#switch au || sophie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tilly-tilly-2827 · 8 months ago

Text

Light Switch

Synopsis: “Why are you callin’ at 11:30. When you only wanna do me dirty. But I hit right back ‘cause you got that, that yeah,”

The unhinged modern AU of the disfunctional Beneophies; both clearly in a total mess. Or the little Drabble that I can’t get out of my head inspired by the song Light Switch by Charlie Puth.

⚠️ SMUT. SMUT. NSFW. Very darker version of Benedict Bridgerton and Sophie Beckett. Benedict Bridgerton at his worst. Please be warned.

Read in AO3 from here!

Casanova, Casanova, Casanova

Sophie Beckett knew she shouldn’t take the call when the name popped out on the screen at 11:30 in the evening. Just out of the shower, Sophie was ready to curl herself in the sheets, already changed into her cotton checkered pajamas with a mug of mint tea in her hands. Working as a junior editor at the London office of the Whistledown was no easy job, and she knew it was wiser to ignore the call and rest for another hectic day ahead.

But even the inorganic digital letters were enough to make her feel his strong fingers trace the curves of her outline, his heavy breaths muttering her name like a benediction, his heat pressing hotly against her thighs, or even the weight of his thick length on her lips...

“Still up, my love?”

His hoarse deep voice from the speaker sent shivers down her spine, even though it was a muggy summer night in July. A few months earlier, Sophie’s heart would have fluttered at his endearment, but she was more experienced as to know that the same words had been whispered to countless men and women.

“Ben,”

“Be there in five,”

And just like that, Benedict Bridgerton was leaning against the door in the shabby hallway of her tiny studio apartment, with a crooked smile that never failed to make her knees melt.

“Good evening, Ms. Beckett.”

His tone was light and teasing, as always, but Sophie knew immediately that it was one of his desperate days as he grabbed the back of her neck in one swift motion, taking her into a deep, hungry kiss.

Cigarettes and whiskey, Sophie noticed the bitter taste on his lips, the familiar smell on his perfectly tailored jacket, insinuating that he had been in the posh upper-class parties. He was oddly wet and sweaty, adding a musky smell to his usual sandalwood cologne. As his grip on her hair tightened, his nails biting into her skin, she could hear her sanity screaming Don’t, Don’t, Don’t. But she couldn’t bring herself to slam the door in his face; ** his passionate kisses already left her dizzy and breathless, how could she ignore the burning hardness grinding her against her hips, igniting the blazing fire within her that only he could control?

Slamming the door behind him, Benedict pushed her against the wall, skillfully slipping his hands inside her pajamas, one hand pinching the tip of her breasts, the other hand already snaking below her waist. His lips curled into a smirk as he felt the slick mess between her legs when he hadn’t even touched the center of her pleasure.

“Aren’t you as convenient as ever?” Benedict cooed seductively, his hands were already working on the metal buckle of the belt. “Quite flattering when a phone call and a kiss is all it takes,”

“Ben, condoms,” Sophie managed to croak out between breaths and moans as his hands shoved down her pajama bottom and her underwear, both pooling shamelessly at her ankles.

“You’re not on pills?” Benedict stopped, jutting out his chin belligerently.

“I didn’t know that you were coming,”

Benedict cursed under his breath, and Sophie could only stare at him as he went through his pocket; a pack of cigarettes, a silver vintage lighter, and a rumpled fifty-pound note dropped at their feet. At last, he fished the pink wrapper from the bottom of his pocket, and he quickly took his stiffening cock in his hands, giving it several strokes. A wicked part of his mind was demanding to force Sophie to her knees, but all he could think was how he could be buried deep inside her. Immediately.

“Hands on the wall,” Benedict muttered as he rolled down the elastic on his shaft, and Sophie looked at him with her evergreen gaze, the innocence in her eyes making his cock twitch.

“But Ben,”

“You didn’t hear what I said?”

“Ben.”

“Hands.”

Slightly bending herself over against the wall, Sophie could hear Benedict’s animalistic growl as he gripped her hips, setting the tip of his shaft to her entrance. Sophie bit her lips to suppress a scream as Benedict pounded inside her in one quick thrust, tasting the faint taste of blood in her mouth.

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

Despite the brutal pace Benedict had chosen to fuck her, rutting inside her in a merciless rhythm, his voice was achingly soft and tender, her name slipping out of his lips. Sophie could only moan and graze her nails against the wall as Benedict continued his deepest strokes, stretching her to her limits.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this all night,” He rasped, grasping her blond curls in his hand, tugging the golden strands with each thrust. Hot tears filled her eyes as his teeth bit into her shoulders, leaving a hot striking pain on her skin. “All mine,” he growled, bringing his hands to her neck, tightening his grip around her throat. “Mine.”

“No,”

“No?”

“No.”

He winced slightly as Sophie’s nails bit into the back of his palm, a sharp snip on his skin. He quickly dropped his hands, but Sophie gently took his hands to hers, her delicate fingers intertwining with his.

“Like this,”

Sophie’s breathless whisper and the coolness of her fingertips made Benedict dizzy and hazy, more than the whiskey or the champagne he had chugged down a few hours earlier. He pushed deep within her with a new rigor; in an unrelenting grind, again and again. Sophie knew that she was in an utter mess; her whole body trembling and shaking at the burning sensation.

“Ben, please,” Sophie’s plea came out as a desperate sob, and Benedict softened his thrust, relaxing his grip. Finding a the small freckle on the back of her neck, in the brief second, Benedict placed his lips on the exact place, tasting the soft saltiness on her skin. But just at that moment, Sophie gave a small yelp and he felt her tighten around his cock. Benedict’s sanity just shattered into pieces.

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

The sound of their hips snapping, Sophie’s small gasp and cries, and Benedict’s low grunts of her name were the only sounds that echoed through the room.

Sophie knew that he was close to his peak as his hips began to stutter, his breath becoming short and desperate as if he were grasping for air. Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the imprints of her approaching climax as well. Sophie pushed against him, slamming her hand on the musky wall; a desperate bid to achieve her own release, but just as she was about to finish, Benedict throbbed inside her with a low and pathetic groan. Leaving her just on the edge. Sophie could feel his deep heavy breaths behind her neck, his heavy weight leaning against her from her back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as she felt himself soften inside her. She quivered softly as Benedict quickly pulled out, suddenly feeling the coldness of the grey concrete floor on her feet. Tossing the remains in the bin with a practiced hand, Benedict picked up the plastic blue box of baby wipes from the overhead cupboard, passing it to her wordlessly. Sophie bit the corner of her lips, her fingers clenching as she watched Benedict zip himself back in his trousers, fumbling with his black leather belt. Benedict’s ears turned slightly red noticing that she had been staring at him. With a slightly guilty look, he timidly picked up her pajamas from her ankles with two fingers, readjusting her nighttime attire.

“I’ll call you,”

Benedict Bridgeton placed his hand on the doorknob, his right foot already an inch in the hallway, but against her better judgment, against her sanity, Sophie grabbed him by the wrist in the last second.

No, No, No, No. No. No. Terrible idea. Don’t look back. Let him Leave. Walk away. Walk away.

But she wanted him more. She needed him more.

“Stay.”

“Don’t go.”

One of the many wonderful qualities she learned about Benedict Bridgerton was that he was a profound deep sleeper; the complete opposite of herself, the sound of a pin drop could wake Sophie from her shallow sleep. But Benedict Bridgerton could dooze off in the London construction site. The rattling clamor of the morning streets and the ear-splitting sound of her alarm clock weren’t loud enough to wake him from his slumber. But if there was one thing that woke him from his dream, it was when Sophie tried to slip away from his embrace, trying to crawl out of the sheets of her own bed.

“Don’t go, yet,” With his eyes still closed, Benedict would tighten his arms around Sophie’s waist, and she would feel his nose nuzzling her neck. “Just five more minutes, darling.”

“I have to go to work, Ben.” Sophie tried to distract herself from Benedict’s hands which were starting to wander to her very weak places, his hand sliding to cup her breasts. Sophie whimpered as his thumb softly rubbed her nipples, her breath hitched as his other hand teased her folds, gently caressing the center of her pleasure. “Benny, stop. I’m not self-employed like you…”

“But you’re so ready for me,”

Sophie gasped when he dipped his finger into her core, already wet and flooding, as he curled his finger against her most sensitive places. Sophie gripped her cotton sheets, trying to find some release from his agonizing touch.

“Stay.” Benedict purred, deepening his movements from the back, adding another finger, knowing the exact places that would melt her into a puddle, “Come home with me, Sophie.”

But his raspy whispers turned into a pathetic groan as Sophie gave a playful nudge to his heated manhood, just slipping away from his embrace in a brief second. Benedict stared shamelessly at her slender body from the bedsheets, the soft morning light giving a glow to her soft bare skin. Benedict could see the red marks he had left on her skin, a small bite mark on her delicate shoulders, the place he had buried his teeth in. His cock twitched, yet again. But her marks (Or was it his marks?) were quickly hidden as Sophie slipped into an oversized t-shirt, the length just enough to cover her lovely rear. It was his worn-out Star Wars T-shirt, he noticed, the one he had left in her room three months ago. He had stumbled into her flat after a three-week trip to Paris Fashion Week, diving into her bed right from Heathrow airport.

“Can’t you model for me, Sophie?” Benedict asked as Sophie picked up his navy Dior suit from the floor, hanging the jacket on the window rails, and folded his trousers neatly on the chair next to the bed.

“Don’t you have other boys who would do that for you?” Sophie only returned a wry smile, softly shaking her head. Benedict watched as she placed her keys next to the 50-pound note now soothed out on the table.

Keys in the post, don’t forget again, Benedict could almost hear Sophie’s voice in his head.

“Fine, forget about the model. But aren’t you going to help me with this?”

Benedict tore off the sheets, exposing his morning glory in the sunlight.Taking his hardness in his hands, he plumped it several times, grinning as he saw Sophie lick her lips ever so slightly. His load was already leaking, and Benedict was hoping to fill her again, but it would be more lovely to have her lips around his, dipping a thumb in her mouth as she looked up at him with her watery eyes…

“Tempting, but no.” Sophie chuckled, throwing her pair of white lace knickers on the bed, “You’re a big boy, Benny. You can take care of yourself,”

Benedict groaned as Sophie disappeared into the shower. With a pair of knickers in one hand and his gleaming cock in the other, Benedict contemplated for a second, but he dropped everything, rushing after to squeeze himself into Sophie’s tiny bathtub.

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

The unnameable relationship with the up-coming artist Benedict Bridgerton had started almost a year ago, on the day of the Halloween Party hosted by Hasting&Co. She had tagged along with her colleague Eloise Bridgerton, who disappeared in the crowd right after they arrived at the venue. The flashing neon lights, the banging music overhead, the three delicious glasses of champagne, Sophie was enjoying herself so much so that she didn’t care she didn’t know the name of the beautifully handsome man who led her to the dance floor; she didn’t mind when he casually slipped his hands on her waist, or when he gently grinded his hips against hers, or even when his hands cupped her arse over her silver mini-dress. She was even stupid enough to lead him to her shitty one-room apartment, the one just above the Vietnamese restaurant. Too hazy, too impatient to even turn on the lights, the two bodies stumbled onto the mattresses; her old wooden bed frame giving an eerie creak all throughout the night. He had given her the best three orgasms of her life and fucked her senseless that she passed out in his arms, and for the first time in her life, she truly slept deeply, without any disruption at all.

When Sophie ran her fingers across his hair, his soft brown curls looking almost reddish in the warm morning sunlight; that was the moment she realized that the man snoring happily in her bed was the Benedict Bridgerton; the man she had seen in the posts of Whistledown number of times. She did panic, dropping flat on her face from her bed, knocking her forehead on the floor, but it was him who carried her back onto the mattress, sinking her into the sheets yet again. For the next four days, Benedict didn’t even leave her room; luring her in bed every time she got home from work.

“What are we, exactly?” It was the question she should have asked on that very morning, but Sophie was too focused on the sweet sensation Benedict was giving to her, his fingers exploring every bit of her body.

It didn’t take such a long time to realize that Benedict Bridgerton wasn’t exactly, exclusive.

The first time, it was two days after Benedict finally left her flat, (He was in dying need of fresh clothes) Sophie braved the courage to call him, wanting to ask him if he wanted to stop by for some chicken noodle soup.

