk – it's been empty since the start of the year, considering most people would rather sit with their friends and chat then get any actual work done. Yoongi made the sacrificial decision to sit by himself this year, leaving Hoseok and Namjoon to their gossip at the back of the classroom.

“I've taught a lot of boys just like you, Yoongi,” Miss Seymour says. “They have a specific idea in mind of what they want to do, and they think that's it. They think music falls into one of multiple categories, and they choose which one they like best and that's them sorted for the rest of their life – well, I don't want you to fall under the same assumptions, because it really isn't true.”

Yoongi frowns.

“As musicians, we have to learn to love all genres of music. We might not enjoy writing them, and some will be stronger than others, but the respect at least has to be there. You have to fall in love with the art, not the genre.”

Yoongi continues to frown. Maybe he's too young to understand what she's saying. Maybe she really is bat shit crazy.

“Today we're writing about love,” she points out, tapping his page as if that will prove anything. “So, I want you to think of someone you deeply, deeply love and I want you to write about them. I know how good you are with words, Yoongi – I think you can make something beautiful out of this.”

Yoongi looks down. He might be hiding a smile; he isn't really sure yet. Part of him is amused by Miss Seymour's outlook on life, but the other half of him can kind of see where she's coming from – yes, it's important that he forms some kind of respect for all genre's of music if he wants to work with a broad range of artists in the future, but god, does he really have to suffer through the additional task of thinking about his own emotions?

Miss Seymour leaves. Yoongi never responds to her, but she doesn't really need him to. She's made her point, and now she's gone, and Yoongi is left with his pen and his sheet of paper.

He really just has to think of someone he loves.

He loves his mother, yes. His father, yes. His brother, yes, and sometimes he'll even feel a flicker of fondness for his small group of friends, as rowdy as they are. He loves music – but he can't write about that, can he? That's even worse than writing about how much he loves his family. It's just. . . not what people want to hear, and it certainly isn't what he wants to write about.

There's so much emotion in the word love. There's so much it can be, so many forms it can take, so Yoongi doesn't fully understand why he's struggling to come up with something to write about. None of it has to be truthful – he can bullshit his way through an English essay, so why can't he do the same in music?

He sighs and slumps back in his chair. His hood is already pulled on over his head, but he exaggerates his need for privacy by popping an AirPod in his ear, covering it with the hood of his jacket. He leans his head back, inhales deeply and-

The door to the classroom swings open. All attention is sucked directly towards the source.

“Sorry! Sorry, ah!” You awkwardly laugh. “I hope I'm in the right room. Miss Seymour's class, right?”

Miss Seymour pauses, chalk still in her hand as she scribbles some random motivational quote on the blackboard. It's been a long time since Yoongi's seen a startled Miss Seymour; the sight is oddly refreshing.

“Uh...,” the elderly woman drawls. “Yes. I'm Miss Seymour.”

“Sorry for being late.” You're talking so fast. Yoongi wants you to slow down. “I only signed up for Modern Arts a few days ago, and today's my first actual class. I'm still trying to find where everything is.”

Miss Seymour nods, dazed. “You've got the right place. T-take a seat wherever you want, love.”

And Yoongi knows. He just knows, because it happens in every single movie, and every single book, and you look over at him as soon as the words have left Miss Seymour's mouth. He can hope, but it's useless. You immediately make a B-Line for the one free chair in the entire classroom – which just so happens to be right beside Min Yoongi.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, even though he isn't entirely sure why he's so put-out by this. He doesn't even know you, but he knows you're loud and you talk too fast and the way you stumble over to his desk makes him think that maybe you're a little bit clumsy, too.

Bits and pieces of your personality are showing to the surface, and Yoongi hasn't even said two words to you. Clearly you don't like to keep yourself subtle.

Yoongi shuffles to the side when you slam your bag on the table and start rummaging around for your books. You're smiling the entire time – Yoongi doesn't know why, isn't entirely sure if he wants to know why.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I take up a lot of room sometimes.”

“You're fine,” Yoongi grumbles. He tucks his AirPod back in his ear and turns back to his work; he needs to get this done. You can't be a distraction.

You sit down beside him, chair screeching with the force of which you plonk down. Yoongi tries to curl up against the wall. You don't get the hint.

“Well, hello,” you say. “I'm Y/N.”

“Hello.”

You pause. Yoongi should probably say something, maybe tell you his name.

He bites the top of his pen.

“What's your name?”

You sound like a six year old in a park.

“Yoongi,” he replies.

“Min Yoongi.”

He glances at you. “How do you know?”

You smile sheepishly, glancing down at your hands. To the untrained eye, you might look a little embarrassed, but Yoongi is struggling to believe someone with a personality like yours is capable of felling embarrassed. “I heard a bit about you when I was signing up for my extra classes. Apparently you're really good at Modern Arts.”

“Yep.”

“Well, it's an honour to sit beside you, Min Yoongi.”

“Just Yoongi.”

“What?”

“You don't have to say my last name. It's just Yoongi.”

You grin. “Well, okay, Just Yoongi.”

“We're not doing that, either.”

Your grin fades. Yoongi almost feels bad.

He shuffles a little closer to the wall and goes back to chewing on his pen. There's only ten minutes of class left. He honestly doesn't see a point in trying to force his creativity at this point.

“I don't know what you're doing,” you say. “Miss Seymour didn't explain the work.”

“Did she not?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Are you working on anything interesting?” You lean forward. “Can I hear some of your work?”

“No.”

You flinch back. “Oh. Okay.” It's silent for a moment. “Can you explain what the work is?”

Yoongi glances at you. The word “No,” is playing on his tongue again, but even he can admit that's a little bit too mean. He sighs and sits forward, nudging the instructions page towards you. He taps it lightly and says, “That explains everything.”

You read over it, furrowing your brows. “You're writing about love.”

“Apparently so.”

“But that's so broad.” You push the sheet away. “There's so much you can do with that. Like, forbidden love, platonic love, familial love, material love. What about love when it comes to hobbies, or passions? How can she just tell us to write about love?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Dunno.”

“What have you got so far?” Before Yoongi can protest, you snatch the page hidden beneath his folded arms.

He winces; fuck. You've literally just told him that people claim he's some genius when it comes to Modern Arts. He's meant to impress you, but there's absolutely nothing impressive about what you're looking at.

“Aw! That's a nice little hedgehog.”

Yoongi blinks. He thinks of saying “Thank you,” but that seems kind of stupid. He snatches the page out of your hand and mumbles something along the lines of, “Please don't do that again.”

You giggle. “So I'm guessing you're just as stumped as I am. Tell me, Yoongi – is it because there's so much to write about, or because there's so little to write about?”

Yoongi raises a brow. He spares you a glance, just over his shoulder, just something small, but it's enough for him to see the tiny smile twitching on your lips. You lean back in your chair, sighing dreamily, and the two of you wait till the bell rings, because that's all you can do – a hopeless romantic and someone who doesn't even want to ponder over the idea of love.

----

“So the new girl was pretty weird today, don't you think?”

As soon as Yoongi hears the words coming from Namjoon, he wants to turn and walk away.

He doesn't, though, because god forbid he get caught eating alone in a high school cafeteria. It would take months to recover from the torment.

So, he sets his tray down next to Hoseok and tries to change the subject immediately. “Does anyone have good sociology notes I can steal?”

Namjoon perks up. “Ay, there you are! Just the man we were waiting on.”

Hoseok leans in, nudging Yoongi's arm. “So, how was the new girl today?”

“Uh. . . On her best behaviour.” He isn't sure how else to respond.

Hoseok frowns. “No, dude. I mean, like, was she cool? Was she annoying? She seemed really overbearing when she walked in this morning.”

Yoongi shrugs, messing with the top of the salt pot. “We didn't really talk that much.” It wasn't necessarily a lie, but the way he says it makes it seem like one. Maybe you two did talk quite a lot – maybe Yoongi's shyness has reached a point where he doesn't even know what counts as talking a lot.

“Did you get her name?” Jimin asks.

“Y/N.”

Taehyung slaps the table and holds his palm out to Jungkook. “See, I told you that was it! You owe me a fiver!”

Jungkook slaps his hand away. “Fuck off. I can't afford that.” He turns back to Yoongi. “You didn't talk to her at all?”

“This is Yoongi,” says Seokjin through a mouthful of steak bites. “It wouldn't even surprise me that much if they didn't talk.”

Yoongi shrugs. He doesn't know how to respond to that, either.

Namjoon sighs. “Shame. I kind of want to know a bit more about her.”

“Why?” asks Taehyung.

“Why not? She stumbles into our Modern Arts class, yelling about how sorry she is for being late. I've never even seen her walking round the Modern Arts block before – so what made her decide to transfer so suddenly?”

These are all very good questions. So good, in fact, that Yoongi even finds himself listening to the discussion.

“I guess so,” says Jimin. “Do you know what classes she took before?”

“Maths,” Jungkook says. He pauses when he realises that the whole table is staring at him in confusion. He shrugs. “What? I worked on the student council for three weeks – the files I had access to in there, man. Crazy.” He points his chopsticks at Seokjin. “You, sir, are in Mr Brown's bad books, by the way.”

