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enjoythesilentworld · 4 months ago

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Simon's Month - Home (Improvement)

day 30 @youngroyals-events one more to go i could cry

Simon owns a home renovation business with his sister. Wille has recently purchased a fixer-upper.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.3k)

“You have to be nice,” Sara says as they drive down the unassuming backroad, lined with thick vegetation.

Simon scoffs, staring out the window and peeking between the gaps in the trees to get a glimpse of the types of homes around here. That one needs a new roof, but that one's got some good landscaping. ��

“I am nice.”

“You’re nice in a special Simon way. Once someone has had time to get to know you.” Sara puts on the blinker, turning up a gravel street. “There’s a reason I usually bring Ayub with me— Get out and open the gate for me, please.”

Rolling his eyes, Simon climbs out of the car and swings open the simple metal gate, which could really use some oil on the hinges. The fence has a few nearly broken posts, too. If this is what the entrance looks like, he can only imagine the actual house. It must be further up the hill, but it’s way too overgrown for Simon to be able to see anything yet.

Usually, Ayub went with Sara on these consultations, because, allegedly, he's the better at talking to the clients. Apparently it didn’t matter that, technically, Simon was in charge of the construction half of his and Sara’s business. Not that it really bothered Simon. At the end of the day, he trusted Ayub to do the initial walkthrough and markup, allowing Simon to focus on getting everything ready to start the actual construction. Today, though, Ayub is busy, so Simon’s been tagged in.

“I’m just honest,” he says, once back in the car. “You are, too, Sara. That’s why people like you as a designer. Because you'll tell them if their shit is ugly.”

She pulls further up the drive and the house comes into view. That is, if it can even be called a house. Simon barely hears Sara’s response, his mind already flitting through the long, long to-do list that will be required to get this pile of wood back to living standards.

“Yes, but I do it in a nice way. This is Felice’s very good friend, okay? She said he’s great. Don’t make him go back to Felice with a bad review.”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t,” Simon waves her off, stepping out of the car to get a better look at the building. “This place looks like a piece of shit.”

“Hey, that’s my piece of shit you’re talking about.”

Simon turns at the sound of the new voice. In the front doorway of said piece of shit, there’s a tall, handsome man with auburn hair and a crooked smile. It’s quite the paradoxical image, this pretty, clean-cut man walking down the porch steps of such a dirty, overgrown house.

Sara steps up to greet him, apologizing for her brother's snark, while Simon hangs back, still assessing the integrity of the columns holding up the overhang roof. Most of the shingles are in place, at least, and he doesn’t see any sagging that would indicate leakage. Not yet, at least.

“Good to see you again, Wille,” Sara smiles, using that sweet customer-service voice of hers.

“You, too, Sara. Thank you for agreeing to take on this project. I know it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Well,” Simon cuts in without introduction, “she’ll only be able to do her part once we make sure this place won’t blow away in the first storm.”

Wille turns to him and smiles brightly, somehow rivaling even the midmorning sun that shines above them. “You must be Simon.” He extends a hand. “I’m Wille. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Simon takes his hand and shakes it once. They’re bigger than Simon’s, but less calloused. He probably works for some stupid finance company and sits in a fancy ergonomic chair all day, drinking filtered water and fucking off to business lunches with Sweden’s elite.

“Yep. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Shall we take a look inside?”

If Wille’s surprised by Simon’s attitude, he doesn’t show it. He just nods, still smiling like the sun.

Sara hisses at him as Wille leads them inside, telling him to cool it. Simon nods distractedly, but he really can’t be bothered to be nice because he’s already annoyed with this rich kid who’s probably bought this house to fix up and turn into a 20,000kr per night rental.

It’s not as bad inside, thankfully. The remaining yellowed wallpaper is peeling, and there's random trash scattered around, but there are no cracks in the walls or water stains on the ceiling. Wille leads them through, pointing out which rooms are which. The whole tour doesn’t last more than ten minutes as it’s only a two-bed, two-bath. The windows are half-boarded, and there are a few unnecessary walls, and Simon is already itching to get started.

“I want to keep as much of the original structure as possible,” Wille explains when they stop again in the kitchen. He runs a hand over the dusty countertop, looking lovingly around the small, cramped space. “I might want to add an extension in the future, but it’s just me here, so this is definitely plenty of space for now.”

“You’re going to live here?” Simon asks, surprised.

Wille tilts his head at him. “Yes?”

Simon hums, crossing his arms and leaning back on the archway that leads into the living room. “Damn. I would’ve thought you’re more of a city high-rise type. You seem too posh for country living. You know, I don't think take-out drivers come out here. And the nearest Michelin restaurant isn’t for, like, 100 kilometers.”

“Simon!” Sara glares at him.

“It’s okay,” Wille chuckles. “No, I’m not the high rise type. I prefer the quiet of the countryside, and I also prefer to cook my own food. Michelin restaurants are way too overhyped, anyway.”

He’s smirking through his smile and has met Simon’s challenge, and so Simon decides he can let up a bit.

He and Wille spend the next two hours walking through the space again, more slowly this time, while Sara steps outside to make a few calls. She can’t do anything yet, anyway. Not with the house in this state. This part is Simon’s job, his specialty.

“Knocking down this wall will open up the space a lot, especially if you still want to be able to host while in the kitchen. It’ll give you a good view out of the front of the house, too,” Simon rambles, marching through the space and gesturing as he goes. Wille is hot on his heels, nodding along. “I’d put a countertop bar here, though, for some extra seating and to break up the space a bit. We’ll have to rip out all of these cabinets, though. I’ll need to get my plumber out here, too, to check the piping. These old builds are a little iffy sometimes on how well things have held up.”

Simon continues to talk, and endless stream of consciousness and notes about electrical wiring and comments about the state of the hardwood floor. Wille follows him all the way, making notes in a little notebook and asking the occasional question.

They finish just as Sara’s car pulls back up the driveway. Simon hadn’t even realized she’d left.

“I brought lunch,” she tells them, holding up a brown bag. “You two were pretty distracted, so I figured I shouldn’t bother.”

Wille thanks her graciously, and they all sit on the porch together to eat. Simon starts to make notes in his phone, setting reminders to call certain inspectors and logging how many people he’ll need for demo-day.

After lunch, they take a loop around the outside of the house, inspecting the gutters and stonework. Now that the initial tension has faded, he and Wille get distracted a few times by other topics. Simon learns that Wille is actually not an insufferable spoiled brat. In fact, he’s quite nice and quite funny. He keeps up with Simon’s jokes, and when Simon pushes him, he pushes right back.

Simon tells Wille he’ll have to check with his team, but he’s pretty sure most everyone is in between jobs and will be able to start in the next few days. Wille agrees to meet them at the house for the first day of demolition, and Simon and Sara leave for the day.

“You like him,” Sara says once Simon’s back in the car after closing the front gate behind them.

He shrugs, refusing to give her the satisfaction, and casually admits, “He doesn’t totally suck.”

Perhaps, Simon thinks, this renovation job won’t be too bad.

#meet cute kind of but Simon is so sassy #and Wille eats it up #also #my love letter to HGTV #simonmonth2024 #yr fic #wilmon #simon eriksson #intothelight #yr fanfic #all our words were worth it

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bluedalahorse · 2 months ago

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WIP Acrostic Game

I was tagged by @starvalisedham and @gulliblelemon in this cool acrostic game!

Rules: You will be given a word. share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

I was given the words ROYALS and SNOW. Since I have two fics I’m hoping to finish and share this October (for you know, reasons) I decided to assign each word to a fic. The second fic will go under a cut.

For SNOW, I’m using line from L’escarpolette, which is a saraugust future fic of sorts.

Sara zips her raincoat closed, grateful she packed it along with her for this week’s filming excursion.

No matter how many times Sara reshuffles and substitutes words on her touchscreen, she can’t extract the ghosts of old sentiments that might lurk behind them.

On top of a hill stands an ancient tree, black against wet silver sky, branches outstretched like the arms of a spell-casting sorceress. From the thickest branch hangs a swing, as much a stark silhouette as its arboreal mother.

“Want to come along? I wouldn’t mind.”

For ROYALS, I’m using lines from an as-of-yet untitled stedrika fic. This one is also set in the future, but it has a very different tone than the first.

“Right here on the sofa.”

Oh, this was delicious. Stella was pink-cheeked and squirming with shame.

You look so serious. It’s giving I never cheated on a math test by writing equations on my thigh…

A makeup stain on the collar of her blouse she only noticed one subway stop away from work, when it was too late to go home and change.

“Like, for the aesthetic, obviously.” Fredrika takes another moment to think about it. “So… yes.”

Stella didn’t know they made cutesy notepads for kink negotiation, but maybe Fredrika designed this one herself and had it printed custom.

—

And that’s a wrap! I’m doing no-pressure tags for @sflow-er, @peakotp, @margotdanslebois, and @heliza24. Your word, if you choose to do the challenge, is STRING.