“Wouldn’t you like a sip?” Sophie nervously repeated those words as she listened to the waiting call. She finally heard a click on the other end, but it was the voice of a woman who had answered, not the rich deep voice of Benedict Bridgerton.

“He’s in the shower now,” Her London cockney accent sounded oddly hoarse and amorous, “I can take your message if you want,” It would have been much easier for Sophie if her words had some malice, but her tone was sweet and gentle, almost soothing as if she had sensed her panic on the other end. Benedict had banged on her door at midnight the very day, leaving her no choice but to open her door, giving him the chance to kiss her senselessly, making her forget all the anger and the sadness that battered her soul.

“I don’t do relationships,” Benedict had guiltily admitted over their morning cup of Earl Grey. “I’ll leave if you want, I really don’t mind if you don’t want any of this,”

Come to think of it, that was the moment Sophie should have walked away. But instead, she had grabbed him by the collar and took her lips to his, slightly tiptoeing to reach the corner of his mouth.

“Stay.” She had murmured on his lips. “Don’t go,”

The second time, was the day of her father’s funeral. It was the third day of December, and Sophie could still feel the shivering wind as she rushed to the chapel, the place she managed to find after intense research on Social Media. But Sophie was kicked out the moment she reached the entrance, her stepmother shrieking and screaming something about fucking bastards and shame to the family name. Still shaken from Aramita’s shrieks or the devastating fact that she would never see her father’s face ever again, Sophie found herself standing on the doorsteps of Benedict’s art studio. With shaking hands, she rang the doorbell, and a beautiful handsome man with soft brown curls appeared at the door. Only dressed in grey sweatpants, he did look puzzled for a second seeing a girl all in black with a bouquet of lilies in her hands, but he seemed to notice her, greeting her with a smile.

“Please, call me Henry,” he introduced himself as he led her to the spacious sitting room, “It’s an honor to meet the muse in person finally,”

But Sophie noticed the panic on Benedict’s face as he appeared in the room, wrapped in a silk green robe. Through the crack of the door, she could see three bare shoulders laid across the bed. Their legs tangling on the white covers.

“You never told me that your new muse would be joining us, Bridgerton,” Henry had smiled over his cup of tea, “I’m sure the others would be delighted as well…”

“Oh. Um. I’m not. I’m just.”

“Henry, she’s not,”

“Not the sharing kind is she?” Henry broke out in an enigmatic smile, “It’s never too late to explore new territories…”

But before Henry could finish his sentence, Sophie had stumbled out from her seat, hastily mumbling something about work and errands. As she sprinted across the rainy streets of London, Benedict had caught her in the wrist, just at the start of the street crossing, grabbing her in a tight grip.

“I can’t just leave you all alone, Sophie,”

Benedict had helped her back to her apartment, and for the first time in the relationship, Benedict only cuddled her on the battered mattress, holding her tight as she sobbed in his arms.

The third time was at the Christmas Party at the London Arts Gallery. Sophie had been given a chance to write an article for the arts division, and she had been running around the venue with a notebook, a camera, and a voice recorder in her hands. Sophie almost dropped her camera when she saw Benedict Bridgerton walz into the gallery with a glamorous lady in his arms, a slightly older lady with gorgeous blond locks dressed in a Chanel vintage dress.

“That’s Lady Tilley Arnold.” A chatty gentleman had whispered to her excitedly seeing how Sophie just stood there with her mouth hanging open. “A patron to a number of up-coming artist in London you see, the London arts scene is entirely based on by her financial sponsorship…”

But, it wasn’t how Benedict kissed Lady Tilley passionately in the lips or how the two danced together beautifully on the dance floor that brought her in shambles. It was when his green eyes met hers, and gave her a casual smile and a little wave. Not even a flinch.

At that moment, Sophie realized that Benedict Bridgerton thought nothing about her.

It was his charm. His smiles. His lovey-dovey eyes. His witty, sarcastic quips. As she observed him from the corner of the gallery, Sophie noticed that he chronically flirted with every single person he passed by, igniting sexual tension in every single conversation.

And Sophie was finally aware of the fact that she was just one of the long list of lovers in Benedict Bridgerton’s life. After the third, Sophie stopped counting, and after three months, Sophie Beckett embraced the term “friends with benefits ” all in one hand. After all, it was nice to have a comfortable warmth in bed, wasn’t it?

Sophie could never reject him when he gave a call at 11:30 in the night, often showing up drunk and wasted, with a faint smell of whiskey and weed, because he gave her what she always craved, a little bit of love and every bit of warmth.

But what further sank her into inner turmoil was when Benedict sometimes gave her more than a little bit of love.

Sometimes, Benedict would stay in her shabby studio apartment for a whole day, preparing a beautiful hand-cooked dinner on the table, after Sophie came home tired and exhausted from work.

“You told me like you like Bolognese,” Benedict would laugh wholeheartedly as Sophie took another helping of the gorgeous tomato sauce.

“Benedict, this is absolutely gorgeous.”

Sometimes, Benedict would come with a bouquet of flowers in her hands, filling the room with the smell of wildflowers and Lilly of the Valleys. Sometimes it would be lilacs, tulips, roses, and hyacinths.

Every once in a while, Benedict would wake up earlier than Sophie, (when she was too exhausted from Benedict’s relentless pursuits) and a perfect morning table would be set before her eyes; the tiny surface filled with tea and omelets, croissants, and fresh strawberries. And Benedict would send her off to work with a gentle kiss.

Then, he wouldn’t contact her for weeks. Sophie would only read the scandalous headlines and see his charming eyes from the Whistledown Gossip posts, often along with beautiful models and actors.

Then, Benedict would call her at 11:30 in the evening, telling her that he would be there in five. Just only to fuck her. And she would let him.

“Are you okay, Sophie?”

Sophie broke from her daze, her stepsister was looking at her worryingly, Posy’s soft hands gently pulling Sophie back to a beautiful summer day in St. James Park. Sophie had forgotten for a second that she had been on an outdoor picnic on her day off; with Posy and her newborn baby, Sophia.

“I’m all right,”

Sophie answered with a smile, cradling her baby in her arms. Little Sophia let out a small giggle as Sophie nuzzled her soft skin with her nose.

“She’s looking more and more like you every time I meet her,”

“Sophie, please don’t change the subject,” Posy grabbed her lightly in the wrist. “It’s not Phillip Cavender, is it?”

“It’s not him, Posy. You know he’s not allowed to contact me…”

“Then why do you have a bruise on your neck?”

Damn. Sophie knew that she should have worn a scarf or a turtle neck, but it was just too hot, and Sophie had tried to cover it up with more puffs and foundations. But of course, Posy would notice, and with Posy’s patient coaxing and her peanut butter sandwich, Sophie ended up spilling out every story she had kept inside herself.

Posy listened to her whole story in silence, but her blue eyes widened and widened as she continued the whole story of her complicated relationship with Benedict Bridgerton.

“Sophie, why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I’m all right, Posy.”

“Sophie Beckett, look me in the eye and tell me that you are completely okay.” Posy tugged on her white shirt, nudging Sophie to turn her head.

“Posy,”

“Look me in the eyes, Sophie.”

“….It’s not like he physically punches me or anything,”

“Oh, Sophie.”

“He doesn’t kick me in the stomach when I can’t wake up from period cramps,”

“Sophie,”

“He cooks chicken soup for me, Posy,” Sophie felt tears coming up to her eyes as she continued her words, “Telling me that it would warm me up,”

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

Posy rubbed her shoulders as Sophie broke down in sobs, perhaps for the first time Posy had seen her in years. Posy took her towel handkerchiefs from her backpack, Sophie accepting it in quivering hands. Posy reached out her arms and took Sophie into a tight embrace.

“I understand that he’s kind and sweet to you, Sophie.” Posy gently said, “But you deserve much much more Sophie. You say that you are all right about the relationship, but it’s hurting you, Sophie. I can see it in your eyes,”

Sophie couldn’t quite reply, overwhelmed with tears and sobs. It took her more than a minute to calm herself down, trying to take deep breaths.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself,” Sophie found herself saying her voice shaking and quivering, “why I keep choosing people who treat me like absolute shit, who treat me like some kind of a toy…”

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” Posy quietly said. “Have you ever watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower?”

“No,”

“When I heard this line in that movie, it opened my mind, Sophie. You remember how Mother and Rosamund treated us.”

Sophie nodded.

“Brush your hair, stop slouching, and pick up your feet, the dress looks terrible on you. Too fat, too chubby. I stopped eating, and then it would be too skinny, too bony….I hated myself, Sophie. I would have killed myself if you weren’t there for me, Sophie.”

Sophie gently took her sister’s hand, rubbing the soft palm. Their childhood memories were still fresh and painful, she knew how they both struggled to even talk about them.

“But when I left home, I noticed that I wasn’t ugly or unattractive as I believed myself to be, and I…I actually liked myself, more than I had ever imagined.”

“You’re beautiful, Posy.”

Posy smiled, tilting her head to Sophie’s shoulders.

“And then I met Hugh, and he has given me so much love that I never thought I would experience. And I’ve never felt so happier than any moment of my life.” Posy stroked her baby’s hair, the same anglic curls as Hugh’s. “And you deserve to be happy too, Sophie. I just want you to be happier,”

The scenery in front of Sophie suddenly became misty yet again.

“You are the most beautiful, and the kindest person that I have ever met, Sophie,” Posy looked into her eyes, and Sophie could feel tears running down her cheeks, “Do you know why I named my daughter after you? I wanted her to be a kind, compassionate soul, just like you.”

“You need to take care of yourself more, Sophie. Because You deserve much much more,”

Sophie let herself cry in her sister’s arms again, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing away about everything, everything, and everything.

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

Benedict tapped on the door at 11:35, it was close to midnight, but he knew that Sophie would be awake. She hadn’t answered his call, but he knew she would be there; perhaps curled up in the bed with a novel in hand.

Benedict kept taping, kept taping, and kept taping, but there was no answer. He was gradually becoming impatient, his knocks changing into slams and bangs; his knuckles becoming more crimson every second.

“KEEP IT DOWN, will’ ya?”

A man in a shabby robe appeared from the other side of the hallway, rubbing his red swollen eyes. Benedict took a step back seeing a baseball bat in his right hand, a slight panic creeping up to his spine.

“I’m incredibly sorry to disturb you so late at night,” He sputtered, fidgeting his hands nervously, “I was trying to contact a friend, and I was worried because she wasn’t answering my calls or anything…”

“You’re the boyfriend?”

“Pardon?”

“Small, green eyes, curly hair?”

“Yes, yes.” He gritted his teeth. God, the man was telling him nothing, couldn’t he tell that he was worried about her? “My girlfriend might be unconscious inside here, would you mind contacting the landlord for me…”

“Get out.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me, get the fuck out of this building.”

“But,”

“GET OUT!”

Benedict was chased down the stairs of the apartment, the man violently waving the metal baseball bat at him. He was lucky that he wasn’t hurt at all, but the disdain in the man’s eyes made him shudder. He didn’t see him as a stalker did he? He was just there because he was worried, it wasn’t as if he was chasing her down or anything….

Benedict again visited her apartment the next morning, carefully avoiding the man in the robe, but there was no answer. Benedict spent the whole day on the window table of the Vietnamese restaurant, ordering something off the menu every hour, (He called Colin for endorsement, and he happily ate away seven Goi cuons, a plate of Banh Khots, and two helpings of seafood Pho.) Benedict stayed there until the Waiter tapped him on the shoulder, telling him it was time to close shop.

“Do you happen to know Ms. Beckett?” Benedict asked the waitress in the cashier, knowing that it was a useless endeavor. And just as he thought, the woman only returned a puzzled look.

“Um, she’s about this high, green eyes, beautiful curls? Named Sophie Beckett?”

“Oh, Sophie!”

Benedict felt his heart leap as the Waitress’s lips widened in a smile, “Such a precious girl, isn’t she? She would always help me out with the cleaning on Friday nights…”

“She still lives upstairs, doesn’t she?”

“Haven’t you heard?” The Waitress tilted her head, “She moved out several weeks ago, said something about moving in with her stepsister or something…”

“Oh,”

“Pity, isn’t it?” The waitress continued, “Not only did we lose a precious customer, we lost a tutor for my boy, she was looking after SAT studies every Sunday…”

“Why are you so obsessed with her?” Colin asked while munching on some leftover Banh mi, as the two walked down the streets of London. Colin had been crashing on the couch of Benedict’s Georgian Townhouse, a three-week stay between his travels. Benedict ignored his question, not in the mood to respond to his brother’s inquiry. After all, he had been completely rejected by Sophie Beckett. “Never seen you chase after one girl, brother. I thought she was just one of your girls.”