Seokjin curses.

Namjoon waves a dismissive hand, dragging back the conversation. “Isn't that so weird, though? She's moved from maths to Modern Arts – who does that? What maths student do you know that all of a sudden decides their passion is in the Arts?”

Yoongi can understand Namjoon's confusion, but he's also known the younger man long enough to know that he has a habit of looking a little bit too deeply into things that don't really matter. Maybe Yoongi is just a bit of a debby-downer, or maybe he really does just have a bad habit of taking life as it comes, but he doesn't see a reason in stressing himself out over something as simple as another persons academic interests.

But in the same breath, it is confusing.

“I'm happy for her,” says Taehyung, popping a strawberry in his mouth. His lips are already bright red. Yoongi is used to this by now. “You know, I used to think I'd join my dad on the strawberry farm when I was younger. That used to be, like, my goal. And now look at me.” He spreads his arms out, encompassing the whole table. “I'm sat with you assholes, taking a photography course.”

“What a glow-up,” Jimin deadpans, to which Taehyung merely grins.

Yoongi looks down at his own meal. The only reason he avoids these conversations is because they often get him thinking, and that's dangerous territory. He thinks enough when he's in class. He thinks enough when his parents are yelling at him for not doing a business degree. He thinks enough without the added stress of thinking about someone he doesn't even know.

But Namjoon really takes no prisoners. He leaves Yoongi pondering over the strange individual who had sat beside him that morning, the conversation he'd had with you, the way you'd seemed genuinely flustered over the array of possibilities that the word 'Love' brought to the table.

Yoongi wouldn't be surprised if you didn't show up to class next week. You honestly didn't seem too passionate.

---

Okay, so maybe Yoongi was a little quick to judge.

He should have given you more credit, because here you are, and here he is, and the both of you are fifteen minutes early to the first class on a Monday morning.

Yoongi pauses in the doorway, his folder pressed to his chest in the same way all them pretentious, quirky girls always hold them in the movies. He feels a little bit ridiculous, but there was no room in his backpack, so he made do with what he had.

Your head is down. You don't see him yet. He gets the urge to run, just come back in fifteen minutes like a normal kid, but then he's frozen and he's staring at you, silently wondering why on earth you're still here when he's already put two and two together and deduced the fact that you were, by no means, meant to be a Modern Arts student.

Before he can swivel round and flee, your head pops up from beneath the desk. How your eyes immediately train on Yoongi is a mystery, but what he knows for sure is that there is absolutely no chance of him making a swift get-away now.

“Oh! Yoongi!” You grab your bag from his chair, slipping it beneath the desk. Clearly you've already assumed Yoongi is going to sit beside you again.

He hates that you're right.

“Good morning,” you say when he slumps down next to you. “I didn't take you as the early type.”

“I'm not. Not really.”

“Well, I'm sure Mrs Seymour really appreciates your effort.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches. “It's Miss.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

“It's Miss Seymour,” he repeats, even though he isn't sure why he's doing this at all. “She's not married.”

You pause. For a second, Yoongi is positive he's somehow offended you – it wouldn't be the first time. He really does try and make decent conversation, but who even knows how to start a conversation these days? Who has the time to figure all of that out?

He starts pulling his hood over his head. Your hand snaps out and tugs it back down.

“Oh,” you say. “Thanks for telling me. That would have been embarrassing if I'd gotten her name wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“So, do you know what we're doing today?” You shuffle down in your seat, getting comfortable, as if Yoongi going through the lesson plan is equivalent to a camp-fire story.

“Probably just carrying on with what we were doing last lesson,” he replies. “Writing about love or whatever.”

“Oh, yes. I remember that.” You shake your head. “You know, I had all weekend to think about that stupid prompt, and I'm still none the wiser.”

“That sucks.”

“Did you come up with anything?”

“Nothing good. Nothing I can work with.”

You nod as if you understand. “That's just it, isn't it? Love has so many different pieces to it, so many different elements, but it really just comes down to our skill. Like, if we can't write about it, then we might as well not even waste our energy thinking about it.”

Yoongi nods. You aren't wrong. He wonders whether or not he should say that to you. Is that a decent response?

“You're not wrong.”

You grin. Yoongi gives himself one point.

“Have you always been a Modern Arts student?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Yoongi pauses. “Yeah. Most of the time.” He gestures round the classroom. “This whole love thing isn't really my cup of tea, though.” Cup of tea? What does that even mean?

“I gathered that.” Your voice comes out as more of a giggle. Yoongi hates that he notices this, hates the warm feeling that immediately sprouts in the pit of his stomach – it's not very often someone giggles in his vicinity, especially when no one else is around. He's usually either got his AirPods in and his hood up, or he's saying some self-deprecating joke that just makes the other person uncomfortable.

He glances over at you. You don't look uncomfortable at all. In fact, you're slouched, as if being in Yoongi's presence is the most natural thing in the world.

He decides to slouch, too.

“I used to be a maths student,” you say. “It was difficult.”

“I can imagine.” He pauses. He has a right to ask a question, doesn't he? Asking questions is a human right, isn't it? “Why did you transfer?”

“It was just. . . . difficult,” you repeat, shrugging at your lack of a better term. “I mean, clearly I enjoyed it at some point, or else I wouldn't have chosen it in the first place, but it's a lot of work and it just wasn't. . . . I don't know, like, fulfilling enough. You know what I mean?”

Yoongi doesn't. He nods anyway.

“So I decided to give Modern Arts a try.”

“Is that not bad for your grades?” Yoongi spits out before his confidence wavers and he crawls back into his tiny hole of isolation. “Like, hopping from course to course? What happens if it turns out you don't even like Modern Arts?”

You shrug. Your pout says you don't entirely care. “Then I'll find something else.”

“Must be exhausting.”

“Not really. What is exhausting is dragging yourself out of bed every morning to go to a class you don't even like. I'd much rather be a little bit behind and happy than ahead and hating every minute of it.”

Again, Yoongi doesn't really understand. Maybe it's because he's been settled in his major his entire life – from the moment his fingers touched the keys of that piano, he's never wanted to leave it. He took Modern Arts for the same reason most other students take Modern Arts – because they want to study Modern Arts.

You, however, don't seem to care too much about structure, or the future at all, for that matter. You hop from course to course like it's no big deal, like the end of year exams aren't the things that are going to determine your overall worth as a human being.

At least, that's what Yoongi thinks. His grades mean an awful lot to him, but he's heard differing opinions.

“I'll figure myself out,” you say. Yoongi didn't realise he hadn't replied. “We all get there in the end.”

Yoongi hums. It's the only response he can think of, but you seem perfectly content with it.

The two of you sit like that until the first bell rings and the class gradually begins to fill up. Miss Seymour walks in wearing a slightly oversized body-suit with parrots on it, along with a pair of dangly earrings that look about three seconds away from snapping her earlobes off completely.

Yoongi gives her a small smile. He isn't sure why. He must be feeling nice this morning.

Hoseok and Namjoon walk past his table. Hoseok claps him on the back, offers a greeting before his brown eyes flick to you; you're busy scavenging in your bag again, and Yoongi watches as you pull a piece of gum out, frown and then quickly toss it back into your bag.

“Hello!” Hoseok almost-yells.

Your head snaps up and round, a grin immediately taking shape. Yoongi thinks it's been practised, because there's no way in hell someone can smile so well in such a short amount of time. Without warning, too.

“Hi!” you almost-yell right back.

You two give each other a high five, and Hoseok walks away.

Yoongi frowns, turning to you. “Do you and Hoseok know each other?”

“Hm?” You've gone back to studying the contents of your backpack.

“You and Hoseok. Have you met before?”

“Oh. No. I've never seen that guy in my life.” You look at him over your shoulder. Yoongi has the sudden urge to brush your hair away from your mouth. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Behind him, Hoseok and Namjoon howl with laughter.

---

Yoongi is starting to get angry.

The blank page, the half-chewed pen, the fact that he's going to have to buy another Refill Pad because he's ripped almost all the pages out of his other one. Call him dramatic, but he's ninety percent sure absolutely nothing in his life is going to work in his favour ever again.

The library isn't even half full, which is weird, because it's exam season and it should be. Nonetheless, the quiet murmuring distracts him. He knows he's just looking for an excuse to get away from his music homework, which makes his anger even worse. Who can you trust if your own brain is going against you?

He squeezes his eyes closed, placing his head against the table. He doesn't want to make a scene, but if this final nerve gets plucked in the next ten seconds, he's fully prepared to flip his chair and scream at the top of his lungs.

So maybe it's a good thing that you seem to be having an even worse day than he is.

He hears you opening the library door. Everyone does. As per usual, your foot gets caught on the door frame and your casual walk turns into a stumble. The apologies fall from your lips, your folder crashes to the floor, and the entire library goes silent.

Yoongi looks up. You're on your knees, gathering up a pile of papers. Nobody is helping you.

“Sorry,” you mutter on repeat. It breaks Yoongi's heart a little bit.