#young royals #yr fanfic #wip game #stedrika #sargust #saraugust

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smithdavid6 · 8 months ago

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suprpackaustralia · 1 year ago

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Not sure whether to go with custom hang tags or standard tags? This comprehensive comparison will help you weigh the benefits and drawbacks of each option.

#custom hang tags

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singaprinting · 3 years ago

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Are you impressed with what hang tags can do to your business? Let's dive right into the fun part and that is designing them using the Adobe Spark application tool. Read and check this out!

#Adobe Spark #hang tags #product tags #custom swing tags #swing tags #business #branding #packaging #design #tags #premium tags #labels #custom labels

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paper-n-ashes · 3 years ago

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The Late Shift

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: There’s actually none (I hope). I know. I’m surprised too.

Authors Note: This is so dumb. I’m aware. Look, I’ve been dealing with a horrendous writers block and shattered confidence and I made Paul Sevier gifs to ease my pain. It turned into this. I just wanted to try something a little cute and fluffy to get back into the swing of things. So... here it is.

It was going to be a long night.

Stuck on the Wednesday evening shift for the third time this month, you mindlessly fiddled with the pen in your hand. Twirling it between your fingers, your mind drifted away from the present moment, wondering why your boss seemed to dislike you so much to keep you here past 6pm in the middle of the week. He’d always been adamant this was prime selling time for this boutique suit store, with corporate clients needing to do their shopping outside of normal business hours.

You, however, knew keeping this place open was senseless, barely seeing more than a few unenthusiastic customers in these agonizingly slow stretches. Working on commission also made you all the more bitter about being paid minimum wage to stand behind a counter and doodle sketches of imaginary clients dressed in the outfits you personally tailored. This isn’t where you thought a Bachelor of Arts in Fashion Design would take you, that’s for sure.

“H-hello,” you heard a deep voice quietly greet you, startling you into focus. “Are you busy? I… think I need a little help.”

Eyes flickering up from the notepad, you were sure your pupils blew wide at the sight of the man in front of you. Standing at an imposingly large height, his hair a severely murky shade of black, with honeyed irises shining brightly behind delicate spectacles.

A human personification of tall, dark and handsome. Well, except for the clothes.

The stranger wore the layered combination of a grey tweed jacket and argyle patterned sweater, arranged over a particularly heinous, mustard-coloured button up. While the ensemble made you internally cringe, it gave him an air of intelligence, like the kind that hangs around stuffy, old college professors who have more academic accolades than you have fingers and toes.

“Me?” you coughed out, knowing full well you were the only other person in this tiny little shop. “Uh, yeah. I mean- No, no I’m not busy. What is it you need help with?” Even when you stood, the man towered above you, making you silently begin to calculate the high-numbered measurements you’d need to fit him in something.

“I have an important meeting scheduled for Friday. You know, the type you need to wear a suit to?” Evidently the thought of it made him nervous, as you noticed his cheek twitch slightly, his eyes scanning momentarily at the garments filling the space. “I’m… uh… not so great with clothes.”

Clearly, you chuckled inside your head, holding the word from your tongue. “You want me to pick out something for you?”

He took a defeated breath, his mouth twisting into an awkward yet wonderfully endearing smile. “Would you mind? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble!” you burst, maybe a little too excitedly. “It’s my job!” Bounding out from behind the counter you’d been imprisoned by, you moved directly to the section of classic navy business suits. Slim line. Something to accentuate his well-built frame, rather than hide it away. You had to pause, swivelling back around to the dumbfounded man. “Is price an issue… uh…?”

“Paul,” he answered for you, slowly moving to where you stood. “And… I suppose not. Probably should spend the money on something that will last. If you think it’s a good idea.”

Oh thank god, you mused without showing the relief on your face. He’s not some rich asshole trying to flash his cash. “A good suit can last you five years, if you treat it right.” Your hand reached over to graze one of the deepened blue sleeves of a jacket at your left. “And a classic colour will never go out of style.”

Paul let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I think you’ve already noticed how lacking in style I am…” He glanced to your nametag, murmuring your name with a goofy smirk curling his lips. You’d never seen a grown man, especially not one of this stature, appear so adorable. It was horribly distracting.

“I’m sure you have expertise in other areas,” you stumbled, realizing only when the words came out how offensive they might seem. Yet Paul conceded to your comment, his rumbling laugh making your chest feel tight.

“Debatable,” he shrugged. “I’m just glad I found some qualified personnel to help me in this instance.”

Oh boy. Humble and charming? You were in so much trouble. Surely someone as sweet as this had another waiting for them at home. “I’m sure your partner could help you pick out something nice too.”

“Not an option in my case.”

Shit. Single too. You were truly fucked.

You turned, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat by focusing on finding an outfit that would contain his longer limbs. Plucking out a matching jacket and trouser set, with an ivory, collared button-up, you offered them to Paul, his features having melted into a sweetened look of intrigue. “Go and try these on. There’s a changeroom just behind the counter. See how they feel, and we can go from there.”

He nodded, taking the pieces with both of his large hands and shuffling away to where you’d pointed to. No sooner than the latch had locked were you dashing to where your phone was sitting at the register, flitting out a rushed text message to your favourite co-worker.

There was rustling you heard emanating from the changeroom stall, doing your best to ignore the urge of picturing Paul, a man you’d met only minutes ago, gradually slipping off his clothes to reveal the toned muscles underneath. You grimaced at yourself, shaking your head to banish the imaginations. God this was unprofessional.

Finally, a response lit up on your phone screen.

You laughed softly through your nose, about to type a reply when you heard the lock click open again. The breath in your lungs was stuck as Paul made his way out, the expensive textiles draping over his burly frame in a way that made your whole body tense.

He rustled a hand through his hair, looking up to you while fidgeting with the starchy material stretched over his chest. “Does it look okay?”

After all these years working this job, the enticing novelty of attractive men in well-fitted suits had slowly worn off, especially when most of them treated you with about as much respect as the used gum they spit out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, all those preconceived notions were gone. On Paul, this ensemble instantly became the most captivating thing in the entire universe.

The inside of your mouth flooded with saliva, having to swallow hard before speaking again. “Great… it looks… great.” You did your best to conceal a settling exhale. “What do you think? How does it feel?”

Paul shifted to look at his reflection in the mirror, pupils trailing up and down, flexing his limbs in an attempt to get a proper impression of the new apparel. “It feels really good. Makes me look… sophisticated.” He turned to you, his expression unsure. “Right?”

Your smile was sparkling, nodding to his question. There was a small amount of work to do, noting how in your effort to make sure everything complemented his physique, you’d oversized him. The waistline of the jacket needed to be taken in, the shoulder lines sitting slightly off, and the trouser length needing to be taken up slightly. “A couple of adjustments and it’ll be perfect.”

“You mean taking it to be tailored?”

“No need.” You pulled out the wheel of berry pins from your pocket, kneeling down on the floor next to Paul’s feet. “All our tailoring is included in the price. Done completely in house.” You began to fold the bottom edge of his pants, pinning it to an adequate length. “I can have it ready for you tomorrow, all ready for your Friday meeting.”

“You do all the tailoring yourself?” Paul asked as you slinked another pin through the fabric.

“Sure do,” you chirped, moving onto the other leg. “3 years at a design school taught me a few things about cutting and sewing.” With the hemlines in place, you straightened in front of him, plucking out a roll of measuring tape from your other pocket. “I just… need to take a few measurements to properly alter the jacket.”

His cheek twitched, the line of his jaw seeming somewhat strained. “Sure. F-fine. Do what you gotta do."

You went with determining his arm length first, feeling out the boney point of his shoulder and striping the lined tape all the way down to his wrist. Then, after taking a deep inhale, you curled your arms around his hips, focusing hard on the little black numbers to ignore the fact Paul’s breath had started to skate over your skin with this close proximity. It was when you were lining up the thickened stripes indicating his chest circumference that you made the mistake of peering up, finding his alluring stare fully concentrated on you.

There was a moment. A spark to waiting kindling. Where impulse could have led you to do a dangerous thing. You’d never been the hasty type, never acted without considerable thought. Usually so shy and composed, never making the first move. Although right now, you could scarcely hold yourself back, desperate to know the sensation of Paul’s lips, how they’d move over yours, what they tasted like.

No. This was so inappropriate.

The compulsion was about to wither away when you felt a hand skim up your waist, the lightened touch shooting a thrill over your skin.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice called from your side. “How much are these dress socks?”

You immediately stepped back, smacked into reality again. “$12.99. Exactly what it says on the box.”

The older gentlemen scrutinized the packaging, lids narrowed until he finally saw the numbers plastered at the border. “Oh, right. Eh, a little expensive for my taste. Thanks anyway.”

Flustered, you began to coil the measuring tape into its resting spiral, forcefully glaring at the floor. “I’m all done. You can get dressed into your own clothes now.”