Benedict sighed. Colin’s words were true; Sophie Beckett was just one of the names he would call when he needed a quick lay. But she was different; he had to admit, he didn’t have to care about being witty or debonair in front of her, he could drop his so-called “charismatic” artistic persona. She didn’t seem to mind even if he was drunk or miserable or entirely messed up; Any state he was, she would welcome him with open arms.

Deep in his heart, he knew he was taking advantage of her fathomless kindness. He also knew she wanted more from him; a committed relationship, a monogamy. But he had lived the majority of his adulthood wandering around in countless beds, and he didn’t exactly want to change his hedonic habits for just one simple girl.

“I understand,” Sophie had smiled over her morning cup of Earl Grey, but he had noticed that her fingers flinched for just a second, “I’ve seen too many broken relationships, too.” and Benedict didn’t dare to say that was not the reason.

Once, he had seen his rose bouquet abandoned in the outside bin. Just when he had stepped outside for a smoke, at the backdoor of the Vietnamese restaurant. The red petals crumbled with leftovers and paper napkins, the one he had given two nights before.

But she never scolded him for sleeping around, never rejected him when he tapped on her door. Taking in all the irritation, the insecurities, or the stress he thrust inside her.

Just one simple girl. Wasn’t that what she was?

“I have to find her, Colin.”

But she’s just a simple girl,

“I need her, Colin,”

But she’s just a girl,

But Sophie Beckett was always there for him, as if she were made for him; accepting him for as he truly was. Giving him comfort, the love, giving herself, no matter what. But what had he done in return? Some flowers, some handmade dishes? Hasn’t he exploited her to the limit?

“You’ve been doing very well, Mr. Bridgerton.” His physiologist had a surprised look at his last appointment, “A whole year off from drugs; astonishing achievement…”

It was because of her. She had been his medicine, his remedy, his pills.

“Bro, shouldn’t you take no as a no?”

“Yes, no, yes.” Benedict stuttered, “But, god, I owe her thousands of apologies,”

“If you are so desperate to find her, why don’t you contact the stepsister? If you cut off the other ladies and beg on your knees, she might change her mind,”

“I didn’t know that she had a step-sister,”

“That is a terrible red flag, Brother.” Colin scrunched his nose. “Where is she from? Maybe she’s back at her hometown…”

“She’s from the countryside,”

“AND THAT’S THE ONLY THING YOU KNOW?” Colin dropped the half-eaten Banh mi on the pavement. “God, I knew you like to keep it casual, but I didn’t know that you were that casual,”

“Well, I know her favorite color is green and she loves Lilly of the Vallys…”

“And is that information going to help you find her?”

“…No.” Benedict couldn’t quite look into his brother’s eyes.

“Perhaps you could contact her workplace. Where did she say that she worked?”

“She works as a junior editor,”

“At where?”

“I actually don’t know.”

Colin smacked him in the head.

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

Sophie walked through the art gallery, carefully stopping at each picture, and observing the intricate details of each color and strokes. Ever since she moved to Wilshire and got a job in the local bookstore, it became a regular habit to visit every once in a while for the new exhibition. She found it soothing, walking in silence all alone, exploring the places each piece took her; almost as if she were navigating through the minds of other hundreds of people.

But Sophie stopped, or quite frankly, she had to stop.

It’s not every day you see a painting of yourself, is it?

It was a portrait of her, an oil painting of about a notebook size. She recognized her blond curls, her green eyes, but it was the clothes the girl was wearing that first caught her eyes; the worned out Stars Wars T-shirt she threw out in the bin two years ago.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing in front of the portrait. But she couldn’t help noticing how he managed to capture every bit of her in one painting, her messy morning curls, her scruched eyebrows, every curve of her body…

As she glanced at the description on the left corner, Sophie stopped breathing, the heat coming up to her cheeks,

Benedict Bridgerton; Love on my Life;

“Sophie?”

Sophie recognized his deep, soft voice, but she didn’t dare to look back. Even after two years, his voice didn’t fail to make her knees feel weak, bringing the same shivers she felt every time he called him. His sweet lips on hers. His hands everywhere.

Same, same, same, all over again.

Sophie knew that if she looked back, she would fall in love all over again, repeat the same mistakes, two years of intense therapy all in waste. Sophie closed to eyes, but she could hear his footsteps approaching, gradually, but hesitantly. Sandalwood and soap, she recognized, but she noticed the absence of the alcohol and cigarettes. But still, she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes.

But her heart leaped, and her stomach fluttered with just his presence, just like when they first met.

“Give me one more chance, Sophie,”

“Give me a chance to love you again,”

#writer's notes

"We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist,"

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #benophie #sophie beckett #benedict x sophie #benophie fics #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #smut

49 notes · View notes

juchily · 3 months ago

Text

isekai fix-it au part 1

A/n: switches from third to first person, all gender friendly (no pronouns) but presumed fem because reader joins the team, other than that all people friendly (unless you don't like Chappell Roan's music and hate the idea of being born in Chicago to the point you won't read something where its just like that...), angst at the end, a lot of existential philosophical thoughts

Sorry, but if *I* got sent into the 1990s I would literally steal Femininomenon because that shit is gasssss this is the only pop song I can have on repeat forever not even Joyride compares i fear

One second reader was in their home town of Chicago at the Lollapalooza Chappell Roan set, circa, and next thing they know they're in an oddly highly populated mall listening to the low hum Madonna through upheld speakers

Odd, very much odd. What's odder, they think they might have just seen their favorite sapphic cannibalistic TV show protags

The spritz of water coming from the water fountain in front of them lowers with the pressure of the nice looking decoration and, yep, that looks like the shaggy bleached wolf-cut of Natalie "something catholic middle name" Scatorccio

Oh my fucking god. That's defiantly the constantly mewing face of Sophie Thatcher. *Wow*. They quickly ask themselves in their noggin, 'what harm would it be if I *just* asked if they were friends of dorothy...?' feeling the silent creep of desperation creep up in their warming with flush hands

oh God, they must be staring—

wait they have so many questions, first of all, what's going on?! Is this real? Would real mean canon compliant? What's even going on, are they dreaming? Are they hallucinating? Is life a simulation and it got fucked up to finally failed and Yellowjackets is reality??? To much thoughts, too little time— if this is in any way real, do this mean Lottie 's hallucination was based off of this?

They can't confirm at all since they have half the head to look away, what could be worse than to have the very real looking Yellowjackets look at *you* as if you're a weird starer and not an omniscient not-god?

You smell some fresh ass Auntie Anne's and your stomach rumbles from the shitty concert food you bagged in... your world (would be the term I guess) but then you think more about it and realize your money and pocket change are probably dated for a date that has yet to happen which will definitely bring up some questions and problems with getting the pretzels.

After the initial excitement they sort of wander around Wiskayok, it's far different than Chicago, although you figure that's because it's in the northern part of New Jersey, the south side is probably the more Chicago-ee part

Really it was just a bunch of walking, you explored the very much fictional but now real Wiskayok, and really it left you with a lot of time to ponder (read: overthink)

By nightfall you were, yes you guessed right, still in this damn town, and you were starting to get worried about not returning home, because you don't know what's going on, but if we humour the situation as an isekai, does time work the same? If you spend a day here does it equal two years in your world?

You could feel yourself getting a headache at the thought(s), you she already wandered around the overwhelmingly small town and checked out the school at a reasonable distance, you think you spotted the trailer park where Van and Nat live

You settle in the library for a bit, thinking 'fuck it, I don't have anything better to do, maybe I can get some sort of idea about what's really going on', and next thing you know you're looking at a calendar reading February 3rd, 1997. Yeah, very much not 2024...

But this peaks your interest, obviously the crash hasn't happened since you saw the girls together eating Chinese food at the mall, but you're here about four or five months before the plane crashed. And a little seedling sprouts in your little head

But still, nighttime fully arised and you were locked out of the library. And you don't exactly know where to go, it's not like you have a place to go. So you find a nice bench near a fairly shaggy side of the town— cracked, chipped sidewalks, weeds growing out of the sides and heeps of uneven dirt and stray cigarette butts littering the crevice where the sidewalk and the grass (if you could even call it that) meet, and you can distantly see the trailer park about a block or two down to the left– huddling up in a bean against the shitty metal arm

Hey bright side, at least you're sleeping on a bench during an age where they didn't sleep proof/devoid benches of their damn purpose

Of course unbeknownst to you in your shitty but albeit deep sleep, a certain red head on her way home in her worn green pickup truck driving home from a hookup with a certain curly haired girl noticed you, just a glance and yeah, okay young homeless person on that bench

When you woke up, you found yourself with a sore back met with pollen straight to the nose. Very much not your time

Okay... Well there's no way this is real right?

And so for two more days you wandered around town, slept on the bench, scrambled quick scraps of food either from the local food bank, one of the various churches, or by doing an odd job for a diner

And then it sort of settled in on you. Is this *permanent?* Uh... What the fuck are you supposed to do? This feels *very* real

You don't really know what else to do, at some point you happen to take a walk and pass by the school right when soccer practice is happening, and you have to say that no TV screen could compare to the sight

I mean, you didn't really have much going for you back 'home' so to say, no partner, no job, no hobbies you actually stuck to, no sports, nada zilch zam, it was school, go home, and sleep. That was your routine

So with a sign you figured if this might be long term you should try and conjure up a fake identity and apply to the school, which wouldn't be the easiest thing to do, but what's the harm in it? At least then you have something to do

About a dozen and a half library books later and a few very interesting conversations you were applying to Wiskayok Public School under the guisse of being a foreign exchange student (God bless your basic French and/or Spanish skills), telling them that your papers had yet to come in and switch to the American database (suspend your disbelief, damnit)

And so you found yourself taking Calculus again despite having that in the real world during your first semester, so you did well

But anyways, you had a class with aforementioned redhead. So Van was most interested when the homeless person is suddenly in the school, more so that they're a foreign exchange student

Even more weird, apparently Taissa (her hookup who Van of course is starting to have more than just hookup feelings for), saw the same damn homeless person with a pile of books at the library. Soccer, survival, psychology, health and wellness, the Dutch Famine of WW2 for some reason? So wow, they must have so many hobbies!

More interestingly so was when this same person (still sleeping on that bench as far as Van is sure) is applying for tryouts on the team. Late. Like, months late. But, with a hot headed attitude and determination, and surprisingly quick thinking skills with both their head and feet, they managed to impress the coach.

States comes around and for *some* reason this homeless person (to Van that is, no one else knows they're technically homeless) is... bombing? No one wants to accuse them of intentionally trying to make the team lose (besides maybe Tai...) but like... They slide tackled Jackie when she had the ball?

And sure one of the opposing team were close too, maybe they just overshot trying to go for the opposing player, but they've seen you play better than that.

Things happen and at some point you get benched by Coach Martinez and you have the absolutely worse panic attack of your life, you don't know what to do, you planned to just make the team lose states so that they never board the plane in the first place

But what are you supposed to do benched? And so you can't bring yourself to watch on the bench, walking to the locker rooms with tunnel vision and a bp that borderlines the beginning of hypertension.

You slide down against your locker that's in the corner of the room, knees to your chest and arms wrapping around your head as you try to stabilize your breath and shaky thoughts.

What now, what do you do? This is permanent is it not? Are you ever going home?

Your heart is beating up your spine, you can feel it in your chest, your throat, your head and it feels like your skull will split in two and you just want to scream and shout because what can you do now?

Do you go on that plane? Do you suffer too? What do you do? What can you do what can you do what can you do?

You put this pressure on yourself in the first place and yet you can't relieve it. Tears of frustration and horror fill your eyes and your body shakes with silent, utmost quiet sobs that make no sound but shake your shoulders.

And you hear the cheering outside and you know the Yellowjackets won.

Maybe you should have just busted Jackie's kneecaps so she couldn't play

But then maybe Shauna would have taken over and made the winning goal.

Or Taissa would have tackled a player on the opposing team and stolen the ball and made a pass to Nat so she could make the winning goal.

To many questions, too many variables, infinite situations. It's not something a finite being can predict or control.

You wipe your eyes, pulling your way out of the locker rooms to sneak away before they come into the locker room.