He stands up and goes over to help you; it's not a heroic move. To be quite honest, he's only doing it because he wants to get out of that god damn seat, and the distraction of your misfortunes is a welcome one. He drops to the ground beside you and starts bundling up the pages, rapidly thinking up a conversation starter that might make you feel a little more comfortable.

Your eyes snap up. “Yoongi! Hey!”

Apparently you have the conversation starter covered.

He tries for a smile. It probably looks too forced. He quickly looks back down. “Hey.”

“God, I'm such an idiot,” you continue. “I probably just distracted you from some, like, really important homework, didn't I? You're probably so far behind now. You really didn't have to help me if you're busy – this is me just – you know – being me!” You laugh awkwardly. You flick your gaze around at the staring students before looking away. “Fuck.”

“You're fine,” Yoongi grumbles, keeping his head down. “They'll forget about this in about ten minutes.”

“I hope so. This is the fourth time I've fallen in the past week. Fourth!”

“Maybe you should remember that the door frame is-”

“It's elevated. Yes. I – uh – I understand that.” You pluck the pile of papers from Yoongi's arms. He sits back on his heels, watching you be awkward for the first time since he met you – it's weird. He isn't sure if he likes it or not. Then again, he wasn't sure if he liked your overly-bubbly personality, either, and he's beginning to think that maybe he's being a little selfish trying to grab for the best of both worlds.

You shuffle the papers a little bit, give Yoongi an awkward smile before the two of you finally realise you're still kneeled on the floor. You start to rise, stumbling only once. You manage to catch yourself this time.

“Thank you,” you say. “Uh. . . What are you doing here, then?”

You want to start conversation. Yoongi feels oddly flattered.

Instead of giving you a direct answer, Yoongi nods in the direction of his study area, beckoning for you to follow him. He offers you the empty chair beside him, and you sit down with your legs crossed. Yoongi makes an effort to stay as far to the left as possible, just in case he takes up your space. He doesn't want to take up your space.

You peak over at his blank sheet of paper and frown. Then, your eyes trail towards the array of information sheets, and realisation dawns on your expression.

“Oooooh. You're doing the music homework.”

“I'm trying to do the music homework,” Yoongi corrects. “It's a lot easier said than done.”

“You know, I'd nearly forgotten all about that.”

“Well, it's due in a few days. You should probably get started on it.”

“Probably.” You place your pages on the desk, setting up camp, per se. Yoongi finds that he doesn't even mind your plans to stay. “So have you got any idea what you're gonna write about?”

“Nope.”

“That's not a good start.”

Yoongi shrugs.

You hum, sitting back. You tap your chin thoughtfully, and Yoongi wants to tease you about it but he doesn't really think you two are close enough for that kind of thing yet, so he doesn't.

“Have you ever been in love, Yoongi?”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“You know.” You roll your hands. “Have you ever been in love with anyone? Like, romantically in love.” Yoongi stares at you. You sigh. “Okay then. We'll make it less heavy – have you ever thought you were romantically in love with someone?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

You tap the information sheet – specifically, the word LOVE written in big capital letters at the top.

He swallows. “Oh.”

You lean forward. “Judging by that reaction, I would say you have.”

“Well you're wrong, because I haven't.”

Your eyebrows fly up. “Never? Not even when you were in primary school? Did you never have one of them relationships where the guy – or girl – would give you a flower on the playground and then you'd think you were in love for, like, a week?”

Yoongi raises a brow. That's all the answer you need, apparently.

You guffaw, shaking your head. “Min Yoongi, you have missed out. I was going to suggest writing something about that, but your inexperience has once again trumped my plans.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe you can write about discovering love, then.” You're talking almost to yourself, even though your suggestions are aimed at him. “Being your age and not knowing what romantic love feels like – you could write about it from the perspective of someone who doesn't really know what all the fuss is about.”

Yoongi nearly winces. “It's not that I don't know what all the fuss is about. I've just never . . . cared about it.”

“Ever read Romeo and Juliet?”

“Of course.”

“Did you think it was romantic?”

“More stupid than anything else.”

You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, you definitely don't know what all the fuss is about.” Yoongi opens his mouth to retort, but you leap up and cut him off. “But that's a good thing! It means you have something to write about!”

“That's going to be so depressing.”

“So? It's art. It's allowed to be depressing – as long as it means something.” You point at his blank page. “Or, in this case, as long as it completes your homework assignment.”

Yoongi looks down at the table. It's a start, he'll admit, but the idea hasn't piqued his interest. He knows when he's excited for a project, because he feels it in his bones and his blood, and his fingers itch to grab the pen and start writing – at this moment in time, he feels none of that.

Nonetheless, he humours you. “I'll think about it.”

“Please do,” you reply, before you grab his hand and start scribbling numbers on the back of it. “And please keep me updated on your progress, because I'm just as lost as you are.”

Yoongi tugs his hand back. “Is that your number?”

“Yep! Please text me. Just text. Phone calls make me uncomfortable.” You pause. “Although I might like phone calls with you. I don't know. It depends.”

Yoongi blushes, looking away as you stand up and say your goodbye's. He doesn't know where you're going, and he isn't sure if that's an appropriate question to ask, so he simply smiles and waves you off before slumping back in his seat.

As soon as you leave, his anger returns ten-fold. He didn't even realise it had disappeared as soon as you fell into the room.

----

Yoongi likes rivers. He always has, and he's quite certain he always will.

Ever since he was a little boy, rivers have been a source of inspiration for him. He thinks it might be the noise, the faint trickle that could be water, or the footsteps of someone coming up behind him. He can lose himself within that sound for hours on end, and those hours will still feel like nothing more than a few minutes.

His favourite river is the one just behind his uncle's house. It's big. Benches line the side of it, so he always has a place to sit. Ducks walk around in the grass, and they jump into the water and they make little noises that only add to the peaceful ambience.

Yoongi stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks along the riverbank, trailing his fingertips along the top of the weeds. His music homework burns a hole in his backpack, but he's trying hard to ignore that. For now, he just wants to settle in.

It's night time, but that doesn't bother him. He can work in all conditions – in fact, he wrote one of his favourite songs sitting under a canopy when it was pouring it down. He remembers that day well, how his uncle had basically screamed at him for risking his own health all for the sake of a sheet of paper. Yoongi had no regrets.

He finally settles down on an empty bench and takes the sheet of paper from his bag. He presses it against one of his sociology textbooks, but at this point, he doesn't even care about presentation; he just wants something on the page. He wants to get it finished, because in the next two days, he's going to have to hand it in and he'll be damned if he lets one stupid project jeopardize his final grade.

So, he sits down and he gets to work.

He hates it all. It's like pulling teeth, each and every one of his thoughts being forced through sludge in his brain. Nothing sounds right, and he can't get anything to rhyme, and honestly, nothing he's written is even coherent.

He bites his bottom lip. He has to keep his anger in check, of course, because he's in public and god forbid he show any amount of emotion outside the house. He really does just want to hurl the piece of paper into the river, though, and maybe yell some curse words, even though that's unnecessary and will do nothing for him in the end.

Instead, he moves the textbook from his lap and stays seated. He stares out at the river, silently cursing the water for not bringing the usual bout of inspiration when he needs it most. He can already hear Namjoon and Hoseok in the back of his mind, telling him this project doesn't even matter and it's just a simple homework assignment – neither of them care as much as he does, and maybe that's normal. Maybe Yoongi's the weird one, obsessing over his final grade as if it matters.

“Oh! Look who we have here!”

Yoongi's head snaps up. His lips part. He's going to say something, but the words get absorbed by the confusion over the fact that you're currently standing behind him.

“What?” It's all he can manage.

You grin, skipping to his side. You're wearing a thin jacket today, along with a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans that are marked with grass stains. Your shoes are the same, and there's tiny strands of grass in your hair that Yoongi has to fight to ignore.

“It's me!” you exclaim, as if Yoongi would forget. “I didn't know you came down here.”

“I – uh – my uncle. . . He lives. . .” Yoongi awkwardly gestures to the top of the hill, where his uncle's house is.

You nod, not even following the direction of his gesture. Yoongi wonders why he bothers. “I've just never seen you around before. I come here almost every weekend.” You swing your leg over the back of the bench and perch on top of it. Yoongi shuffles over, silently offering you the place beside him, but you're quite content sitting right there.

You nudge his backpack with your shoe. “The music homework?”

“Yup.”

“You know, I finished mine the other day. After our little chat in the library.”

Yoongi looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Really? How long did it take?”

“About ten minutes.”

He frowns. “Lucky you.”

“Hey, that's not to say it's any good.” You nudge him with your foot. “I'll admit I rushed it. I bet yours is gonna be ten times better than mine.”

Yoongi scoffs. “I actually have to have something to hand in to be better than you.”

You fall silent, and Yoongi wonders if he said something wrong again. He doesn't even care at this point, though, because the sheet beside him is still blank, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Love. Such a stupid, dumb concept. Did Miss Seymour even take into consideration that maybe some people don't believe in love? She may find this to be a bit of a surprise, but not every teenager in the world is a hopeless romantic – some of them just want to curl up and watch Netflix. Some of them are perfectly content being on their own. Some of them don't even want to think about love and it's complexities, because life is difficult enough without it.