In your periphery you saw Paul regarding you with a gentle nod, walking back into the changeroom without another word. Every part of you wanted to sink beneath the wooden floorboards, so horrendously embarrassed you could feel a smoldering heat prickle at your cheeks. Only to relieve some of the nervous energy, you ran to your phone.

Again, Paul was exiting out of the stall just as you were going to submit your reply, placing the neatly arranged garments over the counter. It was difficult to look directly at him, having to summon all remaining shards of your courage to drift your eyes up to his face. “Was there anything else you needed?”

His mouth parted, only to quickly snap shut, scratching at his hairline in the seconds it took for him to give you a response. “No. Nothing else. Unless there’s something more you think I need.”

You shook your head, wishing you could give another answer just to keep him here. “You’re all set.” The full price of his items flashed on the monitor in front of you, spouting it to him as your fingers flicked across the keyboard to finalize the purchase, with a personal discount that wouldn’t show on the receipt.

“When should I come by to pick it up?” he queried, passing you his credit card. “Oh, but there’s no pressure. Whenever you have the time is just fine.”

An idea flared. “If you give me your number, I can text you when it’s ready.”

“That works for me.”

Erasing all evidence of the conversation you’d been having, you brought up the number pad, handing your phone over. Paul swiftly typed in his details before placing it back in your palm. ‘Paul the Suit Guy’ the contact read, unable to stifle your laugh.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His eager expression made your heart quiver through a beat.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I’ll see you then.”

Paul waved his hand in an awkward flourish to signal his goodbye, eventually moving far enough from your vision for you to finally take a full, relaxed breath. In a dazed hurry, you keyed in your returning message to your co-worker.

It was the precise moment your thumb had pressed into the ‘Send’ button that you realised your recipient wasn’t the one you’d intended.

You’d sent this message straight to Paul.

Fuck. Oh fuck. This was bad.

While you were scrambling to formulate a believable excuse, a new message popped up onto the screen.

Tags for my lovelies who might tolerate this nonsense: @tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @blackberries45 @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynzandtonic @beskarbabs

#paul sevier #paul sevier x reader #paul sevier x female reader #midnight special #adcu #adcu fanfiction

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stickercanada · 1 year ago

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Mothstock Custom Hang Tag Canada

#hang tags #swing tags #canada business cards #custom tags #tags #labels #branding #branding design

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kirisaki-daichi-scenarios · 4 years ago

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the artiste; hanamiya makoto

tags; fashion/modelling industry!au, lowkey sugar daddy!hanamiya, not telling you anything else so you gotta read these 3.8k words now

tw; unhealthy weight loss techniques

note: charon is the dude who carries souls of the deceased across the river styx - the river which connects the earth and the underworld

“Well, aren’t you pretty.”

These are the first words Hanamiya ever directs towards you, raising his champagne glass as you approach, with the same sleazy smile across his lips that you’ve seen on the face of every man who steps into the host club to soak up the atmosphere of women and wine.

“I’m flattered,” you upturn your lips - amiable but not too friendly, ladylike but not cold.

“Not you’re not,” the man’s tone holds none of its previous singsong. In your shock, you lose the smile, “you’re sick and tired of hearing the same words come out of every man’s lips, right? Nor are you particularly subtle with how you looked up at the clock.”

“I apologise-“

“Don’t. I’m not kidding when I say I’m pleased to meet you,” he stretches out his hand, takes yours and shakes it hard, “Makoto, Hanamiya Makoto. And I’m here to be your Charon.”

At first, your conversations with Hanamiya - always at the club, of course, though they grow more frequent, and soon he doesn’t even need to request you either; all the staff know that he’s only got eyes for you - are stilted and stiff. He’s charismatic but you’re not trained to talk to charismatic men.

��I’m not like the others, am I?” Hanamiya chuckles as if savouring his own sense of superiority. “I don’t work with the script your manager tells you to follow. I bet you’ve never told a single one of your customers what you actually think about them. You know, I used to work for a place like this, a common place pimp, picking up pretty girls off the street for the manager - that’s how I know just about everything you’re thinking. I understand more about your profession than you do.”

“What do you do now?” you ask, noting how the discussion is slowly falling into dangerous territory (the manager’s number one rule: never tell the customer anything they can’t just see).

“I’m a fashion designer, producing haute couture gowns for those with too much money to spend.”

It’s only then that you understand why his name sounded so familiar. And maybe Hanamiya sees how your eyes sparkle at the recollection, because the grin slips back onto his lips.

After that, conversations start getting easier. Hanamiya’s still a little too questioning, just a touch too intrusive, but you can’t avoid the questions of a man who dwells in the summit of society, which you could only dream of looking up at as a child. After all, who hasn’t fantasied about walking down the runway, being the object of everyone’s envy, being the centre of all the photos?

And that’s the worst part of Hanamiya - he keeps saying it’s possible, for you.

“It’s your bones,” Hanamiya tells you, running his hand across your cheek, his fingers pressing down gently onto what lies beneath your skin (the manager’s second rule: never let customers touch you in any way vaguely intimate - insist on boundaries). “God made you to be a model.”

Of course, you tell him you’re not interested (you’ve got a comfortable paying job now, and it doesn’t lack in glamour either, entertaining rich old men with pearls on your neck), but, every time he visits, he asks again. And it slowly gets harder to resist how sincerely he squeezes your hand, how authentic his smile has become (no longer do you feel the sensation that he’s inspecting you - he’s a friend now, more than anything), and how this could be your only chance to fulfil those childhood dreams that would have never stood a chance, if not for Hanamiya.

“I need you,” murmurs Hanamiya, staring so intensely into your eyes that it’s like he’s not looking at you at all, “you’re perfect.”

“Why me?”

“There’s this one dress... It’ll only reach its true potential if you’re the one wearing it. Just one show, just a couple steps down the catwalk, that’s all you have to do. If you don’t like it, you can leave the industry the next day.”

You glance around the club you’ve come to call a second home, at its plushy red sofas which look almost blood-coloured, dimly lit by the chandeliers overhead.

“I’m happy here.” Once, that wouldn’t have been a lie.

Hanamiya sits back, but his gaze still doesn’t leave yours. “You enjoy grandeur here, but only in the night. Don’t you want it in the light too?”

That evening, you quit your job.

It’s raining outside. As the two of you rush to his car, parked a little while away, Hanamiya holds his coat over you head.

“I thought your coat was too expensive to get wet!” you laugh, your hands still shaking with the adrenaline of your own rashness, the soles of your shoes slapping against the puddles on the pavement.

“You’re way more expensive, angel,” replies Hanamiya.

In the moment, with his raindrops glittering across his hair, and a boyish smile across his face, you can forget that this man is a multi-millionaire who now owns your future. Right now, he just seems like an ally - maybe even a friend.

“You’ll stay with me for now,” Hanamiya’s saying as he slips his key into the lock of a tall mahogany door, with his face turned away from you, “model apartments, agencies: they’re all shams. It’s tricky business for a newcomer. You’re safest with me.”

You’ve worked long enough in a shady industry to know that it’s never wise to put all your eggs in one basket.

“Why not an agency? Don’t I need someone to represent me?”

“Agencies only exist to take as large a cut of your earnings as they can, and get you in debt - that’s what the apartments they set you up with are for - and then make you reliant on them, so they can keep taking your money. They don’t care about your potential,” the light down the corridor is flickering, casting fleeting shadows over Hanamiya’s form which distort his face as he turns towards you, “not like I do.”

Something in his tone suggests to you that, firstly, you don’t know the first thing about this industry you’re stepping into, and that, secondly, you don’t need to know. You just need to stick with him.

You can trust him (you think).

After all, Hanamiya’s the one who’s responsible for your being a model in one of the biggest fashion events in this half of the year - you, someone with no experience apart from a couple hours practice with an expert (who had only agreed to it, you understood, because they were desperate to work with Hanamiya too). He’s also the one who kept you company during the dress rehearsal, when all the other models were eyeing you, mumbling together from the distance, dressed in their various shades of blacks and greys and purples like a plague about to smother you whole.

“Ignore them, they’re just envious that you’re the star of the show,” Hanamiya whispered, his lip just grazing the top of your ear, before announcing to the room, “work hard, ladies, and maybe, one day, you’ll get to be my favourite instead!”

You had asked him to not make such a big show of it. One of the best parts of working at the host club had been sitting with your fellow hosts at the end of the day, slipping off your high heels to give your feet a rest, gossiping together about that day’s customers. Making friends with these new colleagues of yours, you explained to Hanamiya, was just as important to you. You didn’t want to be the lone wolf; you didn’t want to feel like you were walking down the runway alone.

“Why?” Hanamiya had replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Looking at the mirror before you, you were convinced the other models were glaring at you. “Can’t you cope with the pressure?”