@kings-paintbrush @rougeclasslover @acidthecorvid

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets #fix it au #light angst #van palmer x reader #taissa turner x reader #natalie scatorccio x reader #lottie matthews x reader #jackie taylor #Isekai

27 notes · View notes

jisokai · 18 days ago

Text

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 2: veiled by the daytime sky.

sero hanta x reader ch 2/6 | 11.4k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: slight spoilers for the war arc/fights if you squint notes: ch songs are birds of a feather by billie eilish, saltwater room by owl city

you watch the circus performance of a lifetime.

✰.

"It's all so familiar yet I know I've never been here before. I feel so at home."

-Sophie, from Howl's Moving Castle

You wake up in your own home.

Despite the excitement and thrill of the night, the buzzing through your body came to a halt when your dance with the stranger ended. You tried, gave a valiant effort to continue, but your heart felt heavy. You were missing something—a partner. In an attempt to sooth your melodrama, you purchased another round of taiyaki, hoping to suffocate your delusions with the fluff of pastry and dense red bean paste. When that failed, all you felt was the pull to be home, comfortable in your bed. You heeded Chiara’s offer and took the metro home, ignoring that you’d have to get your garment bag and box in the future regardless. Then you took the train back, showered your fastest shower, and laid in bed curled around your precious book, fingers threading through the pages. It felt more real, somehow, after running into that man.

You turn over in your bed, squinting at the morning light crawling through the room. You blink a couple times, trying to smear your vision to clarity as you notice the grey of the sky. When your focus sharpens, you catch light tufts of snow gently falling.

It’s enough to have you leaping out of bed, hopping and stumbling as you untangle the giant comforter from your legs. When you free yourself you run across the room, planting your hands on the windowsill and pressing your face against the glass. Joy blooms in your chest, watching puffy whiteness cling to the pavement and grass.

You think today will be incredible.

It’s also a working day, you decide, to spend your morning on the start of your next order: another opera gown. You make your breakfast unhurried before slipping on a coat and into the garage. The door to the driveway opens with its usual squeaky greeting, and you step outside with a smile. Your hands raise, outstretched to the sky to catch the softly falling snow. You tilt your head upwards, scrunching your nose when a bundle of flakes lands on the tip.

It takes a while for you to start working, first pulling out sketches from the meeting with your client. You spread them across your work table, shoving unnecessary ones aside, some of them falling to the ground. Next you scan them for the measurements you jotted down, outlined with a bright yellow square. Notes for colors and textures are scribbled underneath, with a crude sketch of lace swirls. You rummage through your rolls and scraps and samples, looking for fabrics that match best. You take a picture of three similar options, asking your client for her preference. You set an alarm before switching off your phone and pulling out the dress pattern, to start on the bust.

You work steadily, taking your time to cut and pin swathes of sapphire blue. Next you sew, listening to the comforting hum of the bouncing needle, your hands gliding smoothly beside it. These movements are technical, practiced, running on muscle memory. You are another type of sewing machine, one that measures and cuts and hems, one that will later embroider and meticulously weave details into the fabric—but you are still another machine, in the end.

It’s easier to work on autopilot somedays, like today, when you’re still trying to grasp that your last project came to an end. You have different fabric in your hands—no longer fiery red and blood-maroon. You’re cradling a different story, a new client, a new destination. But you work as per usual, going through the same motions, the same patterns, the same focused, uninterrupted state of concentration.

The air is chilly, biting against your hands and seeping through your jacket. But you leave the garage door open, soaking in the light diffused through clouds, the crispness of winter flavoring your work. Stray flurries breeze into the room, greeting you for a moment before they unravel into small puddles on the concrete.

A soft smile sits on your face as your mind wanders. You love winter, the coldness initially foreign and villainous when you arrived in Italy. You’re used to the tropics of Costa Rica—hot, humid air and black sand beaches, crystal blue water with the warmth of a hug. You hated these wet winters and the dry heat of Milan summers, how they deepen your ache to go home. But you’ve come to love the new layers of your seasons, the arrival of one always blooming excitement for the next.

But your hands go numb, and you have to close the door.

The alarm sounds, pulling you from the depths of your focus. The last piece of fabric slides through the needle before you lift your foot from the pedal, to halt the machine. You swipe your thumb to end the alarm before briefly scrolling through your notifications. Your client responded with her preference: a thin and lacy fabric, the one you’re almost out of. You make a note to pick up another bolt today.

You don’t bother with cleanup, leaving scraps of fabric and papers and spools of thread across the surface of your table. Instead you stand and stretch out your arms, rolling your shoulders beneath the heaviness of your coat. There’s an ache in your neck from hunching, worsened by the stiffness from the cold.

Dressing today is a rare challenge. Normally it’s a sequence of intuitive decisions, hardly a thought entering your mind when you toss on garments. But today is special; today is the first showing of Gōyoku—the first production by Hoshi no Sākasu that you get to see, and with your first costume in a circus production ever. You didn’t expect to feel this indecisive, with uncertain hands carding through your closet and drawers, nothing catching your eye. You pout at your lack of inspiration.

A flicker of feathers catches your eye, glimmering like a wave from the back of the closet. You pull the hangers aside to reach for it, frowning in confusion. When you manage to pull it from the rack and hold it in the light, you laugh. It’s a long piece, the fluff and volume of a black feathered boa. The thought that crosses your mind feels impulsive, sabotaging even, but you’re already giggling at the thought of wrapping yourself in it. Your mind races with possibility: a flapper dress, blazers with giant shoulders, giant sunglasses. They’re re-entering the fashion scene, appearing on the streets with skin-tight dresses, but you want something more casual.

You settle on creamy linens, white with the faintest touch of warmth. They sit heavy on your skin, thick enough that you consider going coatless. Knowing you’ll be cold, you snatch a matching coat to settle on top. After looping your star garment around your neck, black feathers stark against smooth fabric, you turn to the mirror and laugh. Chiara would groan if she saw you, but you work in costume before fashion. Looking ridiculous is part of your job.

You take your time entering the city, leaving early to stop by a bakery and fulfill your craving for panzerotti—the call of fried pockets of mozzarella and tomato—buying some extras and a few different tramezzini to share. Kendou sends you a pin when you let her know that you’re close, leading you to one of the trailers behind the auditorium tent. You walk giddily, smiling at the sparse snowflakes still feathering down.

The piazza is quiet when you walk through through the main entrance, the sides now blocked from the night festivities. There are few people: stray observers and occasional staff members. The guard by the security clearance lets you through with ease. Another guard notices you straying towards a secondary fence, tracking the pin with a frown, and helps you navigate to the trailer once you offer your ID card.

You are led to a white rectangular trailer, one of three in a line. You check the pin once again before walking to the one in the center. Unsure if you should step in without warning, you knock hesitantly on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before the door swings open. You blink in surprise when you’re greeted by the man you met last night, now dressed down from his festival costume. His hair is ruffled, bangs scattered sloppily across his forehead, and his stubble is gone. You swallow as you take him in, the softness on his face, along the edge of his jaw, as wears a matching surprise. He’s flustered, but there’s a shine in his eyes as he watches you. What is he thinking, to look at you like this—like you mean something? He has an air of mystery that tugs at your heart, a yearning to ask endless questions about him, to know who he is. It’s paired with an ease that convinces you he would answer; he would tell you all you wanted to know.

You fight through your smile to speak. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and you’re eager to hear it, but Kendo’s face appears behind the man’s shoulder. “Hey! You found us! Come in, come in.”

Mystery man steps aside to let you pass, just close enough that you brush his shoulder. Your mind flashes to the night before, his hand on your waist and then entangled in your own, spinning you while your wings flapped over your shoulders. You try to blink away the thought, but it persists.

You catch Momo sitting by the vanity, waving with a cheeky smile. You frown at her expression.

Kendou speaks again, gesturing to the man. “This is Sero, by the way. One of the performers.”

You nod, then smile towards him as you introduce yourself. He grins brightly, not a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. It’s a stark contrast from moments ago. Another mystery.

“Nice to meet you properly,” he says.

“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo says. Her eyebrows are raised into her bangs, glancing towards Kendou with a look you can’t read.

You hear Sero’s voice hitch, like he’s about to say something, before he sighs. “Yeah, I was on my way out.” He looks at you regretfully. “It was nice to catch you.”

You nod, offering one of the small sandwiches from the bakery before he leaves the trailer. He takes one without looking—prosciutto, with tomato and olives and Swiss cheese—before gently closing the door. When you turn to Momo in anticipation, ready to help her into her dress for the show, you’re met with a mischievous grin. You frown again.

“What?”

Her lips twitch. “Nothing.”

You look at her expectantly, unamused, but she doesn’t budge. Kendou smiles, making you equally skeptical of her, before speaking. “We have a bird to dress! Aoyama will be here any minute with the skirt, and then we’ll get to work with your supervision.”

You nod, understanding that you’re meant to be the supporting role for the other costume artists, for them to figure out the kinks of the dress by the time they’re on the road. It’s bittersweet, to spend a few more days with your creation before it sets off without you.

A man appears shortly, noisily strutting through the door of the trailer. His outfit is entirely reflective, the iridescent shine of a CD, and you assume he must be Aoyama. You grin at the sight. Kendou is quick with the introductions. “This is Aoyama, the other costume manager. Aoyama, this is the costume artist—”

You shake hands as you finish her introduction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He winks while responding. “As it should be! I love your boa.”

You suppress a laugh. “And I love your outfit.”

“Heat transfer vinyl,” he sings, pressing a hand to his chest. “Do feel free to ask where you can purchase it for yourself.”

You laugh, telling him to give you the details later.

The air of the room shifts, everyone settling into business as Aoyama sets down the hoopskirt and Kendou pulls the dress from the closet. The trailer is surprisingly large despite being a room on wheels, offering a wide breadth for Momo to step into the frame and have the other two fuss over her. They check with you on its placement before gathering the dress. Your fingers itch to join theirs, to fix the stray bends of fabric or straighten how it lays against Momo’s skin, but the hands of the costume crew trace over those spots eventually.

When the headpiece is set in place and you get to see Momo in full costume—her hair falling in loose, long curls, eyelids powdered the same blush as her lips, an elegant jewel strung around her neck—you swallow. Seeing your finished pieces, dressed on the figures they were made for, will always clench at your stomach. It brings a rush of euphoria over you, followed by a sweeping emptiness.

You do a onceover to look for anything out of place or concerning, but they’ve laid it perfectly. Your chest both lightens and pangs. The dress will be in good hands.

“If we’re settled I think it’s time we take our star to the main room, yes?” Aoyama asks.

You nod slowly, pressing down the ache.

Kendou smiles softly. “It’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know. I have attachment issues.”

She laughs and slaps at your shoulder. “I would too. Now go busy yourself until the show starts.”

You help them pin the fabric at the back of Momo’s dress before exiting together. You stop at the back entrance of the tent to say a temporary goodbye, handing over the remaining triangle sandwiches. The crew members slip carefully through the canvas, holding the thick material back to avoid brushing against Momo. You avert your eyes, only catching a glimpse of feathered costumes drifting in the background.

The next half hour is a struggle, time passing slowly in your giddiness. You stand in the cold for the first few minutes, remembering how snow fell softly from the sky just hours prior. The sticky remainders flatten under your shoes with a soft crunch. Your mind drifts to the grueling months leading up to now, iterating the dress and the push and pull between what you, Momo, and Kendou all envisioned. The sky is still hazy, a bright white mist covering the blue buried above. You imagine a plane beyond the fog, Momo and Kendou sitting together by the window, waiting in anticipation to see your mockup in action.

You smile wistfully. It already feels so long ago, that flood of excitement and the fear of not finishing in time—hours stretching on with you hunched over the gown. It was a painful sort of urgency: the need to be finished, all the while your hands only ever moved at the same steady pace. And now you suddenly have the next step to focus on—the show for tonight, or the next gown you need to sew. Where does the time go? Is it buried in the folds of your projects, sewn into the fabric like a quilt? Are you giving your own life away when you pass on the garments—holding all those moments in their fluid spaces?

Sometimes you wonder how you got here, always moving and moving, never taking the time to look back, to reflect and connect all the pieces of your journey to who you are today. Sometimes you feel like you never made a decision, that these events unfolded on their own, little seeds that blew in the forceful wind of life, hiding in the crevices until you finally turned to look at them: sprouted and standing firm in the ground.

Too firm, too rooted, to move.

Tired of your sentiments and the creeping chill, you decide to enter the shelter of the stage tent. The main entrance is littered with people checking in, clumps that thin into long lines. A metal guardrail separates you from the ticketing to enter the tent, so you approach one of the security members to ask for help. When you show him your ticket and ID card, he leads you to another entrance, skipping the line entirely.