God, he's being such an idiot. He knows this. It's a homework assignment – so what if he doesn't get the expected grade? So what if Miss Seymour looks at it and laughs? So what if his emotional capabilities are sitting at zero?

It doesn't matter. Nothing fucking matters.

“Yoongi?”

He doesn't look up.

You reach forward and place your hand over his own, and it's only then does he realise he's been gripping the strap of his backpack a little too tightly. The blood has drained from his knuckles, rushing to his fingertips until his fingers look like candles.

He quickly releases and pulls his hand into his chest. “Sorry.”

“You don't need to apologise.” You tilt your head. He can feel you staring at him, but he doesn't meet your gaze. “Are you okay? This isn't bothering you too much, is it?”

He closes his eyes. “I just . . . really don't want to fail.”

He isn't sure why he's telling you this, why you would even care, why he even cares. But the words are out, and suddenly you're sliding from the back of the bench to sit beside him, and then your head is on his shoulder and your humming something Yoongi isn't familiar with, but he wants to be familiar with it because it sounds so beautiful coming out of your mouth.

“You're a very tense man, Yoongi.”

He snorts. “Oh?”

“Mm. That was one of the first things I noticed about you when we met.”

“How tense I am?”

“Yeah. That, and the fact that you don't seem to care about it at all.”

“About what?”

“How tense you are.” You squeeze his upper arm, as if all the tension you're describing is in that single muscle. “You've just kind of accepted that that's how you are. Haven't you?”

“I've never been any other way.”

“That's sad.” You sit up. “Why don't we go in the river?”

Yoongi's head snaps up, eyes suddenly frantic. “What?”

But you're grinning, and Yoongi knows you well enough to know that isn't a good thing. You rise from the bench, and you're already tugging your shirt off before he has a chance to tell you to stop. There is no shame to your movements, no worry whatsoever.

Yoongi wants to know what that's like.

“Come on!” you exclaim. “The waters cold!”

“Exactly!” Yoongi stumbles up, reaches for your hand but suddenly it's at the button of your jeans and Yoongi flinches away. “Y/N, stop. The dark won't stop us getting caught.”

“So what if we get caught? I'll keep my bra on.”

And then you're tugging your jeans off and leaping into the river.

Your scream echoes through the trees. A tiny splash of water lands on Yoongi's arm and he grits his teeth – you were telling the truth. The water is ice cold.

“You're gonna get hypothermia in there!” he calls out.

“Don't be silly! Just get in! It warms up eventually!”

Yoongi closes his eyes; you're going to drive him mad.

Apparently, you're also going to persuade him to jump in an ice cold river.

He's peeling off his shirt before his sensible brain can kick in. And then it's his trousers, and then his socks and then he's lowering himself into the river, using the river bank as a grip.

You wade over to him. His eyes widen, and he tries to bat you away, but you're laughing as you tug his hand and pull him into the water. He grits his teeth, trying to bite back the scream threatening to rise to the surface.

It's replaced by a laugh, instead.

He's more surprised than anyone. You stare at him for a second as he tosses his head back and wipes his hand over his face, trailing the ice cold water drops down his skin. He can feel your eyes burning holes into the side of his head, but he doesn't even care, because this is the most daring thing he's ever done and he feels so free. He feels like an actual teenager.

It's weird.

Finally, he drops his hand. His fists splat against the surface, splashing you. You squeal, snapping from your trance long enough to splash him back.

“We're not having a water fight,” he says, walking backwards. “That's just cheesy.”

“Awk, come on,” you scoff, splashing him again. “Why can't we just let ourselves be cheesy once in a while? It's freeing.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but splashes you anyway. It's the start of a fight, a battle where Yoongi ends up dunked under the water three times, and you end up curled around the trunk of a tree on the river bank, kicking your foot at Yoongi any time he tries to grab for you. The two of you are laughing so hard, no pauses, no care in the world, and Yoongi is sure he's going to wake his uncle up and get a scolding for this, but he doesn't even care.

God, it feels good to just not give a fuck.

Finally, though, the night closes. Not even the moon can illuminate the grass, and the two of you finally decide it's time to pack up and head home.

Yoongi falls on his back on the river bank. You follow close behind him, and it's not even a big deal that you're only in a bra and underwear and he's only in a pair of soaked black boxers. You stare up at the stars, his hand on his stomach, your hand trailing through your tangled hair, and everything seems so right.

Yoongi didn't realise just how tense he was until he was calm again.

“My mum's going to kill me, you know,” you say.

Yoongi snatches at a dragonfly. “Oh.”

“But I had fun, so it doesn't matter.”

“Yeah.”

You spare him a glance. “You don't talk much, do you?”

“Not really.” Yoongi looks over at you. “But I had fun today. More fun than I've had in . . . in a very, very long time.”

You grin, and suddenly Yoongi isn't even worried about what could be lurking in the darkness. “I'm happy to hear that.”

You look back up at the stars, even though you have a curfew that you're clearly breaching, even though you're both soaked and will probably get some sort of cold from sitting out in the grass all night. Yoongi joins you, biting his lower lip to hide the smile wanting to force it's way to the surface.

Suddenly, he knows exactly what he wants to write about.

----

Yoongi really shouldn't be this nervous. This is his best friend. Namjoon, who has read his work on countless occasions, who has given him nothing but complete honesty from the very beginning.

And yet somehow, this feels different.

The two of them are sat in Yoongi's room this evening, an uncommon affair considering Yoongi has indulged himself fully in his studies these past few months; despite his mother finally letting him bring friends over whenever he wants, Yoongi keeps the front door locked and his curtains drawn, just to keep distractions at an all time low.

Today he makes an exception.

Namjoon sits on the spinning chair. Yoongi is cross-legged on his bed, eyeing the taller man because that's all he can think to do, besides tossing himself out the window. He doesn't even know where the nerves have come from, but they only double in size when he looks up to see Namjoon raising an eyebrow at the sheet of paper that has been giving Yoongi grief for days.

Yoongi leans forward. “So....”

“Bro...”

Yoongi flinches back. “Is it bad?”

“It's a bit. . .” Namjoon tilts his head as he searches for the correct word. Finally, he gives up and looks at Yoongi with a raised brow. “You really feel like this?”

Yoongi snatches the paper back. “It doesn't mean anything.”

“And you think I'm stupid. Great. Great. That's fantastic.”

“What are you on about?”

Namjoon gestures towards the page. “Yoongi, you were obviously writing about Y/N. I've barely even spoken to the girl and I can see that.”

Yoongi has the sudden urge to laugh.

But he doesn't laugh. He should be laughing. He wants to laugh, because maybe a laugh will make his denial a little more believable.

Instead he just stares. He feels his fingers curling round the page a little tighter. He really isn't doing a very good job of being subtle.

His voice is a little too high when he says, “You're crazy.” He coughs, standing up and marching to the other side of the room, just because he needs to move before Namjoon's eyes burn a hole in his face. He focuses his attention on the mirror nailed to the back of his wardrobe door and starts fixing his already styled hair. “I don't even know Y/N that well, anyway. How would I even be able to write an entire song about her?”

“You know her well enough,” says Namjoon. “You two are always talking in class.”

“We don't talk.”

“Are you forgetting that I literally sit right behind you?”

Yoongi hollows out his cheeks, dragging a strand of hair down his nose; it's getting long. He wonders if you like it long, or if you'll perhaps prefer him with a shorter style. “There's nothing in there that indicates it's about Y/N. It's just some bullshit I made up to get something on paper.”

Namjoon hums. Yoongi closes his eyes – that's the noise Namjoon does when he's about to prove somebody wrong, and Yoongi doesn't really want to be left embarrassed in his own god damn home.

“What about the line where you talk about how cute it is when this random person stumbles?”

Yoongi fluffs up his hair some more.

“Or the line where you go on about how you admire their personality, even though it's literally the complete opposite of your own?”

Yoongi pulls on his lower lip, inspects his teeth.

“Oh! How about the line where you describe this person making you feel alive for the first time in years?” Namjoon hums. “You didn't tell me you two went out together.”

Something snaps. Yoongi spins round and jumps onto the bed, snatching the page off the desk on his way past. He shoves it towards Namjoon.

“Fuck, is it really that obvious? What line gave it away?” He groans, trailing his hands through his hair. “I can't read this out in front of everyone if she's gonna know it's about her, Namjoon.”

Namjoon takes the sheet and gently places it on the bedside table. “It was a good song.”

“I don't care-”

“What are you so worried about anyway? It's obvious she likes you back.”

Yoongi blinks. “Fuck off.”

Namjoon's eyes widen. “I'm serious!”

But he isn't. He can't be serious. Kim Namjoon, the most serious, honest man Yoongi has ever met, is lying right to his face.

“Right,” Yoongi exclaims, “so I'll just have to write something different then.”

Namjoon grabs his wrist. “Don't you dare.”

“I'm not handing that in. There's no way.”

“But it's good! You'll get the highest grade in the fucking class with that, bro!”

Yoongi scoffs. “Yeah, I'll pass on a good grade if it means sparing my dignity.”