And, now, in the final hour before the first (and potentially last; now it’s so close, you’re starting to realise just how unqualified you are) show of your life, still no one’s talking to you. Even the three people working on you - two on your hair, one of your makeup (in Hanamiya’s words, the star shouldn’t have to worry about anything but the walk ahead) - refuse to speak to you, or even meet your eye in the mirror. Your only option for conversation is Hanamiya, who’s barely interested in you. His eyes keep straying to look over the preparations being performed before him, like a boy studying his ant farm.

“You’re got too much trust in me,” you say to Hanamiya, as your head gets wrenched back by one of the stylists, “I could ruin your whole show.”

“If I thought that,” Hanamiya’s eyes flicker over you, and then return to observing the other models, “I wouldn’t have offered the position to you.”

“I’m no professional model.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Hanamiya’s casual smile slips off his face. He’s displeased. You have to put more trust in his decisions, you remind yourself, as black lipstick and eyeshadows is smudged across your lips and eyelids, giving you the appearance of a banshee.

Around 10 minutes before you’re supposed to go out, you’re helped into the gown you’ll be wearing (the other models have been dashing back and forth to get changed into their next outfits, whereas you just have the one), and hairspray is once again sprayed over the crow’s nest that was once your hair (you look deranged, you think to yourself, but Hanamiya gives a satisfied hum once he sees the stylist’s finished product).

And then, in the final seconds, Hanamiya approaches you - “make me proud” - and pushes you onto the catwalk.

One step in front of the other. Let the satin skirt swing. Don’t move your arms too much. Expose the lace that attaches the sleeves to the skirt, hanging down like great wings of spider’s webs. And keep your arms raised, just slightly. Even when the heaps of black satin, piled across your biceps and forearm, make your muscles burn, keep your arms up. Look confident. But haunted too. Walk slow. Let your hips slip to the side, but don’t overdo it. Not like the other models. Remember, you’re the witch. You’re wearing the dress of the witch. You’re not a model.

You’re the star.

At the end - and it’s curious how long the runway feels whilst you’re on it, and how short it looks when it’s over - the lights dim, and, the minute you’re backstage, high on adrenaline, you race into Hanamiya’s arms. You’re shaking too much to speak, but Hanamiya holds you closely, like you could crumple any minute.

“Good girl,” he purrs, “you did exactly what I told you to.”

And then he tosses you to the side, as he goes out to greet the applause.

-----

You’re not sure how (in the photos, you look like a woman possessed - perhaps you shouldn’t have been concentrating so hard on remembering Hanamiya’s advice) but the show’s a success. More than that, you’re a success. Suddenly, your schedule starts being booked up. There’s magazines interested in this new look, photographers keen on being the ones to represent it, and even the tabloids have been writing about “designer Hanamiya Makoto finds yet another hidden talent!”

“’Another’?” you ask Hanamiya, stretched out underneath his bed’s thin black duvet - he keeps saying he’ll find you your own place to stay, but he’s yet to refer you somewhere, and you’re not sure you’d want to go, even if he did.

“There’s been a couple models in the past that I brought to the industry,” he replies, slipping off a dark grey tie, unbuttoning the top hole of his black shirt, “but none with your potential, angel.”

Your attention returns to the magazine, as you reread the article for the tenth time. There’s something addicting about seeing your name written there, seeing your photo printed into the glossy paper. Over and over, you run your fingers across the ‘truly the star of the show’ printed in Times New Roman, and, every time, the words bring a shiver up your spine. That’s you. You’re the star. You’re Hanamiya’s star.

-----

A few weeks after the show, and your days are spent on booking after booking. Today’s job involves wearing a collection of what Hanamiya deems as ‘funeral dresses’ - long black frocks, not quite ballgowns but clearly not designed for the average grieving mademoiselle. And it’s only the three of you in the studio today: you, the photographer, and Hanamiya.

(You’re not sure why Hanamiya attends all these bookings of yours. He’s a busy man, after all; just organising your schedule seems a lot of work for someone whose main job is focused on something entirely different. The one time you asked him as to how he finds the time, he replied that, “as the artist, I cannot possibly leave you - my muse. Not unless you want me to?” He raised an eyebrow, and you never asked again, knowing very well that you weren’t ready to be separated from his company).

“Hand up a little,” says the photographer now, “no, put it back. The pose isn’t working. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

He approaches you, squints, grins, and begins to adjust the positioning of your legs and torso. His hands slowly slip to your hips - you bite your lip as to not gasp - and then to the inside of your thigh, give your skin a slight squeeze.

And that’s when you slap him. Storm over to Hanamiya.

“Makoto, this man is no photographer,” you retort, filling your voice with rage to hide how your hands are shivering, “he’s a commonplace groping pervert at best.”

“Hush up, angel,” Hanamiya doesn’t even look up from his book, flicks to the next page “the plot twist is coming up.”

Just the three of you in the room, you think once more, frozen to the spot. And then the photographer guides you back to your position, and, though he’s less loose with his hands now, his grin has only grown.

“You’re being paid to be a mannequin,” he says, rubbing his thumb down the side of your torso, as if adjusting how the dress sits on you, “keep that in mind.”

Perhaps it’s due to his book, but, in the corner of the room, Hanamiya’s starting to laugh.

-----

In the evenings, the two of you return to Hanamiya’s apartment together. He cooks - you always offer to, but, in his words, you’re too good for household chores - and then, sat at opposite ends of the mahogany table, you both eat and discuss the day. Even now that he spends most of his day with you (and when you’re not on a booking with him, you’re trapped in his apartment, whose key you’re still yet to receive, not that you mind, of course: there’s plenty of fashion magazines here to entertain you, many of which now include photos of yourself), Hanamiya continues to ask you questions about your life. It’s like nothing has changed since the two of you were chatting together at the host club.

But that’s the pleasant thing about Hanamiya. He’s always so easy to talk to. He never treats you like the man who’s brought you all this success; rather, he treats you like you’re the one who’s enriching his life.

And that’s why, months later, sharing a meal together as per usual, you raise to Hanamiya your concerns as to how you’ve been getting less bookings recently.

“Of course I know you’re busy,” you twist the spaghetti around your fork, “but I’m getting more popular with each passing day. I need to keep up with it.”

“Oh, and that’s my job, is it?”

“You’ve always done it before.”

“Aren’t you getting a bit above your station, angel dearest? If you want more jobs, make a network and find them.” You can tell, from the way Hanamiya’s voice has dropped, from the way he’s placed his wineglass back down on the table, that you’re pushing your luck, “I’m no slave of yours.”

Fighting to keep your voice composed, as you wind the pasta tighter around your fork, you respond, “then at least give me a larger percentage of the payout from my bookings than I’m currently getting.”

“Do you even know what percentage you’re getting right now?”

You don’t. You’ve been relying on Hanamiya to handle the financial side of things; he always said that it made more sense for him to manage the books, since he was the one finding the jobs in the first place.

Your silence is telling and Hanamiya grins, takes a long sip of his wine.

“Just remember, I brought you into this world. It wouldn’t be hard for me to take you back out of it,” he purrs, glancing at how your plate is still full, “and that reminds me. Do be careful with what you’re eating, angel. I wouldn’t want you to lose your edge.”

That evening, you throw up the little of the spaghetti that you had eaten. It’s time for a change, you reprimand yourself. You can’t let yourself fall out of Hanamiya’s favour.

It’s with this in mind that you start swallowing down cotton balls, dipped in juice beforehand, and, as you feel them slide down your throat, you tell yourself that you’re full.

But still, the number of bookings continue to decrease. Those that you do attend are often filled with other models, so you’re just one of the crowd, one of many faceless limbs and torsos. No one speaks to you, even though Hanamiya’s not spending much time with you either. You stand in the queue, waiting for your photo, and, as the photographers criticise your inability to look natural in a pose or to even maintain it - “is your head full of wool, woman? Keep your hand there!” - you think back to your first (only, so far) fashion show. How you were the star of the show. How you’re still the star of the show.

These petty little bookings with their petty little photographers simply don’t understand your potential.

That’s what you’re repeating to yourself during your lunch break, having snuck outside to swallow down another couple cotton balls - this time dipped in chilli oil (if your mouth is burning, you can’t be hungry, right?). The sky glares down at you, painfully bright, as you run your tongue over your lips again and again, feeling the grooves in the flesh, where you’ve bitten into your lips hard enough to make them bleed.

“You’re the girl that did Hanamiya Makoto’s last show, aren’t you?”

“And what if I am?”

The woman, who’s just stepped outside to stand beside you, blows smoke into your face, before inspecting you more closely. She’s tall, and there’s something skeletal in her fingers as she brings the cigarette up to her lips once more.

“He’s losing interest in you, isn’t he?”

“How dare you-“

She glances down at the remaining cotton ball in your palm.

“Just take coke if you want to get skinny,” the woman states, looking you up and down like she’s pitying you, “it’s downright weird to eat cotton. Coke speeds up your metabolism, makes you less hungry too.”

“Coke also gets people addicted, and then killed.”

“In that man’s mind,” she leans back against the wall, as a cloud of grey trickles from her lips, “beauty comes first. So us models who hope to work for him can’t prioritise our futures. You’re not going to last long with your current attitude.”