You reach the edge of the interior where the concessions are prepared, sandwiching the stairs to the seating. The crowd thickens as showtime approaches, the lines for food and drink quickly elongating. You’re prepared to skirt around and go directly to your seat, not tempted by the wafting scent of buttery popcorn and the sweetness of pretzels, but your eyes land on that fluffy fish-shaped bread from the night prior, and your feet take you to the line before you mentally make a decision. Luckily it moves quickly and you soon purchase two taiyaki, placed gently in a crinkly paper bag. You hold it gently, the heat spreading through your hands.

The seat number on your ticket indicates that you’re in the section closest to the front, but in one of the furthest rows. It’s the seat you requested, centered to get the ideal view and close to the stage, but slightly elevated for the best angle to view the performers. You walk unhurriedly to your spot, taking a booklet offered by the attendant in the aisle. Once seated, you run a finger over the glossy paper—the striking art of a fiery phoenix—then press your thumb against the edge of the cover to open the first page. You scan your eyes over the introduction, three separate paragraphs for the original Japanese, followed by an English and Italian translation.

Gōyoku—meaning ‘Fierce Wings’—is the action-packed story of the impossible creatures of the sky. For just one moment, in the wake of their greatest desperation, these winged beasts are able to be glorious, fiery gods. Follow the journey of a guardian hawk as it battles fearsome foes, inspires his apprentices, and eventually burns out in his diligence to protect the new generation.

You smile with anticipation. The next page contains a list of names and roles: the director, producers, and stage crew displayed in neat rows, with details written in a small font beneath the individual names. You catch Aizawa’s, the romaji bringing a grimace to your face when you once again remember your first encounter. You flip the page, eyes recognizing a list of acts, and then immediately skip to the one after. The back has a list of acknowledgements and gratitudes, to donors and inspirations for the show. You blink when you see your own name on the bottom, with a small paragraph describing your work and why you were chosen for the production. It pulls a tight smile across your face.

You close the booklet and eat one of the taiyaki.

At four on the dot, the lights dim. Most people are in their seats, some stragglers still filtering in. Your eyes trace the room, packed full with spectators. Nearly every seat is filled, a mix of ages, singles and couples and families. Your eyes widen when you catch sight of the little girl from last night, the same pinched face of her Hyottoko mask. You’re tempted to wave, to see if you can catch her attention, but she’s up in a row towards the side of the stage. There’s no reason for her eyes to swoop in your direction.

But they do, to your surprise. First in glee, excitement, and then in surprise. You look at her confusedly, slightly tilting your head. Her parents are watching you too, with the same expressions. Other people in their seats look your way. Your heart starts races, wondering what about you has grabbed their attention—

A pair of hands cover your eyes from behind, jolting you in your seat. They’re paired with a deep giggle, almost dark and maniacal. You grin in embarrassment.

Crowd work. You’ve seen the cartoonish forms of circus clowns engage with the audience before, oftentimes its own act in the show, but you’ve never been subjected to it yourself. Your heart races from the attention, anxious at being part of the spectacle. Part of you Suddenly the hands trail downwards, to your large boa, and pull it away, bringing a waft of cool air to your neck and shoulders. You blink in surprise, head turning to follow it.

You see a blond man nearly skipping down the aisle, your boa swinging in his hand. He’s dressed in a tight black suit, tipped at the wrists with tufts of feathers. The fabric of his clothes are sewn with analog watch faces, set at a variety of times. His face is obscured by a bird mask, only revealing a wide, cheeky grin. He makes a show out of floating your boa around him, posing as if he’s unsure what it is, before wrapping it around his own neck, letting out a fit of ridiculous laughter and then skipping through the seating.

You wonder if he was informed that you were in the audience, if this was planned.

Your grin spreads easily across your face, watching as he turns back with a wink before bothering other audience members. He stops by the girl, where she sits in the front row of the next section, and makes a show of looking curiously at her mask. He reaches for it and she giggles, holding it against herself in defense. The suited bird cocks his head, then pouts before sighing and strutting away dramatically in defeat.

Commotion from the other end of the room turns your head, to another figure working the crowd. This one is a bubbly woman, with a costume of bursting pink feathers and purple, shimmery patterned cloth. She wears a giant smile as she hops along the seat, looking curiously at the audience members. When her mask turns so you can see the face, you are struck by the illusion of darkness beneath her eyes, completely blacked out. A pair of sharp but narrow horns sprout from the edges, giving her an alien quality. Like her show partner, she giggles happily as she skips along.

The pair charades their way to the front, keeping the eyes of the audience focused. When they meet each other on the stage, they communicate with overexaggerated gestures and gibberish noises. The blond one does a twirl, raising his hands to bring attention to your boa with a wide smirk. The pink one gasps and reaches for it, only for the blond to huff and jump away. You watch with amusement—and apprehension, hoping your scarf will survive the show.

The sound effects of the characters start to blur into a song as they move around the stage. A light melody settles in, synchronized with their steps skirting back and forth. Just as they dart into the center, a loud bang resounds from the speakers. The characters pause, dramatically turning around the stage in defensive stances. The girl looks up and points, hopping in excitement. Her partner tilts his head, offering a polite clap with a shrug.

You follow her finger, watching as a hoop slowly lowers from the ceiling. It spins slowly, cradling a man. He’s almost lounging, lazily lying with his back on the bottom, neck cradled to the side. One leg dangles while the other is bent into the frame, foot toeing against the edge. You are close enough to see his face, the confident smile that pulls at his lips. His eyes are closed, outlined with red markings. His clothing matches his hair, golden and ruffled, white feathers accenting his wrists and ankles. He wears a transparent golden mask, open to let his expression shine through.

The music continues gently as the hoop lowers. The bird characters on the stage cheerfully try copying his pose from their standing positions, the blond shaking his head at the woman as he lifts one of her arms higher. Your eyes travel back to the lyra, to the man’s face, his eyes peeling open. He slowly sits up, trailing his arms around the perimeter of the hoop. His face morphs into curiosity as he takes in the crowd, then the birds beneath him. A sharp grin spreads across his face while he leans forward to watch them closely.

In a flash the hoop falls—you think more than his body length—and it pulls a sharp inhale into your chest from surprise and fear. The performer leans back with the movement, as if he’s going to plummet to the ground, but he catches himself with the underside of his knees. The two below shriek in fright, before scattering across the stage in opposite directions, disappearing into the back. As this new character—you assume the hawk in the booklet summary—comes to the end of his fall, he stretches his arms, reaching to catch the scattered jesters. Bright red wings sprout from his back, feathers swaying with the jolt of the fall. They’re giant, especially to have been so well concealed.

The hawk draws out the lowering of the hoop, removing one leg to fall into a split, holding his ankle by his head for the sake of showing off. Then he releases it to snake back up the hoop. His arms follow, pulling him back into the frame. He tangles himself through the edge, making a show of his flexibility, before sitting in the center. He grabs the frame below him before rolling forwards, swinging as he dangles in the air from his hands. The wings burst open once again, fiery red flaming behind his figure. The lyra is lowered enough that his feet barely skim the ground. He swims his legs through the air as if walking until he can touch the floor securely.

And then he runs.

You’ve seen aerial object acts before, always an impressive series of poses and fluid movements entangled in the air. But the speed of this act is unheard of. The performer's body swings and swipes through the air like a knife, so sharp you think you can hear the whoosh as he moves. His wings continue to open and close at the perfect times, unfolding when he holds a specific pose, lengthening in tune with his routine and the quickening music. Even when he is curled into the lyra, they compliment the positions of his body. You realize they work through a mechanism attached to his arms, opening opposite to his elbows. You watch captivated as he gracefully slides across the wheel despite his speed, all the while it glides in a circle or twirls along the rope anchoring it to the ceiling. Your stomach drops with his precarious balancing and the surprise drops, always catching himself in the nick of time.

As he slows and the act winds to an end, he pulls himself back to the center of the hoop. He nestles into another lounging position, mirroring his entrance. The lyra rises and the music lulls, signaling the end of the act. Scattered claps sound around you, snapping you from your daze. You join the applause as it rolls through the audience. It was a stunning opening, setting the stage for what’s to come.

In the midst of the clapping, the music unexpectedly fills with faster, darker sounds. As deep bass thrums through the room, three figures wrapped in black silks unravel from the ceiling. They fall in sharp, jagged movements, rocking as they tumble through the air.

They slow as they finish their descent to the floor, and then to eventually rest on the ground. The silks lift into the ceiling, leaving the performers behind. They lay still for a couple moments before twitching, muscles and joints moving in rapid and jagged jolts. Slowly they rise to stand, legs and arms angled to appear twisted. You take in their costumes, tight tan fabric purposefully wrinkled along their bodies, with small, uneven lines of feathers—one figure’s pink, one green, and the last yellow. Their masks are small on their faces, disheveled and anxious. You think you recognize two of them, the small women from the day you dropped off your dress, the ones you saw last night in the festival.

You watch curiously as they begin to struggle towards one another. They remind you of baby birds, naked and frail. Your eyes widen at the thought, putting together that they have fallen from the sky.

Their act is one of contortion, bodies twisting and bending in impossible shapes. They mold into one another, arms and legs tangling in a rolling knot. The show of flexibility is broken with a series of theatrical performances, futile attempts to fly or crawl over each other. It’s as haunting as it is awe-inspiring, striking you with distress and pity. It’s an incredible use of the act. The story is clear with these characters, their desperation for safety, for freedom. You feel sorry, yearning to offer help.

As their bodies slow in a display of exhaustion, they pile in the center of the stage. You see them breathe together, expanding steadily as one entity before compressing again. The moment is tender, intimate. Drawn out unlike usual performances. You know this is the end of the act, that you should applaud, but you don’t want to break the softness. The others in the audience seem to feel the same.

A fourth figure appears, sliding from the side of the stage and in the back. He’s tall and lean, toned stature showing through the tight fabric of his costume. It’s similarly wrinkled as the contortionists, but with a mix of purple and beige fabric. Faux scorched skin, you realize, as if stapled to itself. His costume is the least orderly, with black and red and white feathers clumped in his hair, indistinguishable.

In one of his hands is a staff, with a wheel of spokes standing from both ends. He twirls it slowly, tauntingly, as he starts to circle the bodies in the center. The lights dim as he stalks them, turned so his chest and head face his prey. The music plays eerie, sharp notes that clash with one another. Then it halts.

In an instant a flame bursts across the stage, tracing the circle of the man in purple. Your brain whirrs in attempt to understand how the act unfolded: all you can think is that his staff may have been leaking fuel along his path, unnoticed in the darkening stage. It doesn’t explain how the fire came to be, or how the staff lit itself.

The fire spinning is an act of intensity, a gut-wrenching scene of the larger figure taunting the small. He plays the role of a villain with ease, convincing even when you know it’s only for show. His body is one with his staff, rolling and twisting the length over his limbs. It runs along his shoulders and neck, twirls over his chest and through his legs, hooked over the top of his foot to be thrown back into the air. The two points of light dart throughout the stage, illuminating his face and chest and limbs for less than seconds at a time.

After one particularly fast and complex combination—topped with a downwards yank of the prop, releasing long swirls of flame into the air—you see another figure enter the stage. He has a smaller frame but a similar intensity, as though stalking towards the predator. As he nears towards the light, you realize it’s Todoroki, his split-dyed hair unmistakable. His costume is deep blue with a high collar, the exact sort of fit you imagined when you first saw him. You grin.

He suddenly thrusts himself towards the remaining streaks of fire on the ground, pressing his hand against the flame. You watch in shock, expecting him to pull away in pain, but instead the heat is smothered in an instant. The bundle of contortionists spill across the floor, writhing to the side of the stage. They continue their struggle to freedom, their jagged movements persistent as they escape to the edge of your vision.

Todoroki finishes the rest of the flames while the taller man chases him with the staff. They leap and dodge one another, a choreographed fight that involves many close calls. Your heart leaps as you watch the edge of the staff swipe close to Todoroki’s face, illuminating his sharp but delicate features. He is unmasked, the deep red of his scar visible to the crowd.

A billow of fire erupts from his mouth, shooting past the spokes of the staff and into the air. It casts a torrent of orange glow across him and his opponent, flooding himself and the burned creature in a beautiful, warm light. It shines bright enough to see the details of the stage and audience for one brief moment. You realize Todoroki was holding the fuel in his mouth throughout the entirety of the fight thus far. Impossible.