Namjoon gasps, flinching away as if Yoongi's skin has burned him. “I never thought I'd hear you say something like that. This is gonna go down in history.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, and then he's making his way towards the bedside table, and then he's picking up the sheet of paper.

Namjoon cries out, tries to grab his wrist but Yoongi is quicker, and Yoongi is determined, and Yoongi is embarrassed that he ever let himself get so wrapped up in his own emotions that he actually wrote something like that.

He spent two hours trying to put his feelings into words. In two seconds, the candle flame has demolished everything.

----

Yoongi has never been so tired in his entire life.

Now, Yoongi has lived a very productive life. A fairly long life, too, considering he's very nearly reaching his nineteenth year. Throughout that long existence, he has been properly energized perhaps a total number of four times. He's used to exhaustion.

But today's exhaustion is really just taking the piss.

He is genuinely willing to fall asleep on the desk, which is dangerous both because of the risk of getting caught, and the fact that two of his best friends sit directly behind him and will not hesitate to write inappropriate things on his forehead, or the back of his neck, or whatever lick of skin they can find peeking out of Yoongi's black hoodie.

So he stays upright, even though it costs him a great deal of energy that his coffee is not currently refilling.

He takes another sip and hopes for the best.

“Gooooooood morning!”

Yoongi ignores the immediate flutter in his stomach.

“Morning.”

You place your bag on the table and start laying your books out. “How are you this morning?”

“Good.”

“You don't sound good.” You slap a hand to Yoongi's forehead. A bit of his coffee sloshes over the side of his cup. “You haven't got a temperature.” You lean down and meet his eyes. “Just tired?”

“Exhausted,” Yoongi grunts, nudging you away.

You giggle, finally taking a seat. “Well, at least you don't have to worry about your music homework any more – that's one less thing to stress about.”

“I wasn't stressing.”

“You've been stressed out for the past two weeks.”

Yoongi shrugs.

You roll your eyes, leaning your head on your hand. You're staring right at him. Yoongi wants to look away, but his eyes find yours and they struggle to leave, which is becoming an embarrassingly common occurrence recently.

“What?” he asks.

You nod towards his bag. “Can I read it?”

“Read what?”

“Your homework!”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because you might copy it.”

You stare at him. Yoongi hides his smile behind the rim of his cup.

You slap his arm. “I'm serious. I want to see what you finally came up with.” Yoongi rolls his eyes, but it's with a fondness he can't really disguise at this point – to be honest, he doesn't see a point in trying to hide it any more. You've cracked his shell. Those walls he's been building since first year are crumbling down, and no amount of denial is going to hide it.

So, he reaches into his open bag and pulls out the sheet of paper that is the reasoning behind his deterioration this morning; the words scribbled on that page kept him up until three am, and even now he's not pleased with how they turned out.

He just needed something. After scrapping his original idea, he was put right back to square one – he needed an idea, he needed inspiration, he needed to find a muse, but that muse never came. Any time he thought of the word love, the only image that popped into his head was you in that river a few nights ago, the water glistening against flesh he shouldn't have seen because you two were just friends, only friends, and friends aren't meant to see those body parts.

You take the page from him and start reading. Yoongi notices the way you absently chew on the sleeve of your hoodie as your eyes trace the page. He might have thought that was gross on anyone else, but he smiles when he sees you doing it.

Fuck. He's whipped.

He's watching you read, and he's waiting for your reaction, but he regrets this immediately when your face slowly starts to fall. Your eyes go first, moving from side to side a little faster, as if you can't wait to reach the end of the page. Then your grip tightens. Then your sleeve drops from your mouth and you're holding it with two hands.

Then, you inhale and hand it back to him.

He slowly takes it back, not once taking his eyes off you. You've gone from saying good morning and teasing him, to suddenly not even wanting to look in his direction. You instead keep your eyes on the desk, where your thumbs are fighting one another beneath the sleeves of your hoodie.

Yoongi risks leaning forward. “Did you like it?”

You nod. It's a little too quick to be believable. “I can see why everyone thinks you're amazing at Modern Arts.” You laugh, but it's forced. “Miss Seymour's gonna love it, Yoongi. Good job.”

He tries to smile. He tries to believe you. He tries to ignore your sudden silence, which is so strange to him because usually he's the one wanting you to be quiet. He's the one who deduces his responses to nothing more than one word answers or grunts, or even a nod of the head if he's feeling particularly tired that day.

But now you've gone quiet and Yoongi doesn't really like that.

He leans back in his seat. He can't really say anything, can he? What can he say, besides asking you what was wrong with his homework. Did you not like it? Sure, it's the worst thing he's ever written, but it means something completely different when a person he wants to impress thinks the same.

Miss Seymour walks in shortly after that, and the lesson begins.

She gathers up the homework, picking a few people at random to come up to the front and read theirs out. Yoongi gets slightly annoyed when his name isn't called – usually he hates being called to read, but for the love of god, if he'd have known he was just going to hand in some lyrics without needing to spit them out to the whole class, he might have kept his original draft.

Oh well. Too late now.

However, amongst those people reading, Miss Seymour chooses you.

You grab your page and stride up to the front with a confidence Yoongi isn't sure he will ever see you without. From the very first day he laid eyes on you, you've had that aura – that atmosphere that just says I don't really give a fuck what you say. Yoongi craves it, but he likes it much better on you.

You stand at the front. People start reading. Yoongi keeps his eyes on you.

And then it's your turn.

You don't inhale, don't awkwardly laugh, don't even look at the crowd as you start reading from the page, and despite the confidence that is so present in the way you stand, Yoongi can't help but take notice of the grip you have on the sheet of paper, the way your voice trembles just that little bit at the beginning.

The beginning, where you describe stumbling into class.

The beginning, where you describe sitting beside this mystery person.

The middle, where you talk about useless conversations consisting of one word answers, grunts, the occasional nod of the head.

The middle, where you say you thought it was all for nothing until one night under the stars. There was a river, and so few clothes, and laughter that you'd never heard before because it was coming from this special individual and you'd realised with a start that you hadn't heard them really laugh before.

And then the end, where you talk about how weird it is that you've fallen for someone like that.

Like that.

You don't specify. You don't really need to.

Yoongi feels like he's going to be ill. His stomach twists, and his fingers grip the edge of the table, and if he pays really, really close attention he can hear Hoseok and Namjoon squealing in the row behind him. But also, if he listens close, he can hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest as he remembers the way the page shrivelled up in his hand last night, the words he'd written about you no longer meaning anything because they no longer exist.

After you've finished your reading, you ask Miss Seymour if you can be excused. It's in such a quiet voice. Yoongi has to lean forward to hear it, but Miss Seymour nods and tells you how fantastic you've done before you smile and leave the room.

Namjoon taps Yoongi on the shoulder. “Bet you feel like a dick now, huh?” Yoongi closes his eyes, his heart erratic.

----

He finds you in the garden after class.

He has another class he has to get to, but he doesn't care. He walks right past the door of the sociology room and straight into the garden, where he can see your bright yellow hoodie hidden amongst the bushes.

He knows this is stupid. He should leave you alone. He's messed up enough for one day, and the fact that he's willing to risk fucking it up even more makes him want to punch himself in the face – but the idea of leaving you like this makes him want to punch himself even more.

Yoongi sits down beside you. The old wooden bench creaks beneath his weight, and he has the sudden urge to get up and just stand, but that would look awkward, so he doesn't.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks up at the sky.

“Looks like it might start raining soon.”

You look up at the greying clouds. Your shoulder brushes against his when you lean back, and neither of you move. It's pleasant, almost, but there's a tension between you that no amount of physical contact will be able to conquer. Yoongi just has to suck it up and realise – sooner rather than later – that words and apologies are the only thing that can make this right again.

“I think you got the highest grade in the class, you know,” Yoongi continues. “Miss Seymour really liked your lyrics.”

“Good. That's. . . . really good, yeah.”

Yoongi glances at you. “What inspired you to write that?” God, why is he even asking? It was so obvious. You meant for him to catch on, meant for him to understand what you were trying to say, and yet he sits beside you now and acts oblivious.

You close your eyes. “Nothing.”

“Really?”

“I just wrote about love. Like I was told to do.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi turns his body towards you. “But you were going on at me about needing some inspiration. So, what inspired you?”

“Again, nothing.”

“You're lying.”

“You've gotten awfully chatty in the last fifteen minutes, haven't you?”

Yoongi bites his lip. “You know, the lyrics I showed you in class weren't the first ones I wrote. I had. . . I had another draft that was a lot better than that one.”

“So why didn't you hand it in?”

“Because I thought it would be too obvious.” He gestures between you. “If I'd have known we were doing this, I would have kept it the way it was.”

You stiffen. Yoongi can see the confusion in your face. You open your mouth to say something, to perhaps ask a question, but you close it and instead choose to just look over at him.

Yoongi shrugs as if you'd spoken. “It was a lot more honest. It was. . . a bit more meaningful than what I handed in.”

“Can I read it?”

“No.” He closes his eyes. “No, you can't. I burnt it.”

You pause. “Oh.”

“It was about you.”

“Oh.”