“What would you know? I bet you’ve never been in one of his shows.” Your words come out tenser that you had wanted them to. “I’m the star of-“

“There’s nothing permanent in this industry,” she lets her cigarette fall to the floor, and grinds it into ashes with the heel of her platform boots, “but I guess you’re still new to the game.”

-----

The booking grows worse throughout the day. As the humidity increases, the photographers’ tempers shorten - and Hanamiya doesn’t look your way when you get yelled at once again. You’re spending even longer stuck in the queues, standing silently, listening to the conversations of the models around you.

One woman glances at you with a smirk, and then tells her companion, “there’s rumours he’s found a new girl, another host club adoptee.”

You don’t have to guess who the ‘he’ is.

So, that evening, when Hanamiya returns late as he has been doing for the past coupe weeks, you confront him. Dressed in the slick black dress he bought you, wearing the diamond necklace he offered you as a birthday present, you pin him between against the wall, the minute he walks through the door.

“You’ve been at the host club, haven’t you? They’re saying you’ve found someone new, that you’re going to replace me!”

Loosening his tie, Hanamiya murmurs, “you’re not my wife, you know, angel.”

“I am the star of your show,” you hiss in response.

Hanamiya pushes your torso away from his, and something about his touch, or perhaps how you haven’t eaten anything substantial since 6am this morning, makes your knees weak. You collapse to the ground, your head slamming against the wall beside his leg.

Slowly, Hanamiya rolls up his sleeves, grabs your chin and pulls it up - hard.

“Don’t tell me this is all you’ve become - a jealous, talentless bitch?” He smiles, but there’s nothing entertained in his eyes. “All my expectations for you, and yet here you are, keeling over like a donkey in a fucking third world country.”

You fight against the pressure of his hand on your chin, but his hold is too strong to go against. “The new collection, “Styx’s Allure’… I’m going to participate in that show, right? Everyone’s talking about it, all the magazines are raving about it; I can’t not be in it.”

“Sure you can,” Hanamiya pulls you back up to your feet, and now it’s you being pressed against the wall, “in fact, I’ll save you the trouble of having to wait to find out. You’re not in it. You can beg all you want, and you still won’t get it. There’s a cute little girl at your old employer’s place; she’s much more suited-“

“I thought you said I’d be the star!” you snarl, overwhelmed with an exhausted rage.

“I thought you’d be capable of being the star,” sighs Hanamiya, running his hands around your neck, like he’s contemplating just how thin it is, just how easy it would be to snap, “but don’t worry, angel, you’re not entirely useless.

Just the other day, I was talking to a taxidermist about you.

You know, some things just don’t reach their true potential in life.”

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bearseokie · 4 years ago

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Working Other Occupations | GOT7

got7 m.list | navi.

Mark: Gas Station Clerk;

knows everyone because his store is so busy

the store has two checkout lines, but his is always the longest

knows the best brands in the stores, constantly recommends them

gets frozen yogurt every day, collects his spoons

never leaves the slushie machine alone, his tongue is always red or blue

hates cleaning the bathrooms

prefers the night shift over the morning shift

blasts music

begs people that buy cigarettes to try quitting by chewing gum

steals energy drinks

pays for people's items when they don't have enough to cover it

smiles at everyone for no reason

found a stray cat behind the store, named it and deemed it the gas station kitty

stands at the counter, refuses to sit down

raps to songs playing while he restocks

runs around the counter to open the door for elders

challenges himself to see how long he can stand in the freezer

befriends the cook that makes hot food so he gets free meals

pumps gas for his friends and elders so he knows they get taken care of

hoodies

Jaebeom: Mechanic;

works on vehicles part time

gets stuck somewhere almost every day. once it was his hand in the exhaust pipe. once his entire body got stuck between the bottom of a truck and the creeper. it was a funny call for help.

wears a black jumpsuit and boots every day, loves that his name is embroidered onto his uniform.

blasts alternative music in the shop

thinks his job is like math

all of his co-workers are buff dudes with tattoos, and he admits he looks out of place

long hair that gets caught in Everything

sits on the creeper and rides it around when he's too lazy to stand up

is actually really good at his job, and has never had a complaint

women stop by to request that "he must look at their car because the check engine is on" but it's just a glitch, he gets their number anyways

always offers to buy food for his co-workers when they've been working long hours

always is on coffee duty

keeps a jar of lollipops for the client’s kids

got pranked by his co-workers once, hopes it never happens again

they asked him to get into a car to check if the steering wheel was even, then they lifted the car. he was in the air, stuck for almost an hour while they worked on it because "it would be a waste of time to bring it back down to let him out", he still appreciates them though

knows a lot of the rich people in the area specifically because he works on their cars

loves working on Ferraris and Lamborghinis

got to drive both to test run them, he was in love

is always covered in grease and oil, smells like them too

rough hands

Jackson: Workout Trainer;

always wears black tank tops

goes into the gym to do his own workout before his client shows up

brings extra water

gets way too excited when his client wants to do another workout

has a personal connection to all of his clients

will treat them to meals and give gifts to support their hard work

all of his fits match

wears insoles for extra support and asks his clients to get them too so they won't be as sore

is naturally loud but is quiet when he works out / when he is watching over a client

real bike rides & hikes

always makes clients start off with the basics, the smallest weights, shorter movements even if they are familiar with the workout / equipment

wears sweat bands like they're actual accessories

messes around from time to time by "running" on the gazelle, skipping on the treadmill, swings from the pull-up bars

acts like he's done more than everyone else when they aren't paying attention

pretends he can't lift a heavy weight when his client tells him they don't know if they can, so they feel inspired to try and be better than him

the best spotter

gets angry at other people in the gym when they are checking out / flirting with his clients, tries to explain that they are focused

protein shakes that smell okay and taste awful but he considers them a necessity

headbands like he's in an 80's workout video

always bouncy and excited, even when he's tired

Jinyoung: Dental Receptionist;

holds his index finger up at people when he's in the middle of something

types very fast

will hang up on you if you're rude to him

is friends with all of the dentist's in the building, and constantly chats with them even if people are waiting for their appointment

dentist still hasn't come back? they're talking to jinyoung

has a jar of mints on his desk, never offers them to anyone

is only nice to kids

bought new toys for the kid's waiting room because the old ones were boring, now none of them make noise but are enough to busy them

will purposely shred important papers just to give people a hard time

hates his desk chair

plays generic stock music in the office

goes through pens like crazy

hates check-in calls to remind people of their appointments, so he doesn't even do them most of the time and just hopes for the best

no insurance? sucks for you now you have a bill in your name

staples aggressively

plays solitare

makes the waiting room freezing while he's perfectly fine

gets up in the middle of someone checking in to walk around doing nothing until he feels like coming back

shows no emotion unless he hears a kid laughing

waves goodbye instead of telling people to have a good day / evening

Youngjae: Librarian;

shushes people that shush others

sneaks up behind people when they are focused

laughs way too loud and bothers everyone

the scanners hate him so much that they will glitch and shut down the entire computer

wears plaid pants and comfy tees, pushed back hair and glasses, never wears his contacts to work

brings his own lunch / snacks but still buys things from the staff room's vending machine

plays music in his earbuds when restocking and reorganizing

puts his own name down for newly released dvds so he gets to watch them first

carries a backpack of random stuff for when he gets bored

doesn't actually like books that much

accidentally sings at full volume to the music in his ears

buys stickers to give to the kids when they check out their books

runs up and down the aisles when no one else is around

recommends the same four books to everyone

writes in his notebook for half of his shift

when the kids get lost from their parents, he holds their hand and lets them hang out with him at his counter while he calls over the intercom

thinks there should be a bigger music section

wears a watch but still stares at the wall clock

bad sleep schedule so he's always dozing off

loves decorating the library with themes

Bambam: Retail Employee;

very sassy

wears brands even his own store doesn't sell

is actually the nicest person ever to work in retail

fingertip length organized racks

perfectly folds Everything because he believes presentation is one of the most important features of anything

will change a mannequin while people are shopping if he hates the fit enough

rants about how more people should thrift clothing instead of buying new things every time because it's better for the environment to recycle and benefits & supports local thrift stores

holds up clothes when people are checking out and compliments their taste

actually enjoys comfy clothing over designer, but will never admit it

takes a whole shift just to choose one pair of shoes to put on display

loves when kids ask his opinion on what they should get

spends his breaks looking over the jewelry section

steals candles

hates when people mess up the t-shirt section because he always has to fix it

electric shopping cart races

always has his long sleeve uniform shirts rolled up to his elbow

has knowledge of the best makeup brands in the store

severe hatred for the low-quality tees with weird quotes on them

loves all of the jeans with rips in them and always recommends them to customers

can make the floors so shiny he sees his own reflection in it

Yugyeom: Roller-Rink Employee;

part time dj, part time employee

puts on his favorite beats and skates around until he has to switch songs

kids try to climb him because he's so tall

has multiple pairs of skates for different days of the week

skates backwards

big shirts and ripped jeans

usually the leader of kid's birthday parties

held one of the parties and became the special guest because all of the girls loved him so much, they made him their prince for the day

loves watching people hold on to the walkers because it's funny

teaches old people how to skate safely by holding onto the edge of the rink

has to make the girls that flock around his booth find another activity to do

aggressively competitive lazer tag player, always gets his vest on first so he gets a head start

drinks monsters like it's water

doesn't buy the food they make inside, just steals it

hates being on rollerskate duty, always has to clean them and restock them properly because the high school kids place them in random spots

dyes his hair a different color every month

thinks the blacklight is the coolest feature of the entire rink

has so many high scores on the old arcade machines that kids cry trying to beat him, he buys them candy so they stop being upset

decorates the dj booth with neon colors

once got stuck putting his arm into the claw machine trying to get a toy that he wanted for himself