The fight continues, Todoroki and his opponent dancing with fire. It’s mostly a series of choreographed strikes and dodges, almost a game or dance as they circle one another: the staff one weapon and Todoroki’s breath the other. The flames on the end of the prop begin to wither as their movements speed, nearing the end of their performance. Todoroki closes it out with one final exhale, blowing blinding clouds of heat in an arc towards the audience. You blink back in surprise, warm air brushing against your face.

They stand in the center, bodies tense and shuddering with deep inhales. Their exhaustion plays into the reality of the fight, ragged breaths and hunched shoulders visible from afar. You think they look pained, that their struggle is beyond the performance.

The next act transitions easily, the fire show morphing into a chase with new characters—in full bird-shaped headpieces and wing-like cloaks—eventually through the air on a series of springboards soaring, twisting, flipping, and jumping propelled by each other’s landings. Two characters in particular catch your eye, with deep green and red costumes. You’re reminded of Midoriya, and think the height and frame of the green bird could align.

Your eyes widen when a giant net rolls across the stage behind the heavy duty seesaws. The fire artists slam down on the boards in sync, the new bird figures soaring. When they rise just enough to clear the net, it’s swiftly rolled underneath them to catch their landing. The springboards are then pushed out of the stage, marking an end to Todoroki’s performance.

The people at the base of the net—women in leotards, different shades of purple, paired with skirts full of feathers—lock the wheels before climbing the ladders up the side, joining the previous characters onto raised platforms. The two men untie the threads around their necks, slipping the capes from their arms and followed by the headpieces—now left only in lean pants. After setting them on the back of the platform and walking towards the edges at the center, you confirm that one of them is in fact Midoriya. The other has hair that matches his red costume.

The trapeze act should be impossible, especially with Midoriya and the redhead having just completed an entirely separate act. But it’s flawless, impeccable, unthinkable. The following acts are executed with seamless transitions that lead through a cohesive plot—a juggling act with a man who moves as if he has six arms, and a dual cyr act with men of a drastic height difference, the smaller one gliding easily and with incredible balance, and the taller spinning across the stage at incredible speeds.

At the end of their act, when the two roll out of sight, the lights and sound dim to darkness. A roar of applause passes through the crowd, this being the first real quiet gap between acts. There are cheers and hollers and whistling for several moments, an extended display of love. When the noise finally begins to fade away, a spotlight glows in the center of the stage, slowly illuminating a figure in red. You take a deep breath to ease the constriction in your chest.

It’s Momo.

In the excitement of watching, you momentarily forgot that she was performing, that you made her costume, that you’re a part of this show too.

She’s beautiful, standing tall with an air of elegance—a poise that commands the room. Behind her is a pair of feathered musicians: a purple-haired woman and an older blond man, with an electric violin and cello respectively. They draw a slow melody through the room, crisp notes floating through the speakers. Momo steps to the front of the room smoothly and carefully as if floating, the edge of her dress brushing right above the ground to cover her feet. You hold your breath as your eyes track the details of the costume, every ruffle of fabric and bounce of feather.

The costume looks perfect on stage, not a ruffle out of place. You realize it’s the first time you’re seeing her wear it from a distance, to appreciate the hug of her waist and the curves of her figure. The darkness of the fabric is regal against her skin and her confidence. The sheerness of the chiffon brings out her grace, with a sparkle that brightens her edges, the glow of an aura. The orange swathes that trail behind her are like glowing footprints, the markings of a deity—the evidence that she walked across our earth.

Momo’s performance is beautiful, starting as a series of long, drawn out words in well-enunciated Italian. They’re sorrowful, a series of questions that ask where her friends have gone, if they’re safe. If they’ll come home.

The music increases in sound and intensity as she continues, words moving quickly through verbal images of where they could be, what they might be facing. Her voice is rich and smooth as it traces through forests and fields, of predators and monsters. Each note slides beautifully into the next, weaving between heavily grounded and delicately airy. She’s a master with her instrument, the strings of her vocal chords under her total command.

The song finishes with a plea for help. She moves her arms in fluid motions as she reaches towards the crowd, hands twisting and fingers curving as they move towards the sky. You exhale with melancholy at her display of emotion, the pain that strikes the beauty of her obscured face. Her movements become angry and desperate, sharp and jagged when she snaps her head and adds a rasp to her voice, a complete turn from smoothness of her original voice. When the build up to her longest note begins, you hold your breath in anticipation for her to spin.

The dark fabric of the dress skirt, with its layers of maroon, lifts to expose its white underbelly. A flock of matching white doves escape through the gaps, circling counterclockwise with her movement—pulling gasps from yourself and other audience members. She twirls for several rotations, the orange trails of chiffon spiraling beneath her as the birds disperse and rise until they disappear into the ceiling. As soon as the final bird is out of sight, she collapses on herself. Your stomach clenches in worry. She cradles herself against the ground as her note ends, the music following and coming to a lull.

A giant smile overtakes your face, tears brimming the edges of your eyes in joy. You did it, you hear through your mind, unsure if the words are for yourself or Momo. They asked and you delivered.

The crowd applauds once again when the lights dim. You wipe your eyes, months of work and stress feeling so incredibly worth it now that you’ve seen the final piece: a multitude of masterpieces and crafts that will be displayed again and again. Yours. Momo’s. The costume, the vocals, the music, the magic.

Your heart can be at ease.

The lights don't dim entirely, the faint outline of the musicians and Momo still visible. However, four more figures appear, dark silhouettes. They stand closer towards the audience, in front of the spotlight’s reach.

The act that follows is one of whimsical illusion—likely serving as an interlude. Two of the new characters walk into the light, revealing themselves to be the pink woman and the time-covered man from the beginning. They skip sprightly along the platform, followed by the two other characters that you realize are meant to symbolize their shadows. The shadow-characters carry large sheets that billow in their grasp. The blond’s shadow lifts their sheet over the violinist, smoothing her form in the draping fabric. Then they tug the top, enough to rustle the sheet, until it suddenly crumples to the ground—flattening as if there was no one there to begin with. The shadowy figures clap with joy, while the original clowns react with harsh gasps and frightened faces.

Eventually the cellist is smothered under the sheet, and then Momo. You suspect it’s a typical trick of the floor, opening at just the right time for them to fall through. You hope your dress is still intact, that it survived the fall.

The illusion takes a darker turn, the shadows now chasing their physical forms. The smaller of the shadows succeeds first, vanishing the pink woman. After she disappears, her shadow jumps and spins in glee. You blink when she faces the front once again and is fully visible. The same happens for the blond who stole your boa—still snug around his neck as he is captured and melted into the floor, to reveal the face of his shadow.

The rest of the act is less predictable, the characters moving between the visible and obscured. There are more warpings of illusion, sleight of hand perfectly executed, but also tricks that you can’t fathom. At one point the man appears to step right through the woman, and later she skips behind the man to vanish entirely, appearing behind him a minute later on a different part of the stage. You watch with wide eyes, watching for any movement of the floor, but it never happens. You wonder what the people behind you see, if it’s a matter of angles.

For their final trick, they lay themselves in the center of the stage, draping the sheets over themselves. The pile sits still for several moments before it stirs—leaps to reveal three entirely different figures. The one who stands is a man with a large headpiece, the black head of a bird that engulfs his own. Emerging next is a woman swathed in white fabric, like a fairytale damsel. Her hair falls like a curtain of ivy along her back and shoulders. The last figure sits up slowly; a man with black hair and a costume of darkness, catching shimmers of light speckled across his suit, splotches of yellow feathers sprouting at his shoulders and elbows. As his head turns you can see his eyes through the mask—

They land on you.

Your breath hitches. It’s Sero, the one you danced with and the one you briefly encountered before the show. Despite the distance, you recognize the intensity of his gaze, one you could almost read as longing. When he looks away you feel a wave of relief, but it’s short lived. He continues to watch you, to come back to you.

Three pairs of thick, silk ribbons rain from the ceiling, and you immediately think back to your first impression of Sero—that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric.

He does.

Despite the act being split between three performers, with moments to spotlight each of their solos, you can’t look away from Sero for more than seconds at a time. You catch enough of the other two to differentiate their styles—the woman’s display of flexibility and intricate wrapping techniques, and the man’s show of speed and intensity, body whipping and whorling through the air.

They’re beautiful. But Sero, Sero flows along the aerial silk.

Not a single movement is choppy or without grace, body as fluid as the threads of fabric in his grasp. His solo is one that centers his relationship with his act, how he tangles into its hold, how he can move his limbs in imitation of the unstructured garment—his body an extension of the silk, another curtain draping from the ceiling. He breaks from the cloth to suspend himself in the air, feet stepping as if he were walking through floating platforms. He swims upwards through the ribbons, body liquid and shimmering as he slides back down, rolling through tangles and knots, all the while fluffing up pockets and loops of fabric, billowing like the tail of a fish as it waves through the ocean.

Watching him move is like being hypnotized, like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t, because it doesn’t exist. The world behind him fades, time slows. It’s just you and him, like last night’s dance, his fluid and rolling movements as he guided you along, sending tingles through your chest and torso and arms. You have chills, shivers of warmth. It’s indescribable. Now you’re the one yearning to watch him, hoping he’ll meet your gaze again every time it breaks.

By the end of the act you are entranced, obsessed. Your heart is heavy knowing that his performance is over and you will have to watch someone else.

The rest of the show is still objectively stunning, filled with numbers that go beyond any performance you’ve seen before. Following the aerial silks is a man who walks his way on stage on his hands, then up a series of steps to a handstand board. You watch him perform his own act of contortion: slow and methodical and with extreme displays of balance, holding himself in precarious positions. He doesn’t touch his feet to the floor once, until the next act starts and sends sparks throughout the stage. It’s a show of explosive poi, a ball of sparkling fire tied to each hand at the end of a string, twirling around its equally volatile user. Another battle-like scene plays out.

Afterwards is a balancing act, with a man in a costume with a giant tail—the additional challenge seemingly impossible when he stands on a series of rolling objects that add up to more than his own height. The show ends with the display of two giant puppets: mechanical birds floating in the air, rooted on the back and shoulders of performers ambling around the stage. One appears sizzling with electricity while the other looks jagged and sharp, made from scraps of metal. They are joined by the bird characters from the beginning, your boa still around the neck of the blond man, as they’re led through the audience, leaning over to let the crowd gently touch the faces and wings.

When they climb back onstage the music shifts, signaling the closure of the story and show. Applause begins immediately, the crowd standing as soon as the first performer—the hawk—stands at the front for a bow, blowing kisses. He’s followed by the three contortionists before they step back for Todoroki, continuing as each act has their moment of acknowledgement. When Momo steps forwards you yell her name, jumping carefully between the others next to you to get her attention. She grins and bows, blowing a kiss to you directly. You pretend to catch it.

You yell again when the aerial silk group steps forward. Sero smiles happily before the crowd, bowing shallowly so he stands upright first. His eyes find yours and this time you’re ready for it, widening your grin when he meets your gaze. His hand lifts hesitantly before it twitches in a small wave. He stands for a moment too long, and another performer has to pull him back to the others. You smile stupidly, biting the inside of your cheek.

You linger when the crowd filters up the stairs and towards the exit, the room now brightened and flooded with excited chatter. Kendou told you to meet her after the show, but not where or how. You stay in your seat until the aisles clear, swiping through your phone to see if Kendou sent any updates. Once there’s an open path to the stage, you walk down towards one of the security guards to ask for permission backstage. Your ID and anecdotal evidence are met with skepticism, the guard blinking unimpressed by your efforts. Not wanting to waste your time, you turn to exit with the rest of the audience.

A soft yell of your name pulls you to turn back. You don’t catch the source immediately, but eventually your eyes land on wild green curls peeking from the curtain. You brighten and wave.

He frowns and shoots a hand out, beckoning you to join him. You shake your head and point to the security. The large Italian man sees this and then turns in confusion, bristling when his eyes land on Midoriya gesturing you over. He averts his eyes, facing back towards the front. You frown in confusion, not sure if that means you can pass.

Midoriya continues to wave for you, so you cave. Your first step on the stairs stage is cautious, gauging the reaction of your obstacle. After confirming he won’t interfere, you take them two at a time, scurrying to the curtain to slip through the gap.