“Was. . . Was yours about me?” He sounds like a five year old. He sounds like a bloody five year old!

You look down at your hands, bundled up in the material of your sleeves, fingers just peeking out over the top. “Yes,” you mumble.

Yoongi's heart skips a beat, even though it really shouldn't, because he knew. He'd sat in class and listened to your retelling of that night under the stars; he wasn't an idiot. He'd written about the exact same thing, for crying out loud.

Nonetheless, his heart thunders because you've just confirmed it. There is no doubt any more. There is no but what if...

Yoongi nods. “Oh.”

You giggle. The noise startles him, and he glances over to see you awkwardly shielding your mouth from view. Yoongi raises a brow, and before he can think better of it, he's reaching forward and plucking your hand back to your side.

It lays in between you both. Yoongi places his hand on the top of it, twists your fingers together. You both just stare at the point of contact, and Yoongi doesn't know if you want anything more, or if this is finally making you realise that Yoongi really isn't the guy for you.

Because he isn't.

“This is so fucked up, you know,” he whispers.

You tilt your head. “What?”

“You shouldn't like me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm . . . like this.” He gestures to himself. “And you're like that. Us being together . . . . Life doesn't work that way for people like us.”

You go quiet. Yoongi doesn't look at you.

Not until you lay your head on his shoulder.

His breath leaves him in a single moment. His fingers tighten round your own. As if the blood from his brain has been completely drained, he lets his head drop on top of yours, and it is there, sitting with you in the garden, that he takes a deep breath, and he starts to realise that maybe not everything is so bad.

Maybe there's a bit more to life than what the future holds.

Maybe Yoongi should spend a little bit more time focusing on who he is now, rather than wasting away with the idea of being something bigger.

----

“So, I don't actually like Modern Arts all that much.”

Yoongi scoffs. It's too early for words right now.

You're laying on his chest this morning, playing mindlessly with the buttons on his cookie pyjama top. He rubs your shoulder with one hand, the other plays with your hair.

“You don't sound surprised,” you continue, but you don't sound surprised that he doesn't sound surprised.

“I'm not,” he replies. “You're not exactly a very stationary individual, love.”

“But I tried this time.” You look up, resting your chin on his sternum. “I quite liked sitting beside you. That was honestly the only reason I was dragging myself out of bed every morning.”

Yoongi presses a kiss to your nose. “I appreciate the company.”

You grunt and go back to playing with his shirt buttons. Yoongi goes back to messing with your hair.

“So what made you come to this painful decision?” he asks.

“I just. . . tried it, and I didn't like it.” You shrug. “Miss Seymour will understand, right? I think she only likes me because I'm going out with her star pupil.”

“I thought you were going out with me.”

“Ha ha.” You look up at him again. “When did you start getting so sarcastic?”

Yoongi simply grins. You poke his gums, just like you always do. He pretends to bite your finger, just like he always does.

You both laugh, and it's the most beautiful noise Yoongi has ever heard in his life. He's created music that has left grown adults in tears. He's listened to orchestras play live. He's listened to the tunes of a piano his entire life, and yet none of that can beat the sound of your laughter ringing in his ear at seven am on a Monday morning.

He should probably be getting ready for school. He really can't be bothered, though.

“What course are you gonna try out next?” Yoongi asks once the laughter has settled.

“Might give English a go. Fall in love with whoever I sit with in that class. Move on. Repeat.”

Yoongi pinches your hips. “Don't even joke.”

You kiss his chin. “Sorry. I had to.”

“Did you, though?”

Your kisses trail up to his lips, and Yoongi hums at the contact. You pull away, grin and say, “Yes,” before you sit up and start getting ready for the day.

Yoongi sighs, watching you pull your spare pair of jeans on – you always leave a set of clothes in Yoongi's wardrobe, just in case you accidentally end up staying the night. This is happening more and more often recently, but neither of you are addressing the issue, because neither of you mind.

“I'll go to one more Modern Arts class today,” you say, struggling to keep upright with only one foot on the ground. “Then I'll talk to Miss Seymour about transferring.”

“Sounds good,” says Yoongi. “Do you want me to stay with you after class?”

You raise a brow. “Do you not want to go to lunch with your friends? It'll only take a few minutes, Yoongi.”

“Exactly. But then you won't be in my class any more. I need to spend as much time with you as possible.”

“I live down the street.”

Yoongi raises a hand. “No arguments.”

You roll your eyes. The sun glares down on your skin. It makes your hair look a little shinier. It makes your smile look a little brighter. It makes Yoongi want to grab you and pull you back under the covers with him.

But he doesn't. He rolls out of bed and joins you in the task of getting dressed. The two of you talk about school and your days plans, and then you decide you're going to come back to his place afterwards, and Yoongi has to stop himself from giggling because you don't even have to ask any more – you just decide you're coming over, and that's it.

He loves it. He loves you.

He thinks back to a few months prior when he was sitting in his room, fretting over a piece of paper that seemed to be the bane of his existence at the time. He remembers wondering what Miss Seymour even saw in the topic of love – back then, it was so stupid to him. It was unfair. He's young, and he's still learning how to control his feelings, and he's still learning how to understand them – and even now, months into this relationship, he still struggles to understand it sometimes.

But now, as he gets dressed beside you, he wonders what took him so long to get those lyrics out. Right now, his feelings seem so obvious. Right now, he can't quite pinpoint why he ever thought love was a bad thing.

221 notes · View notes

unmaskedagain · 5 years ago

Text

Rock Star

I was feeling a bit of writer’s block this morning. So I went through my prompts and found this awesome one. It has a bit of angst.

She lost her friends. The boy she was in love with broke her heart. No one in class apart from Chloe would even speak to her anymore. Lila’s lies had taken root in class, leaving Marinette in the back alone and abandoned. The worst part was that Marinette didn’t even know if she could be friends with any of her classmates again after the truth was exposed. In the effort to cling tighter to the coattails of someone who promised them the world, they had abandoned a childhood friend as if the friendship meant nothing; as if Marinette meant nothing. And as if that wasn’t enough, Akumas were getting stronger every day. Chat Noir was pushier than ever before. Most days it was all too much.

Most days Marinette didn’t want to get out of bed. She rarely smiled anymore. She couldn’t find it in her to design. It was like the life force had been drained from her. It didn’t take long for her parents to notice. However, after weeks of trying, when it became clear that Marinette wasn’t going to talk to them and that she wasn’t getting better, they sent her to a therapist. After they managed to get her to promise to at least try.

Dr. Vanderbilt was a kind woman with greying red hair and a Scottish accent. It took multiple sessions before Marinette started to open up about her problems at school; about feeling overwhelmed. One day after a session, the doctor gave Marinette a notebook.

“What’s this for?” Marinette asked taking the black notebook. The front of it said it had a 1000 pages.

“Whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed, I want you to write.”

“Write what?”

“Whatever you want,” Vanderbilt smiled. “What you’re feeling. Poetry. Songs. Quotes you know. Write a story. Whatever helps you get what you’re feeling out, lessen the load you’re carrying a bit.”

So Marinette did.

It was a struggle at first. She never thought of herself as much of a writer. Then she started writing random quotes she knew. Then Marinette started writing a bit of poetry just to try to express herself in a way she could understand. However, during a particularly troublesome day, when Alya accused her of being lazy and not being a good class president, Marinette resigned her position much to the shock of the class and started writing song lyrics.

One of the recommendation from Vanderbilt was to always stop doing things she didn’t want to do just because it made other people happy; especially if it was at harm to herself.

The doctor made Marinette write 100 times: I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.

Marinette always hated being class president; the stress alone could kill a dozen elephants. She hated doing free commissions so she stopped that too. She hated doing the whole birthday celebrations, when everyone was quick to forget her that year. Or plan parties and fundraisers for trips that class made sure to make clear they didn’t want to her go to or on. So she stopped that too.

It was freeing.

Writing lyrics to songs were freeing. Soon she was writing them during class, lunch, after school, when there a moment of free time when helping out at the bakery.

And Vanderbilt was right. It did help her.

Marinette to smile a lot more. The pep in her step was back. She started hanging out with Chloe and Luka more and more. She made friends with others kids in class. She created a website and started selling custom designs.

One Friday, after school, Marinette found herself in Jagged’s Hotel room with Chloe and Luka. Jagged had asked Marinette to bring his new concert wardrobe that he had commission from her. He had and Clara Nightingale were going on tour together.

After Jagged had reviewed the clothes and approved them, proclaimed each outfit to be, “Rockin!”

Marinette found herself writing a song in her notebook while Luka and Jagged discussed musical influences. Chloe and Penny discussed a potential internships.

She was so invested in writing that she didn’t notice when the talking stopped. Or when Jagged asked her if she wanted Pizza.

Marinette jumped back when a hand suddenly waved in her face. “Wait! What!” She looked around and saw the amused faces of Jagged, Penny, Chloe, and Luka. Even Fang had a long grin on his face.

“What’s this love?” Jagged asked pointing to her notebook. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

The bluenette blushed and tried not to hide her notebook; it would only make them more curious, “Nothing; just a notebook for ideas.” Technically that was true.