#got7 #got7 scenarios #got7 reaction #got7 imagines #got7 au #jackson wang #mark tuan #im jaebeom #choi youngjae #bambam #kim yugyeom #park jinyoung #got7 headcanons #kpop headcanons #kpop au #got7.headcanon

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suprpackaustralia · 1 year ago

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singaprinting · 4 years ago

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ozstickerprinting · 4 years ago

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satoruvt · 5 years ago

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the color of you - green (3)

i feel like in terms of the patterns im tryna leave this chapter wasnt that good but its ok i like it anyways and i hope u do too

pairing → keigo takami x bakery owner!reader

word count → 2072

summary → you’re not really dating, so you can’t really be in love with him… right?

song inspo → xo by eden

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

The grass is so bright.

You don’t know why it looks particularly vibrant today - maybe it’s the sun. It dots the grass under the trees in unusual polygons, the rays lighting up the green in their early-summer light. Your eyes trace the landscape, starting at the ground before moving up. Brown bark of a tree, then the token green of summer again, and finally blue sky. It’s a good day for a walk.

Keigo squeezes your hand gently and you’re moved back to real-time, no longer focused on the colors of the world.

You’re still surprised this is so easy - of all of the things you thought this relationship would be, easy wasn’t one of the words that came to mind. But it is, Keigo makes it easy, somehow. The first few days, you went home every night from hanging out, going on “dates” just to scream into your pillow that it was you with pro-hero Hawks - albeit fake, it was you.

And his publicist was right about you gaining business - the bakery was flourishing more than ever before, supportive fans coming to try their beloved hero’s girlfriend’s pastries. The money you were getting as a positive consequence was enough for you to actually have money leftover after groceries and bills, not to mention the few employees you had were getting paid what they deserved.

“Hey, stop spacing out,” Keigo says, stopping in the pathway. When you turn to him with a raised eyebrow, he’s pouting playfully. “You’re supposed to be focused on me.”

“Oh, right, of course,” you keen, placing a hand over your heart. “I’m so sorry, my love! Forgive my incompetence…”

He grins. “All is forgiven if you agree to sit with me under the mighty oak tree over yonder.”

His medieval speak makes you cringe (though you’re sure yours isn’t any better) but you let him lead you to the tree he had in mind. He sits down at its base, under the shade of its leaves, and you follow. You lay so your head is on his lap, resting on your back.

It’s not a designated date today - Keigo had a day off (a “day off”) and called to see if you had one as well. You didn’t have to be to the bakery until later into the afternoon, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to spend some time with him (after all, he is your boyfriend now).

He’s talking about Endeavor, how the two of them are best friends, but the Number One hero just doesn’t know it yet. You’re not really focusing on his words, because it’s hitting you hard that he’s fucking pretty. It’s not like you hadn’t noticed it before - you were (are?) a fan, you noticed that he was attractive, but Lord, if it doesn’t show in the sunlight right now. With his perfectly-unruly hair, light and intelligent eyes -

“Oh!” Keigo says, looking down at you. “I just remembered. We should take some pictures.”

It takes you a moment to recover. “Uh - for what?”

“Social media.” He pulls out his phone from his pocket, and you sit up from his lap. You’re sure the two of you look pathetic, taking selfies in the middle of a park, but then again, what’s the harm?

Keigo taps on the photo app, turns his phone sideways, and you brush down your hair that’s sticking in a million different directions once you see yourself in the frame. It doesn’t take long - Keigo sends you an impatient look anyways and you tell him to shut up - and you scoot behind him, resting your head on his shoulder cutely.

That’s the first photo, gentle smiles and green grass. The second one involves you kissing his cheek, and the third one something stupid with both of you sticking your tongues out at the camera. Once he sends them to you, you save them to your phone before putting it back into your pocket.

They’re cute pictures, and for a moment it almost seems like the whole thing is real.

The grass is soothing against your skin, but eventually it’s time for you to get back to the bakery.

The walk back to the main entrance of the park is softer from when the two of you came in, conversation more serious than playful (not to say that Keigo doesn’t tease you when the opportunity arises, because he does).

“Are there any big events coming up?” You ask him, swinging your intertwined hands between the two of you. “Like, that we have to go to?”

“Yeah, there’s a hero awards ceremony,” Keigo says, then grimaces slightly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at an awards ceremony before. Or any hero meetings, aside from maybe two.”

“That’s because they suck and take too much energy.”

“Then why are we going to this one? Isn’t it weird for you to suddenly go now?”

“That’s a good question,” Keigo says, and you noticed you’ve reached the front gate. “I’ve got no fucking clue.”

The chuckle that escapes your lips is genuine, and your hand leaves his with a gentle, “I’ll see you later, Kei,” but he pulls you back suddenly. You’re closer than before, and you furrow your brows at him.

“What -”

“There’s some paparazzi behind you,” Keigo says.

Oh.

“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

Oh.

You nod, still reeling from when he pulled you to him, and he leans forward. But wait, why is your heart beating so fast -

Keigo’s lips meet yours in a soft kiss, something only meant to convey feeling to the outside world. It’s innocent, an “I-love-you” kiss, and it takes you half a second to reciprocate. But you do, smiling onto his lips - let’s give ‘em a show, you think to yourself - and he places a hand on your cheek. You cover it with your own, and when he pulls away you lean into his palm on instinct.

“Not gonna lie, hero,” you breathe, “you’re really good at that.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Keigo grins, obviously smug, but you snort.

“Whore.”

“Hey!”

With a laugh, you walk out of the main gate, to the subway station. You can’t help but reminisce about the feeling of Keigo’s lips as you do.

The bakery’s having a slow day by the time you walk in, the inside seats only occupied by a few people. The chatter is quiet, barely there, and it reminds you of mid-spring days, sitting outside with friends to catch up. You head back to the kitchen with a greeting to each of your employees, but you barely get started on some cookie dough when you’re called out to the front of the restaurant.

“Y/N, there’s a delivery person here for you,” one of your employees says, and you sigh, thinking about what to do, given that your hands are covered in flour.

“Can you handle it? It’s probably just this week’s dairy,” you respond, working the dough through your fingers. Your employee shakes his head, and he’s got a small smile on his face.

“It’s not that,” he says. “The guy’s got flowers.”

What?

You furrow your brows - “tell him to wait for a minute” - before washing your hands off, wiping the excess water on your apron. When you walk out to the cash register, sure enough, there’s a man waiting with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“Are you Y/N?” He asks when you get close enough, and you nod. “From Hawks.”

You take the bouquet in your hands and you hear a camera snap as you do. When you turn your head to the noise, none of the customers in the bakery show any signs of it being them, but you’re sure it’s one of Keigo’s fans who heard his name. The delivery guy walks out of the bakery and you roll your eyes, laughing to yourself. There’s a tag tied around the stems and you pull on it to read it.

Couldn’t help but notice how you looked at the flowers earlier, so I got you some of your own. If I don’t see them on the counter the next time I’m at the bakery, we’re gonna have some problems.

The note is signed with a loopy scribble of Keigo’s name, and then a heart. It makes you smile and you take out your phone to send a picture of the tag to him, along with a message that reads “received loud and clear.” He responds quickly; “good, they better be in the best vase you can find.”

“Why are my flowers in a pot?”

You look up from wiping down the counter, brain thoughtlessly telling you to tell whoever it is at the door that the bakery’s closed, but you’re met with a familiar pair of red wings and golden eyes.

You tuck the damp rag into a pocket in your apron, shrugging as Keigo walks closer to the counter. “It’s a bakery, that’s the best vase I can find,” you say, then pout, “besides, it’s rustic, leave it alone.”

He laughs, and you motion for him to follow you back to the kitchen. “So, what brings you here?”

“My flowers.”

You feign offense, draping the back of your hand over your forehead. “Really? Only the flowers? Not to see little old me, your very own girlfriend?”

Keigo hums, dipping his finger into a mostly-empty tub of icing to taste it. “Mm, I take it back. Not the flowers. It was for this kick-ass icing.”