The wardrobe and backstage section of the tent has transformed since your first visit, now lined with floor padding and filled with a multitude of props and structures. It’s much livelier, packed with clusters of people in conversation, cheerfully stretching or lounging. Near the exit is a cage for the doves, their chirping softly floating through the background. You drink in the details of the scene, how people rest with one another. Todoroki and Sero stand in a quiet conversation, Ochako and the blonde girl she performed with are laying together on one of the sofas. Momo is absent, along with Kendou. Aoyama is present, helping the hawk character from the first act remove his wings.

You think they look close, comfortable around one another. You can only imagine the sort of tight-knit relationships that bloom from working on these productions for so long—training day after day on risky props, some of them constantly putting their lives in someone else’s hands.

You register someone speaking to you: Midoriya, having been rambling for some time now. You chide yourself for getting lost in thought.

“—but, what did you think?” he asks. You missed the entire prelude, but you have faith in your enthusiasm to deliver a good response.

“Midoriya, it was amazing,” you say with full honesty. “I think you were right—your show will ruin me for any other circus. The transitions between the acts were incredible, and it brought the storyline together so seamlessly—much more cohesive than any other production I’ve seen before. And, oh my god everyone is so impressive. The acts were so much longer than typical shows, and—you! How can you manage back to back performances?”

The thoughts spill out of you, your excitement uncontainable as you think about the production as a whole, recounting the many ways in which it surpassed your expectations. Midoriya beams as your response. His cheeks flush at your praise, but he collects himself as he explains the two acts and their importance to happen directly after one another. He goes into detail about balancing muscle strain: the springboards are exhausting for the legs, but the trapeze is demanding on his arms. He and his stage partner—Kirishima, you learn—manage to make it work through sheer determination.

“He’s one of few people who could make it work,” he tells you, eyes sparkling.

You’re about to respond, to ask for details on how they fleshed out the act, when a softness flutters past your face to land on your neck and shoulders. You reach for it, gently grasping your feathered boa—long forgotten while listening to Midoriya. You turn, expecting to see the blond man in the suit, but instead find Sero behind you.

He smiles with the same ease and confidence of your first meeting, mouth stretched lazily and eyes relaxed. He must be feeling good now that the first show has passed successfully. You feel warm.

“Sorry we held your boa hostage,” he says. You can see the thief behind him, watching with a curious smirk.

No good response comes to mind, your heart busy thumping when your eyes dart back to his. Your mind flashes with that beautiful silk fabric draping over him, his fluid motions as he himself through it like his body is equally malleable. The effect of his performance—that awe and fluster—still sits in your chest. You’re drawn to him, intrigued to know more.

“You were incredible,” you tell him. His eyes grow, mouth gaping in surprise. “I’ve never seen someone move that way on silks. Is it your main act?”

You don’t expect his shyness. It only appears for a moment, shoulders starting to hunch before he stands straight again and smiles brightly, with confidence.

“Yeah! Since I was a kid. I’ve trained a couple other acts—mostly balances and other aerial props. But aerial silk is the best.”

You nod readily. “Of course, it’s my favorite to watch.” It’s ultimately a dance with fabric, one of your first loves.

“Really?” Midoriya asks. “I didn’t know that.”

You laugh. “Why? Because it’s not in my interviews?”

He laughs nervously, hand coming to scratch the back of his head.

“Verde!” you hear Momo call, grabbing your attention. She comes behind Sero, now changed into a casual shirt and pants.

“Momo!”

She engulfs you in a hug, her body pressing into your side as you wrap your arms over her in return.

“Momo, your singing is beautiful. And the birds were stunning. I can’t believe we did that.”

She smiles, eyes shining while her hand grabs your forearm. “We did.”

Once again, as you did a few days prior, you have a longing to talk with her more, deeper. You want to share what it means to you, what you think it means to her. You want to let yourself blur the edges of her position as the performer and yours as the designer, to think about who you are together. But there are still prying eyes, an audience who won’t understand. You glance at Midoriya, his face full of warmth and joy. Then they drift to Sero, and catch a twinge of surprising melancholy.

The performers happily chat with you, some new ones butting in to introduce themselves. You finally get the name of the blond who took your boa: Monoma, who also laughs at your choice of outfit. You get to meet the third woman in the act with Uraraka and Asui—Toga. Names filter in and out, acrobats and production members stopping by. Catering arrives, a selection of classic dishes from one of the high end ristoranti nearby. The aluminum trays are opened to reveal a pasta dish, its fresh scent of pesto and vegetables familiar.

Some performers rush through their meal and leave, or move to the mirrors to retouch their makeup. For the next show, you realize. There are two every night, with a two hour break before the end of the first and the beginning of the second.

Midoriya and Momo part to retouch their costumes, and Kendou orders you to stay put—that she’ll retrieve you if necessary. You’re left with Sero, somehow rating pasta shapes.

“Hey,” he suddenly says while you’re still mid-thought—musing whether farfalle or penne would work better for this sauce. You sense a topic change. He looks nervous, chewing his lip before speaking. “Are… Do you—”

He glances to the side and pauses, instead switching to a small smile.

“Hey ‘Roki.”

Your eyes linger on Sero thoughtfully, wondering what he was trying to ask, before greeting Todoroki.

“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book,” he says seriously, like he’s delivering an important message. “We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”

You beam with delight. He’s at the same part you’ve reached since you started reading it again, after dropping off Momo’s dress. “Oh yeah? What do you think? When I was a kid I would read that part almost every night before bed.”

Todoroki nods. “That chapter is my favorite so far. The imagery is quite vivid, and I found myself getting excited—like the kids.”

You hum in agreement before laughing. “I always had so much energy after reading that I couldn’t sleep. I have a dress inspired by that scene, I’ll have to wear it for the final show.”

“You know the book he’s reading?”

At the sound of Sero’s voice, you turn to him and nod. “It’s my favorite, since I was a kid.”

“Really?” he asks, face suspended in disbelief. “Me too! I’ve never met someone outside of my family who’s heard of it.”

Your eyes grow to match his, the two of you now staring at each other curiously.

“Me neither,” you answer. You don’t even remember how you acquired it, whether by gift or if it was something that had always lingered in your peripheral until you finally took notice. It’s a mysterious little book, with almost no online presence.

“Do you speak Spanish?” You ask, recalling Sero’s dancing.

“Sí. Mi mamá es de Ecuador,” he explains. “A small town on the Northern coast.”

Ecuador. You’ve been before, to the capital for a parade. You smile at the memory. “Sudamerica? I’m from Costa Rica. Also on the coast, almost directly west of San José.”

He grins. “We’re both on the Pacific, then.”

You let your gaze linger on his face, the eager shine in his eyes. You want to ask more, to talk about family and life and culture. You get the sense that he does too.

“I thought you said you only knew a little Spanish?”

You blink in surprise at Todoroki’s voice, face heating at your lie. “I got nervous?”

He squints. “About speaking your native language?”

The disbelief in his voice makes you laugh, recognizing your own absurdity. “Maybe? I don’t speak often these days. It makes me sentimental.”

Sero hums. “Sí, speaking Español can make me miss home. Being in Italy has been strange.”

You agree—the transition was a difficult one for you when you first arrived in Milan. You could estimate most of what people said, but had no idea how to respond. You remember awkwardly stumbling through conversations, dealing with nearly a year of clumsily translating before you could speak with ease.

You continue your chatter about the book, enjoying Todoroki’s observations and thoughts. He’s serious about his reading, even for a children’s story. Sero is too, but he becomes quiet, focused on listening to your discussion.

A call for the performers ends your conversation, leaving you to yourself as they gather to run through the schedule. You hang towards the exit of the tent, curious to see the logistical side of the production. You feel a poke at your arm.

“Are you staying for the festival afterwards?” Kendou asks.

You shake your head. “Only for a little. I need to grab some fabric on my way home, but the shop closes at ten.”

Kendou pouts. “You should come tomorrow.”

“I will,” you promise. You’re planning to come most nights regardless. “Do you think we could talk? About the… job?”

Her eyes nearly sparkle, like the twinkle of sunlight across ocean waves. “I can’t during the festival, since I’m working every night. Can you come during the show again? Aoyama can cover for me.”

You nod. “Yeah, is one better for me to come than the other?”

“Please—You’re welcome here whenever you want.”

“Don’t say that,” you answer. “Or I will be here everyday. You’ll get sick of me.”

She laughs. “Good. Maybe that means you’ll accept our offer by the time we leave Milan.”

You bite your lip at the comment, forcing your smile away. It’s a conflicting place to be, with your heart beating proudly but aching at the same time.

The show is flawless once again, still breathtaking even after seeing it hours before and only rewatching snippets through the screen backstage. You have the urge to interrogate the performers after their acts, brimming with questions and comments. But you notice their tiredness, always coming back panting, immediately chugging water or laying down. You watch Todoroki slosh a cup of mouthwash before sitting next to you with a bottle of juice.

“Your act is the most insane,” you tell him.

He nods.

You’re later joined by others, including Midoriya and briefly Momo, the chirping of the doves re-entering with the end of her performance. When the aerial silk performance starts, your eyes are once again glued to Sero. He’s still devastatingly beautiful during his number, aweing you with his routine. You don’t think you could ever be tired of the way he moves. You want to talk to him, to talk more about his art and of home, but he disappears when he finishes. You shovel down your disappointment. He’s most likely resting, or has other things to worry about.

When the show ends, there’s hardly a moment to breathe before the cast is changing costumes, from feathered birds into their eclectic festival jesters. You can only stay for another half hour, so you wave goodbye to those still in your vicinity, letting Midoriya know you’ll be back tomorrow in case you don’t see him tonight.

The festival is the same as the previous night, littered with lines of market stalls displaying work by local artists and artisans: Milanese food, traditional textiles, niche jewelry. You walk by Hoshi no Sākasu’s tent, the waffly scent of taiyaki a comfort in the chill of the evening. An array of Hyottoko masks are on display, their cheeks large and noses long, eyes varying from pinched closed to painfully wide. You want to walk slowly, take in the string lights and the classical guitar, but you force yourself to move along. The boutique that sells the lace you need won’t be open tomorrow, and you want to get started on the sleeves of the dress in the morning.

None of the performers make an appearance by the time you finish walking through a line of stalls. You carry along, turning through the next row and passing a table of wine sampling—a mix of sparkling and red. You pause and step back to ask for a sample of the Champagne blend, the little paper cup rough against your fingertips as you take a sip before continuing your stroll.

By the time your sample is finished and the cup is tossed in the garbage, you’re walking through the last row of markets, nestled furthest from the street and closer to the duomo. It’s quieter on this end, away from the music and the clinking pans. This section hosts mostly artists, you notice while passing a display of watercolor paintings. They’re vibrant and rough, capturing candid moments of people, energetic gestures brushed onto textured paper. The woman in the booth is old, with crinkled eyes and grey hair tucked behind a cloth. She watches you blankly.

“Buonasera,” you say, smiling gently. She grins back, eyes nearly disappearing with the rise of her cheeks.

You continue forward, eyes catching a smear of crimson in your peripheral. You frown, stepping towards the center of the path to get a better look. It’s another market stall, but draped over with a deep red fabric, the folds swaying as people walk by. It sits unassuming in this quiet realm of the fair, with no indication of what sits inside. You figure it’s a closed stall, a vendor who couldn’t make it tonight. But your eyes catch the edge of the flap; it’s lined with green feathers. You look at it skeptically, not trusting yourself to make a logical assessment of what it’s for. The color is so vibrant, that punchy chartreuse that you always use. If you were more delusional you would think that it’s… for you.

You pace forwards, zooming by tables of pottery and sterling silver jewelry to reach the front of the tent. The slit in the fabric feels like it’s calling for you, waving slightly in a chilly breeze. The tips of your fingers brush the feathers, their softness tingling against your fingerprints.

A peek won’t hurt.

You slide the flap back gently, just enough to widen the opening and glance inside.

It’s dark, too dark. There’s only the blackness of the space you can’t see. The faint light trickling in doesn’t reach far, and it sits through the air like particles of dust, dull stars in a night sky. You start to lower your hand, deciding it’s an empty stall after all, when someone in the market bumps into you. You falter, losing balance and stumbling forwards to catch yourself.

The tent illuminates.

You gasp in surprise, the space inside appearing much larger than what the exterior suggested. Warm air coats your body, a surprise since you didn’t feel it spilling out the entrance. The air is thick, almost salty with humidity, and the noise outside completely fades away. It’s just you in a quiet room, with a warm dim light that coats a series of bookshelves. They’re littered with trinkets, unorderly but with the homey energy of clutter. You blink at the sight of a large, unbroken conch shell.