“Right on, can I see?” Jagged asked.

Marinette instantly pulled the notebook to her chest and her blushed turned a dark red. She was not going to show a Rock Star the song she wrote. She’d rather die. “Nope! Nah ah, nothing to see here.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, “Yes, because that’s totally what someone with nothing to hide does.” The blond looked at Penny. “She writes song lyrics. They’re pretty good.”

Marinette glared at the blond, “Traitor.”

Luka looked a bit curious. Jagged had a full blown grin on his face, “I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew there was a rocker in you. I had just had to wait a bit, love. Come on. Let me see then! Show Uncle jagged your songs.”

It took about twenty minutes to get Marinette to agree and then another ten to pry the notebook out of her hands. She watched with a pit in her stomach growing bigger and bigger as she watched Luka, Chloe, Jagged, and Penny flip through her notebook. Reading the lyrics that came straight from her heart.

What if they hated them? What if they thought she had no talent? What if they thought she was a freak? What if! What If!

“This is good, mate,” Jagged suddenly said. An impressed look on his face. “These are really good.”

“Told ya,” Chloe said smugly.

Penny nodded, “I wouldn’t mind commissioning some songs from you.”

“I’d like to jam together,” Luka said. “Maybe we can do a duet.”

Jagged suddenly shot up, “Penny! Call the guys. We need a band! Marinette’s gonna sing for us!” He ran for his guitar.

“Marinette’s going to do what now?” Marinette shouted.

Marinette was going to sing.

She sat on a dark brown wooden stool, in front of Jagged’s backup band, with Jagged and Luka on guitar. Chloe and Penny watched in the background. An assistant help up a camera.

Jagged had decided to give Marinette a rockstar makeover; well as much as she would let him. Her hair was pulled back in a faux hawk with a few curls framing her face, her makeup was flawless, her face was painted to look like she had been crying and her mascara had gotten everywhere.

It took a while for Jagged, Luka, and she to work out the music would be good for her songs and what songs she’d use. She decided to let the four: Jagged, Penny, Luka, and Chloe decide on the best ones. Marinette was too bias, she knew.

They had practiced. Everyone assured her she had an amazing voice but Marinette thought they were a bit biased too. They loved her too much to hurt her by saying anything mean.

“Hey fans watching!” Jagged said into the mic. “Today, I got a special guest here. My honorary niece and personal fashion designer; Marinette. She’s written some kick ass songs and agreed to prove that she’s a rockstar like her Uncle. Give her some love!”

Marinette got up and waked to the mic.

The drum beat started slowly. Marinette took a deep breath. The guitars and piano started.

Marinette opened her mouth to sing,

“Someday I won't be afraid of my head

Someday I will not be chained to my bed

Someday I'll forget the day he left

But surely not today.”

The beat picked up a bit.

She fought not to close her eyes as she sang. Instead, she thought of why she wrote the song; all the pain, all the mess going on inside. Her blue eyes got a faraway look to them.

“One day I won't need a PhD

To sit me down and tell me what it all means

Maybe one day it'll be a breeze

But surely not today

But surely not today”

Admitting she was in therapy was hard. Penny comforted her and admitted she went a lot too. Jagged hadn’t been happy when Chloe told the two adults just what was happening in Marinette’s class.

“Oh you don't know what sadness means

'Till you're too sad to fall asleep

One day I'll be snoozing peacefully

But surely not today

Surely not today.”

Marinette voice carried across the room. She let herself get lost in the music. Otherwise, she’d be too panicky over the fact that she more or less admitted to being depressed.

“One day I'll swear the pain will be a blip

I'll have the hardest time recalling it

I'll be the king of misery management

But surely not today.”

This song was a promise to herself. That she would move on. She would get better. Somehow, someway, Marinette would conquer all that she was going through and be better for it.

“One day that song won't make me cry anymore (oh no no)

One day I'll get up off the bathroom floor (hey yeah)

Oh, piece by piece I'll be restored

But surely not today (surely not)

Eh, not today”

Marinette swayed to the music, dancing in place. The other people in the room watched, entranced by her voice.

“oh you don't know what happy means

If it's only in your dreams

I'll be acquainted with my jollities

But surely not today

Yeah, surely not today.”

There were days when Marinette swore she forgot what it meant to be happy; questioned if she had ever been really happy. Or if she had just fooled herself into thinking she was. She knew better now. And Marinette refused to let the dark thoughts win.

“Surely not, surely, surely not

Surely not (surely not today)”

Marinette sang that part softly. She knew she wasn’t going to get completely better right away. But she would… One day.

“One day the thought of him won't hurt the same

Won't need distractions to get through the day

I guess I hope I'm gonna be okay

'Cause I'm not today.”

The song slowly died down. Silence filled the room. Then there were claps and cheers. Jagged’s new manager Harvey Boyd looked ready to wet his pants from excitement.

“Yes!” jagged yelled. “That’s how you do it!”

Marinette blushed again and ran off stage as Luka readied himself to perform. Penny and Chloe both assured her that she had been amazing but Marinette couldn’t stop her heart from racing in her chest.

Chloe helped prepare her for her next song as they watched Luka perform.

He had gotten used to being Solo since Kitty Section kicked him out the band. Luka sang a called, She will be loved. A sad melody that was fit him to a T.

“I don't mind spendin' everyday

Out on your corner in the pourin' rain

Look for the girl with the broken smile

Ask her if she wants to stay awhile

And she will be loved, and she will be loved”

When he was done, once again Harvey Boyd had that hungry look on his face.

Then Jagged performed one of his hits. After that he brought Marinette up on their makeshift stage again.

Marinette didn’t feel any better performing the second time. She’d be singing the song Jagged chose.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh”

The song was definitely more Rock than her last one. And she wrote it most about Adrien, some of it geared toward Alya and the rest of her friends.

“Let's talk this over

It's not like we're dead

Was it something I did?

Was it something you said?”

Marinette had wondered for months what she had wrong. Why it was so easy for them to just ignore her; disregard her, end their friendships.

“Don't leave me hanging

In a city so dead

Held up so high

On such a breakable thread”

They left her alone. Adrien left her alone. She trust them, and just left her.

“You were all the things I thought I knew

And I thought we could be…”

Marinette closed her eyes for just a moment as the beat of the music changed.

You were everything, everything that I wanted

“We were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it

All of the memories, so close to me, just fade away

All this time you were pretending

So much for my happy ending

So much for my happy ending.”

The song went on for a few more minutes. She had let the music as the guitar solo slowly died down. The song was met with applause.

Marinette performed a few more songs, along with Luka. After one of them, Harvey had come directly up to her and Luka and offered to be their manager. Apparently, Jagged’s label had been watching them and wanted to give each of them a record deal. If Penny and Chloe hadn’t been there, both Luka and Marinette wouldn’t fallen her their butts in shock.

Jagged called Boyd away to discuss something.

Luka gripped his guitar so tightly Marinette feared it would break, “That didn’t just happen, did it?”

“Nope,” Marinette shook her head, earnestly. “It’s the fumes from all their hairspray. It must have knocked us out. We’re in coma right now.”

Chloe glared at them. “Oh. Shut. UP! You were amazing. You both were. Marinette you screamed Girl power. And Luka, there’s probably a million girls planning on marry you right now.”

“I have to call my mom!” Luka and Marinette said at the same time.

Her parents were excited about the news. But they made it clear as long as it didn’t interfere with her school work, she could do whatever she wanted. Sabine and Tom were just happy their little girl was back.

Luka said his mom was the safe. School first, hall of fame second.

Jagged pulled Marinette on stage for one last song. The song was chosen by Chloe. It was the song Marinette wrote once she realized she was done. She was done with the drama in class, done with fake friends. Done with game and lies. Done with mean comments and ice cold glares. She was over it. And Marinette didn’t care anymore.

“You wanna play, you wanna stay, you wanna have it all

You started messing with my head until I hit a wall

Maybe I shoulda known, maybe I shoulda known

That you would walk, you would walk out the door.”

Marinette watched Penny smile as she turned on the big fans pointed at her.

Said we were done, you met someone and rubbed it in my face

Cut to the punch, she broke your heart, and then she ran away

I guess you shoulda known, I guess you shoulda known

That I would talk, I would talk

She remembered Alya standing in class renouncing their friendship, and nearly everyone joining her. The look on Lila’s face as she finally fulfilled her promise. Adrien not doing anything, and avoiding contact. He never stood up for her; not once. He blocked her calls, stopped answering her texts, until finally he let Nino and who else in class convince him to end his friendship with Marinette outright.

But when got over the loss, the heartbreak; she decided it was for the best. Marinette didn’t need them. She didn’t want them. Marinette swore she’d never be friends with them again.

“But even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies.”

The fire in Marinette’s eyes caused a few people to step back; including Luka. Then a wide smile spread over her face and

“Oh I really don't care

Even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies

Oh oh I really don't care

Oh oh oh I really don't care?”

When the song ended, everyone cheered.