“You like it?” You ask, and he nods, going in for another finger-ful. “You should try the donuts I just made.”

“Holy shit, can I?”

You giggle at his eagerness, then pull out two donuts from the cooling rack nearby. You hand one to Keigo - a classic glazed - before taking your personal favorite off the rack and taking a bite yourself. When Keigo sees you do it, he does too, and you’re immediately overwhelmed in compliments.

“Jesus, Y/N, I think I’m calling it,” he says, mouth full of pastry. “I’m completely in love with you. How the hell did you get this good?”

You feel the flush in your cheeks before it shows, and you shrug, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. “I’ve just always had a thing for baking, I guess,” you murmur, placing your half-eaten donut on the counter as you lean against it. “That’s how I got this whole place started.”

Keigo looks at you funny and you realize you haven’t told him too much about your career, so you keep talking. “I started the bakery, like, right out of high school. I already knew that I wanted to bake my whole life, so I never thought about using my quirk to become a hero or going to college or any of that stuff.”

He nods, finishing off his donut in another few bites. The silence is weird, not being filled, and it feels good to talk to him about this, so you keep going, playing with the hem of your apron out of habit. “I know my parents are super proud of me for starting my own business so young, but… I did it so fast, and I worry that they think I’m gonna do everything at that same speed. It just puts a lot of pressure on me, you know?”

When you look at Keigo again, he’s got a certain look in his eyes, and you don’t know what it is. You realize that he probably didn’t want to hear about all of your fears with having your own business and panic flushes through your veins at the sudden thought.

“Oh, sorry, you probably didn’t wanna hear about all that,” you rush out, and Keigo’s quick to respond.

“No, it’s just…” he pauses, tapping his fingers on the counter once, twice. “You just summed up my entire career.”

It’s your turn to look at him funny, and it’s his turn to tell you his sob story. “I was chosen to be a hero when I was, like, ten or eleven or something, and I started my own agency when I was eighteen. I like being known as the hero with speed, as someone who can get shit done, but… it’s a lot, sometimes.”

He meets your eyes, and you’re very aware of the new understanding the two of you share. There’s something different in the way he looks at you, now.

And it’s good.

#EJKHFJKDF FIRST KISS!!!! FIRST KISS FIRST KISS FIRST KISS -#ANYWASY #im tired its late ajsdhfjks #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia imagine #my hero academia imagine #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha hawks x reader #hawks bnha x reader #x reader #reader insert #imagine #tcoy #the color of you

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Cause Though the Truth May Vary, This Ship Will Carry (Gigi/Nicky) - Campvanjie

AN: Based on the prompt: “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” - “Well, you shouldn’t be saying it then.” A slight AU Gigi/Nicky, little bit of unrequited crushing and a lot of fate, originally posted to my old AO3 account on May 24th, 2020. Edited as well to add non-binary pronouns for Gigi out of drag, as the original used male pronouns. Don’t worry, I’m the original author and only want all of my stories collected under one pen name.

Summary: Nicky and Gigi strike up a friendship online, but just can’t meet until the time’s exactly right.

CW: slight mentions of homophobia.

The sun’s almost setting on an August day when Gigi flicks through the games in their library, bored of sniping enemies from rooftops, set on finding something else that has a competitive mode, kicking underneath the bed to find their headset. It would probably be best to at least try to talk to other people, and maybe even count up all the times people call each other gay without even realizing they’re talking to someone, who’s made sixteen dollars an hour dressing up as a girl and working at the rock climbing wall for all of high school.

There’s gay, and then there’s Gigi Goode; with a closet hanging full of custom couture, not that they’d ever admit to their mom that her work isn’t the worst.

There’s only one player in the team’s group chat, as Gigi adjusts their headset so they can talk into the mic.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hi!”, laughs the voice in his headphones; crackling as Gigi shoots and blows apart a box in the game’s lobby. There’s an accent there he can’t quite place, not that it matters so much, since the guy on the other end easily guides him through the map and even cracks a couple of jokes as one of the other team’s players is booted off a cliff. Maybe he’s Spanish, or Russian, since there are lot of Russian people on the server at this time of almost- night.

They queue for another round, his player’s character stopping next to a poster of one of the girls in the game.

“I like her, do you?”, he asks, and Gigi cringes a little. Straight guys were fucking exhausting, but this was just embarrassing-

“Like, this coat, with the belt like this, makes her waist look like she is a wasp. The insect, not the white people.”, he keeps talking, and Gigi’s eyes widen a little.

“Yeah, I’d buy those boots.”, they joke, hoping that whoever it is, will take it in stride, and he won’t have to listen to someone who’d been cool for the past half an hour, suddenly start losing their mind over how gay that was to say out loud.

“The boots? I want this hair- I want just Mortal Kombat hair but like this color, and maybe instead of a gun I want the scepter, like Sailor Jupiter. You’ve seen that, yes?”

Gigi blinks a couple of times. He’s serious?

“Like, of course. Yeah.”

“She’s a Mugler bitch. Hm, aren’t you?”, the voice teases on the other end; kicking at one of the boxes in the game.

Gigi is silent, as their queue timer runs out, and their team join another game which is already active when they’re dropped in.

“It’s the Hermes winter collection.”

“What?”

“That jacket is a dupe from the Hermes winter collection. You said Mugler-”, Gigi repeats, blasting through a wall in the game.

“Oh- oh you’re saying- this past winter! Of course! Maybe someone on the design team is also a fan?”

“Maybe.”

The two of them finish the round, and Gigi eagerly hits yes; when a little box pops up to add TheNickyDoll to their friends list.

(Gigi adds him back on Discord, too- because they’re probably not taking the Xbox to college, and then, they can send pictures right away.

He’s not a serial killer, and he’s cute.

Gigi can’t help but wonder if Nicky thinks the same of them.)

They slowly knit together in between Gigi’s first semester, and when Nicky moves into a new apartment in the eleventh arrondissement in Paris, and pops a bottle of champagne against his camera on his phone, propped up in his new kitchen. He plays with the zipper on his hoodie, and Gigi still can’t help but be surprised with how simple his wardrobe is.

Gigi spends hours carefully curating their wardrobe, though they supposed in Europe, there were just better pickings.

“Don’t you have friends?”, Gigi jokes, shirtless against the white brick walls of their dorm.

“Everyone will be over later, but I just wanted to do a toast for your timezone. It will be like three am for you when everyone else gets off work.”

“So this is a private party? Well… okay let me get my card.”

“Seriously? Not that kind of party!”

“Didn’t say it was. Congratulations, by the way. I got you something! Well like, I found it, and it’s so you-“

Gigi flicks the camera to face forwards, swinging to a painting hanging in the closet.

“Aw, well you didn’t have to- what the fuck is that?”

“Putin! I painted him in like the eighth grade. My mom was dropping off some stuff last weekend and I can mail him-“

Nicky’s eyebrows shoot up, pots and pans clattering on the other end of the line.

“Bitch, I am trying to not be the victim of a hate crime.”

Gigi laughs a little bit, flipping the camera back to focus on their face.

“I never asked, what do you even do?”

“What?”

“Like you- you have a job right? What’s your job?”

“Ah, I’m working, well I worked at a makeup store, but now I have some contracts, and maybe, you know- this neighborhood is where all the bars and the clubs are. If there’s no work on the runways maybe some will be looking for new girls.”

Gigi’s cheeks run hot for a moment.

“Wait, you- you’re a girl?”, they ask weakly, hoping it won’t absolutely ruin their entire… whatever it is, when you’d rather have a private housewarming alone in bed, than pretend to enjoy the beers that are flowing through the rest of the hall downstairs.

“Only when I’m being paid. Do you know- well, you have to in America you have RuPaul’s show- it’s like that-“

“You do drag? Wait, really?”

“Shhhh.”, he stops them, pressing a finger between his lips. “It’s like, I haven’t got any bookings yet but some of the clubs are interested- some of the parties, too. I can be a bottle girl.”

Gigi simply blinks repeatedly in the screen.

“What- is that too gay? I thought we were both pretty gay.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Hey-“, Gigi keeps the camera on their face, their eyes flicking up towards the naked mannequin resting against the closet door. Most of Gigi’s things were still at home, but there was a black feathered swimsuit they’d been working on- if they took out the waist just a bit-

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Wow, we are getting deep in, Dr Phil.”

“Seriously, what is it?”

“I’m feeling pink recently. Usually just- something simple. Blue. Black. It’s soothing.”

“Black is not a color.”

“Then it’s my favorite not-color.” Nicky pours from the bottle into a flute on her counter. “Get something to drink, come on.”

“Uh-“

“Doesn’t matter what. Come on!”

Gigi reaches for Red Bull, yesterday’s alcohol mixed into it, tangy and stale in the metal can.

“Okay.”

“Pace a Salute!”, Nicky cheers, and they clink their drinks against the camera.