Jagged grabbed the mic, “Wasn’t she pure Rock and Roll, or what?” He picked up Fang. “What do you think, Fang? You loved it! For those of you who don’t know; this is my pet,” He told the camera. “Totally coolest guy ever. I’d never do anything mainstream like get a cat or anything.” He said with a wink. “For those of you who loved today’s acts; I’ve got some good news. All songs are going to be on itunes. Just look them up! In Addition; my label wants to offer both Luka and Marinette records deals. Who knows, maybe I’ll reach out to Clara about them coming on tour with us; we could use a couple of awesome opening acts.”

Marinette went home with the biggest smile on her face. She didn’t think much what happened. She figured the record deal wouldn’t go anywhere; someone would realize just how lame she was and stop it dead in her tracks. Marinette also figured that Chloe had exaggerated about how many watched; no one wanted to see some Amateur sing, even if it was on Jagged Stone streamed it.

It wasn’t a big deal, Marinette thought when she went to bed, tomorrow no one would even remember her. Still, it was a pretty fun.

By Monday morning, Marinette would learn just how big of deal it really was. Little did she know that, overnight, her song ‘Not Today’ was downloaded over 2 million times? Her song ‘Happy ending’ sold over 3 million. But ‘Really Don’t Care’ broke records. The rest of the songs had had performs sold well too; each selling over a million copies. The world was listening to her music, and she had no clue. Luka did pretty well too; his songs were just trailing after Marinette’s in sells.

Marinette had been helping her parents in the bakery’s kitchen, listening to the radio, when a new song started to play. Marinette turned white as a sheet, “M-Mom! Dad!” She said, her voice trembling.

“What’s up, honey?” Tom asked, worry clear in his eyes.

She pointed at the radio with a shaky hand, “That’s mine.”

“What?” Sabine asked confused.

“That’s mine,” Marinette repeated. “That’s my song!”

Her parents looked even more confused. Until they listened closer to the song and recognized their daughter’s voice.

Sabine dropped the pans she was holding, “You’re on the radio,” She whispered. “You’re on the radio.” She yelled, cheering.

Tom pulled his daughter into a giant bear hug, “My sugarplum’s a Superstar!”

After Marinette’s song

Once, she finished in the bakery, Marinette ran to Chloe’s. When she was let into the penthouse, she rushed to Chloe’s room, and as soon as she saw the blond, she yelled, “I’m on the radio!” And screamed. Chloe screamed with her.

Then Luka called and screamed, “I’m on the radio!” The sound of his mother cheering the background. As far as he was concerned it was the best day of his life. The year had sucked so hard; first his sister became one of Lila’s groupies, then he got kicked out of his own band, he realized he and the girl (Marinette) he had a crush on were better off as friends, and he broke his lucky guitar and had to fork over his savings to buy a new one.

But getting a record deal, being on the radio, nearly made all of it worth it. Luka still really wanted his sister back though.

The three friends spent the rest of the weekend hanging out and being amazed at their luck. Chloe got the internship she was after in the PR department. Thanks to Penny, she’d be Luka and Marinette’s promotor. Or least learning firsthand how everything works.

When Monday morning came, Marinette was still oblivious to just much had changed in so little time… Until she got to school, and some random girl asked for her autograph. Marinette stuttered out a, “Sure.” And signed the girl’s notebook. While she was doing it, four other kids lined up behind her. She signed each one with a smile.

“I really like your song: Not today,” One guy told her. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one that gets that way sometimes.”

Marinette was so touched, she nearly started crying right there. She would’ve if Chloe hadn’t dragged her away, with a hiss about not crying in front on fans.

On the way to class, a few kids stopped and asked her for a picture. She agreed. But when more and more kids tried to get her attention, Marinette, once again, had to be saved by Chloe.

“You are not getting mauled on my watch,” Chloe tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’d never get to work in PR again.”

Marinette giggled. Chloe rolled her eyes with a fund smile.

The smiles died when they reached class. They had gotten there early. Marinette was rarely ever late anymore sense she had lighted her work load. Only a few kid were there. Max, Nathaniel, and Mylene; they all looked at Marinette with wide eyes.

Marinette ignored them as Chloe and she went to their seats. They made light talk and ignored the looks of the other students as more and more arrived. Most didn’t say a word to her; not knowing what to do or say.

When Rose arrived, she immediately rushed over to Marinette, “I love your music. I didn’t know you could sing!” She chirped. “I can’t believe you performed with Jagged Stone. You’re so lucky.”

The bluenette gave the other girl a small smile, “Yeah it was amazing. Luka was great too,” She added. “He’s ecstatic about the record deal. He was so bummed when Kitty Section kicked him out; something about him holding you guys back. Did you guys ever find a new singer and lead guitarist? It’s been months, right?” It was spiteful. It was the meanest thing Marinette had ever done. And they deserved it.

Rose visibly wilted. So did Ivan and Juleka. Every member of Kitty Section regretted kicking Luka out of the band the moment they saw him performing with Jagged Stone; getting the break of a lifetime. And when they heard about a potential record deal… well, let’s say regret didn’t begin to cover it.

“Oh, we’re working on it,” Rose smiled, a big fake smile on her face. “We got a lot of people we’re considering.” The truth was, and it was hard for Kitty section to learn, that most people who had a fraction of Luka’s talent didn’t want to work with a bunch of teenagers. And without Luka there, no one was reminding them to practice or book gigs.

Rose returned to a seat, feeling more bummed than she had when she got to the class. She had been happy for Marinette, and for Luka. But she had so many dreams for Kitty Section and herself that just because she was happy for them, didn’t mean she wasn’t unhappy for herself.

Chloe pulled Marinette back into the conversation, just as the last of the students arrived, “So, once you sign the record deal, are you going to go on tour with Jagged and Clara. Luka said he’s going.”

Marinette frowned. She hadn’t really considered it much. Clara had reached out to her congratulate her on the record deal and tell her how much she loved Marinette’s songs. Clara had hinted hard that she’d love Marinette to come on tour with her. But Marinette didn’t know. Being a rock star wasn’t ever one of her goals in life.

“I still want to design,” Marinette admitted.

Chloe shrugged, “So do that too.” She suddenly gripped Marinette’s arm. “You can wear design your own dress to the Teen Choice Awards, and the MTV music Awards. You can design my dress!”

Marinette laughed, “My song came out like three days ago, and you’re practically writing my acceptance speech; I might not get nominated.”

The blond scoffed, “Oh you’re getting nominated. Do you know how many people downloaded your songs? Records were broken. Even my mother played ‘Really don’t care’ whenever she wants someone to stop talking to her now. Go on tour!”

“I’d need more songs,” Marinette said. “I’ll need to release like an actual album.”

“Penny went through all yours songs, remember?” Chloe said. “She sent me a list of all ones that she think would top the charts. She wants to record, ‘Fight Song’ as soon as you sign with the label. And she swears, ‘I kissed a Girl’ is going make people lose their minds.”

Marinette sent her a smirk, “That song’s half yours remember; we wrote it after you and Kagami got closer.”

“Won’t even hide the body, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloe growled.

Marinette laughed, “Fine! If I go on tour, I want you there with me. I couldn’t do it with you! You’re only one I’d trust me my social media accounts.”

“How could you invite Chloe,” Alya asked hearing the end of the conversation as she arrived just after the bell rang. “I’d be a much better social media influencer than her!”

Chloe raised an eyebrow, “Uh huh, and how’s the traffic for the Ladyblog?” She asked.

Alya flushed with anger. It was bad. They all knew it was bad. Ladyblog had died dramatically after Ladybug vocally for the other press to hear told Alya she didn’t work with reporters who didn’t fact check. “Marinette’s my bestie; I should be going with her.”

Marinette snorted, “Last I check your bestie was Lila. Or don’t you remember ending our friendship?”

“Well, I, uh,” Alya stuttered out. She had completely forgotten disowning the bluenette. She had been so excited when her mother told her friend’s name was trending, thinking she’d see Lila Rossi, only to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng on the top search list of the day. Then she watched the video of her performing, when Jagged mentioned the record deal, Alya lost her mind. Her mind was filled with images of her and Marinette at music awards shows and on tours; movie premieres. It was all going to be amazing.

Except it wasn’t. She and Marinette weren’t friends anymore. A balloon popped inside Alya.

Marinette gave her a sad smile, “What did you think I forgot? Or you must have.”

“The chances of that happening or as likely as Jagged Stone owning a cat,” Chloe smirked as Lila walked into the door. “Or did you forget that part too? Wonder how Lila saved something he never owned?”

To her credit, Lila didn’t bat an eye. “He doesn’t own one now. He must have forgotten the poor thing once he got really famous and they went out of style. I wonder what happened to it.” It was good performance. Lila even got teary eyed.

Still, Lila was met with suspicious looks. The class started to wonder if she was really their golden ticket. Or if the pissed of the real one instead.

“Congratulations, Marinette,” Lila simpered, jealously flaring in her eyes. “Who knew Jagged Stone was your Uncle?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Chloe poked yet another hole in her story. “You said you were oh so very close.”

Marinette smirked, “I had get my rock and roll genes from somewhere.”

#ml fic #ml salt #marinette dupen chang #luka couffaine #chloe bourgeois #Marinette deserves better #adrien salt

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