Two months later, there’s a wrapped package on his stoop, covered in foreign postage, wet at the edges like it’s been through- what Americans would call the ringer, the labels so scratched over he can barely make out the return address, when he cuts the cardboard open on his kitchen counter.

If this was that stupid Putin painting, he was deleting Gigi from his entire life-

Inside, is fabric folded in paper, a little cloth ribbon tied around where a card is tucked in.

“I dont know what your actual skin tone is because you need better lights but merry Christmas if it doesn’t fit or doesn’t match sell it on eBay and get better lights”,

Gigi has written, in neat, large letters.

Nicky carefully unfurls the rest of it, and there’s a blue and pink bodysuit inside, accented with green and yellow panels that glitter like the facets of a diamond, and a yellow jacket, the bottom cut off just below the ribs, hemmed in thick stitches so the fabric won’t roll up.

Had Gigi gone and had this made? Or was it off the rack?, he wondered, digging for price tags and labels in the fabric.

Nothing.

Shit.

He fires off a message to Gigi, who is still showing as offline, given it’s probably six in the morning where he is.

14:17

How much is this “gift” you got me? Wtf…

FaceTime me later.

There’s predictably no response, and that night; he paints carefully in the mirror in his bedroom, laying out the little black dress he had chosen for the performance on his bed.

At the very last minute though, it’s that little suit from Gigi that wins out, nude panels sliding over his tights as he shimmies in front of the mirror.

It’s not perfect, but it all looks very nice.

When later comes, Gigi is wearing a red wig with blonde streaks that she runs her long fingers through, winking at the camera.

“My mom’s actually a professional seamstress. It didn’t cost anything, babe.”, she says with a little shrug, a tight yellow dress barely moving around his shoulders. There’s always a party here; and Gigi can’t imagine hating it more, the little college town bigger than he was used to, and yet still- too small for what she really wanted.

“If you want other stuff, I’ll send it. There’s lots of stuff that I don’t really wear anymore and we kind of have the same style. It’s not like anyone can say anything, then they’d have to admit they’ve seen me out in public. Or I could even make you something, I’m bored all the time.”

“Why are you doing this?”, Nicky asks.

“I dunno. It’s not like you’re my competition. You’re my friend.”

19:41

Anyway, I’m dropping out of school, getting a nose job and moving out to LA.

Gigi types out on their phone, underneath the table at their family’s annual thanksgiving dinner.

19:41

Maybe not all at once.

Nicky’s reply comes lightning fast- making Gigi grin.

“Are you seriously getting nudes right now?”, one of their brothers asks, and their mother glares at the both of them over the table.

“I’m getting some new sketches from my atlier in Paris.”, they seethe, glancing back down at the floor. Nicky’s been trying to teach him French, like it’s something that occupies them so that Gigi doesn’t implode; in between sending him links to his favorite shows to watch, and YouTube links to makeup tutorials.

(He still hasn’t figured out if Nicky means it; or if he’s trying to be shady, and just doesn’t know how.)

“Atlier is where you get the clothes made, dumbass. Mom’s sewing room isn’t Paris.”

“Shut up!”

“All of you just stop-”

19:43

It’s a hard time in life in general.

Try not to listen so much to those voices in your head.

Nicky’s text pops up with a loud, mechanical pinging noise, three dots still hovering under the message as Gigi forces looks up from the screen and glowers across the table as they reach for more baby carrots.

19:43

Make mistakes, but not too many, haha. You’ll figure it out.

If it makes you feel a little bit better, I’m moving to San Fran

19:43

What? For real?

Gigi’s nails frantically tap over the screen.

19:45

Yes! I bought a ticket.

And my husband called an immigration lawyer, we’re going to get my green card situation set.

“Lawyer-”, Gigi gasps; and their entire family pauses, glancing over the table at them.

“Jesus Christ. You did it, didn’t you? You got arrested your first semester, and you weren’t even gonna tell us-”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”, they snap, flipping the bird at their oldest brother.

“Well, you shouldn’t be saying it then.”

Their whole table erupts in a discussion Gigi can’t pay any attention to.

19:50

Cool.

That means I get to see you soon.

It’s gonna be great.

They taps ou, and close the app with a smile.

They hadn’t known if Nicky even had a boyfriend, not that it mattered; until it did.

Apparently; he had been married, for almost the whole time they had known each other- a blow Gigi hadn’t quite expected, to leave them as breathless as landing in Los Angeles; the shock not setting in, not in full, anyway- until they are standing in a new apartment, looking down at a menu of instructions on how to set up the wifi in the unit, fingers hovering over everyone in contacts.

They can’t call their mom; not this soon, and their brothers would tell her, and the whole plan would crumble; just like everything had with Nicky; whose calls Gigi had declined for the past solid month; the nights they had spent with their phones propped up behind desks and dressing room mirrors fading into something beyond memory; that they refused to think about any more than they had to, the messages asking if they’re alright answered in curt, short replies.

How could they have been so stupid, thinking that they were talking-talking, teasing that Nicky and they were friends; when Gigi didn’t even know what his real name was.

(Unless it was Nicky?)

Shit.

Gigi waits for their phone to load into the app, and refreshes the friends list a couple of times, until they can see Nicky’s icon at the top, the side of the circle cut through with a little green dot, and taps twice to start a call.

“Hi?”

Nicky’s greeting floats in the air, between a breath and utter silence before Gigi swallows their pride, pressing the phone to the side of their face.

“What do you know about connecting a router to a tower if I live on the…um third floor?”

The line crackles, but soon there’s a tiny, familiar chuckle. “First of all, that is not how you do any of that-”

They talk a little more, every day; in between, Nicky moves to New York and Gigi cuts a tape that they put in the mail with a wink. They’re due for a visit home soon, and carefully proposes- maybe it’s time they meet Nicky. New York isn’t far at all, and a layover would make for a cheaper flight, anyway.

Their plans stack up in hours of calls; and Gigi think they’re almost back to normal. Until, three days before the flight is supposed to leave, there’s a call they had forgotten to wait for, and their fingers hover over the message box below Nicky’s name, vibrating with anxiety and excitement all at once.

09:22

Hey. I had a family thing come up.

Gigi types, and then erases the text, steeling themselves as they taps out another one that makes a little more sense, and doesn’t seem like such a lie.

09:30

I’m so so so so sorry about this

I had some things come up and my trip fell through.

They send this instead, surprised to see Nicky start typing back immediately.

09:35

You’re not going to believe this

I have some work things that started recently and so it would have been really shitty to have a guest over now.

09:35

No way!

09:37

Yeah. :(( But we’re gonna hang out someday, I swear!

09:37

Dont worry! You’re definitely gonna see me.

Real real real soon!

“-Where do I go?”, Gigi asks, pulling at the bottom hem of the ornate jacket she wore, fiddling with the gold telescope in her hands. The lights behind the set burned brightly, making the thicker bottoms of the outfit feel much warmer than he had remembered them being.

“Go to that green square on the ground, and wait there, when you see the little arrow light up, you can enter the Werk Room and then we’ll have you stop inside, get your opening line, and let you see the other girls.”

“Okay.”

He does as he’s told, prancing in and kicking his boots in front of him as the lights move to capture Gigi’s entrance, his head only snapping to the side when given the signal, so he can see the others who are already crowded around the pink tables he’s only dreamed of seeing for so long.

“Holy Shit…Nicky?!”

In reality; Gigi can see far more of the detail of Nicky’s face; of her eyebrows and carefully painted cheeks and lashes, of all the effort that they had only really talked about, his eternal summer tan and the long fringe of black hair that he’s always nudging across his forehead, or slicked against a beanie, gone behind a platinum blonde veneer that’s so much brighter than Gigi has ever seen. She’s thinner, and taller, careful breaths underneath sequinned shoulder pads, knees knocking together as she gasps.

“Gigi!”

Widow and Crystal glance at each other over the pink table.

“Hold up, you guys know each other?”

In the flesh; Gigi is impossibly small, the sharp angles of her face, and the dark brown hair that sticks up in angles which Nicky traces against the white of his pillows in his bedroom on the screen of his phone in the morning, taped underneath a gold-tipped pirate hat, and lush, wavy curls. She looks like a model on the runways where Nicky used to work; so close to him that he can feel Gigi’s breath on the back of his hand, as he tightens his grip around the epaulets on her shoulder.

“Gigi Goode.”, she repeats, and Gigi giggles a little at that.

“The Nicky Doll.”, she laughs, and her voice sounds so much more solid, than it ever has over every crossed wire.

Gigi’s hand swings, squeezing Nicky’s tightly as they swing around the table; like the others who are there don’t matter at all. She rests her head on Nicky’s padded shoulder, cocking it just slightly, waiting there, as Crystal’s eyes flash at the scene before them.

“…and may the best woman win.”, Gigi whispers, only for Nicky to hear.

#rpdr fanfiction #nicky doll #gigi goode #gigi x nicky #pre-ship #fluff #online friends au #s12 #on set fic #queen au #campvanjie #concrit welcome

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