It calls for you, your fingertips delicately pressing against the bumpy surface as you lift carefully. By instinct you hold the opening to your ear, immediately sighing with a smile at the sound of ocean waves. You close your eyes, imagining clear blue water and white bubbles of seafoam, spilling out onto black sand.

Then there’s a series of bird calls, the screeching of scarlet macaws as they soar through the air. Your eyes widen, pressing the shell further against your face and covering your other ear to listen closely. You catch the faint sounds of wind and rustling palm leaves in the distance. It sounds just like home, like the coast. You pull the shell away skeptically, the noise cutting into silence, before pressing it to your ear again. The sensory immersion floods back full force, birds and waves and wind surrounding you.

Your eyes land on a jar on another shelf, half-filled with cacao beans. Reluctantly, you return the conch to its place and lift the jar, glass with a metal lip sealing it tightly. You give it a couple shakes, the soft rattle making you smile—memories of abuela cutting open a long pod, you and your sister greedily eating the sweet, white flesh of the fruit on the outside, spitting the remainder on a sheet for abuela to ferment.

You undo the clasp, glass top clinking against its body. You’re hit strong with the initial scent of vinegar before it fades into the rich aroma of dark chocolate. Again you think of home, one of your tíos helping you grind the beans by hand, twisting the crank for you when you wanted a break.

There are other trinkets, ones you don’t understand but wonder if they have their own story—who would pick them up with a similar fondness you carry now. They’re clustered tightly across the other shelves: a little smiling buddha with a round belly, a toy bird, playing cards, scented candles, candies, a carved wooden frog, rings embedded with jewels, a pocket watch, another jar, this one filled with mandarin oranges. You let your eyes roam around, taking in more trinkets and stories that you don’t understand. You pause at a bundle of shiny silk fabric, black as the sky tonight.

You lift your hand to reach for it, but your phone rings.

Cursing to yourself, you put the jar on the shelf and pull your cell from your pocket. The sound is your alarm, set thirty minutes before the boutique closes. Grimacing, you quickly debate your options: to stay and continue exploring your trinkets, or having to rush to get the fabric you need. Your heart yearns as you set the jar on the shelf. You tell yourself that you’ll come back tomorrow, that the more headway you make on the dress, the more you can play afterwards.

Before you exit, you sweep your eyes through the room once more, promising to the trinkets and yourself that you’ll return. You step outside reluctantly, swarmed by chilly air and the yearning to run your hands along those shelves and stories.

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #hanta sero #sero hanta #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #fanfiction #sero #bnha sero #mha sero #cellophane #sero x you #hanta x reader #hanta sero x reader

16 notes · View notes

bourbonificould · 11 months ago

Note

season 4 characters favourite video games

So obviously this would be in an AU, so

Clementine doesn't seem like the gamer type, but she'd probably try out whatever Violet/Louis play, and help AJ figure things out occasionally.

AJ would play Smash Bros and Super Mario Series 100%. His favorite character is Yoshi and he gets mad when someone picks him.

Violet probably plays Sims and makes sure that the sim representing her is miserable asf. She changes tabs to YouTube when Louis walks in.

Louis loves every game ever... except for Mario Kart for "personal reasons". He has every musical tiles game on his phone.

Omar secretly plays cooking simulators but switches to overwatch when someone walks in.

Aasim plays GTA just to set civilians on fire.

Mitch plays GTA with Aasim with Willy, but is usually just telling Willy to blow up Aasim's car. He goes on Red Dead Online and buys way too much dynamite.

Marlon plays Pokemon and argues that it's still the best series out there. Sometimes he plays GTA with the guys.

Brody likes story games and almost always falls in love with the protagonist of the game.

Ruby doesn't have a favorite game and is actually employed unlike most of these guys.

Tennessee doesn't like consoles, but sometimes he sits with Violet or Minnie and makes them some Sims characters.

James never tells anyone, but when he goes home he plays Life is Strange. He tells everyone that he likes Legend of Zelda though.

Minerva is open about her Sims love and gets offended when Sophie tells her to get off and come eat dinner.

50 notes · View notes

hopepaigeturner · 7 months ago

Text

"Cause the sign on your heart said it's still reserved for me"

Sophie Beckett left Benedict Bridgerton and their 'situation-ship' the day she shoved his Star Wars shirt in the bin. A day that she pledged she would no longer settle for the scraps people gave her.

Two years later and a serendipitous meeting brings her face to face with him, and an apparently reformed Benedict pledges to treat her right--if only she would give him a second chance.

But the question is, should she? And can they overcome the past to secure a happier future?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Read the first two chapter on AO3 here.

SHOUT OUT: This is a sequel to @tilly-tilly-2827 'Light Switch, so all credits go to her for kickstarting this au! Read Light Switch here'.

Benophie Week: Day 2- 'Second Chances'.

#NEW FIC ALERT #lovers to strangers to lovers again #second chances #modern au #benophie #benophie week #benophie week 2024 #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #is that a T Swift lyric?#ah yees

25 notes · View notes

when-wax-wings-melt · 1 year ago

Text

Sokeefe Week 2024 Prompts!

Sokeefe Week begins on January 1st and ends on January 7th, but creations will still be accepted and compiled for months after the date!

Prompts:

Day One: Royalty

This is a good day for soldier/poet/king in any combination, if you are so inclined. Thief, rebellion, bodyguard/knight, servant, arranged marriage/alliance, ball/cotillion/coronation, whatever you please!

Day Two: Escape/Return

Maybe Keefe is running away, or maybe you’re exploring a swap where Sophie does instead. Maybe it’s literal, or maybe they’re finding an escape in each other, or something else. Secret hideouts, Unlocked/Stellarlune fix-it, prison break, breakup/second chance, anything you want! Escape can be about running away, cowardice, terror, or acceptance. It’s about leaving, but can also be about coming back.

Day Three: Meet-Cute

First date (blind date?) or coffeeshop au, maybe their friends introduce them in college or school or work, same class first day of school, or even a rewrite of the canon first meeting?

Day Four: Enemies

Rivals in school or work, competing cafes or stores or businesses, opposites attract, born and altered and raised to hate, Neverseen vs Black Swan... you could probably slip some soulmate action in here too.

Day Five: Lies/Truth

Think about foundations. This is a good day to explore childhood, confessions, and secrets— all of which Keefe and Sophie have in multitude. Tearful or sweet or angry, this day can be about broken promises and kept ones. Growth and stagnation: two things that very clearly define our lovely ship.

Day Six: Fix-It

Is there a scene in canon that doesn’t fit? The characters don’t feel right, the scene is slightly off, the situation isn’t realistic? This could apply to any time Sophie and Keefe have a scene together or any time they didn’t: what can you change to explore new possibilities?

Day Seven: Free Day

Whatever you didn’t do before, do now! The possibilities are endless: soulmates, tattoo artist/flowershop, artist/musician, nightmares/dreams, cowboys, mermaids/pirates, mythology au, historical au, crossover fic, injuries, healing, dragons/shapeshifting, switched bodies or abilities, human au, college roommates, and anything else that comes to mind!

Guidelines:

Tag your host when you create writing, art, animatics, poetry, gifs, aesthetics, moodboards, songs, playlists, or anything that happens to inspire you! Tag the post with #sokeefe week 2024

Take the time you need to complete the prompts, no matter what the “dates” are!

Reminder: The prompts and ideas are suggestions, not constraints. Go wild!

#do you think i have a future in graphic design fellas #summer rambles #sokeefe week 2023 #sokeefe #keephie #team foster-keefe #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #keefe sencen #sophie foster #sokeefe week #kotlc theme weeks #kotlc ship weeks #IS IT NOT LOADING

90 notes · View notes

sea-owl · 1 year ago

Note

In your hunger games au what was the arena like for each other spouses?

Like what type of area they fought in? That's an interesting question, hold on let me think.

Simon: Simon's arena was miles of open fields. There was nowhere to hide, and the only option was to kill or be killed. Tributes had to be on gaurd every second in case another tribute or mutt spotted them. This led to many forgoing sleep, including Simon, lomg enough that the gamemaker debated leaking a gas into the arena so the tributes wouldn't make the games boring by passing out from exhaustion.

Kate: Kate's arena was rows and rows of different crops, trees, and other items one would need to help survive. It honestly seemed too good to be true, and it was. What the gamemakers didn't tell the tributes was that each time they picked an item, it was a gamble. Was what they grabbed the real thing or something the gamemakers mutated to kill them. The thing is, Kate's too stubborn to go down so easily, and she took great satisfaction of killing the mutation for her prize.

Sophie: Sophie's arena basically looked like the ruins of a city with nature beginning to overtaie it. This arena really urgered Capitol citizens even more to send her gifts. It's hitting a little too close to home that this tribute who looks so much like their Capitol children is wandering around, scared and fighting for her life. Sophie, who was always more comfortable among nature, stayed closer to that part of the ruined city, which she unknowingly played on the Capitol citizens even more.

Penelope: Up above were a set of islands, each one with a different terrain that a tributemight gravitate towards based on their home. But underneath was an underwater cave system with a few openings a tribute could set up camp. Penelope frequently used to hide herself in between leaving her messages to mess with the other tributes. Being from District 4, she and her district partner had the best chances of navigating that cave system. If it wasn't for that tracker and underwater cameras, the gamemakers probably would've called her death when she first discovered it.

Phillip: Phillip's arena is very much like Haymitch's. Pretty, but all that it really is is pretty poison. Phillip knew the prettier the plant, the more likely it's poisonous and he was proven right when he found plants he knew were poisonous because they grew back in District 7. Unsure of what the other plants did, he picked the poison he knew and used it to coat his weapon. He hunkered down and waited after that. He won't seek the other tributes out but he's also not dying in this arena like George did.

Michael: Michael's arena was rocky terrain with many cliffs and a never-ending fog. Many of the tributes fell or were pushed to their deaths over the cliffs. Michael himself even used the cliffs when he realized one was unstable and managed to switch positions in battle with another tribute who fell after the cliff broke out from under them.

Gareth: Gareth's arena was a little different as it was in an abandoned mansion. The gamemakers really wanted to stick it to Victor Danbury that her beloved grandson would die surrounded by all these broken luxury comforts. District 1's export was broken in this arena just as they planned to break District 1's tribute and District 1's victor. Many rooms in the mansion had a different way to kill you. What the gamemakers failed to realize though is that Gareth recognized many of these items and was able use the broken pieces against other tributes.

Lucy: Poor Lucy got thrown into a swamp, and everything was constantly wet. A few tributes managed to die from trench foot. Lucy tried to keep herself as dry as she could by climbing the trees. This also helped in her plan to secretly take other tributes because constantly looking down for any dry spots made it easier for her to shoot from the trees.

#bridgerton #hunger games au #victor spouses #simon basset #kate sharma #kate sheffield #sophie beckett #penelope featherington #phillip crane #michael stirling #gareth st clair #lucy abernathy

34 notes · View notes

alaydabug2 · 5 months ago

Text

Tag list: @sparklenarniawizard @imobsessed123 @thoughtlescat @ilikebookssomuch

Broken heart/Broken mind

Chapter Fifty-one

(Human AU)

Sophie and Keefe met in the children's hospital when they were little. Because of how long they were confined to the four walls of the hospital, they became very close during their stay.

As the years pass, they wind up being in the same classroom together due to their physical conditions. This makes their bond deepen.

But are they able to handle when life gets tough, throwing problems and complications their way?

Sophie placed her books in her locker. She took out the heart-shaped box of chocolates and placed it into her purse. She picked it up from the store yesterday for Keefe for Valentines Day.

She started heading her way to PE. Because of the holiday, the coaches were giving them a free day to exchange valentines.

Arriving at her class, she scanned the gymnasium. She spotted Keefe at the other end of the room with Fitz and a couple of the other baseball players. She walked over but didn't interrupt until they were done talking.

"Hey, I got you something," Sophie told him. She gave him the box of chocolate. "Happy Valentine's Day

His face lit up. "Thank you! Here, I got you something, too."

He turned around to pick something up off the bleachers. When he turned back to her, he placed a bouquet of roses in her arms.

Sophie grinned. "I love it." She got on her tip toes to kiss him.

Once they pulled away, Keefe asked, "So do you have any plans tonight?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. How come?"

His grin turned sly. "I'll pick you up at six, then." He leaned in for a hug. In her ear, he whispered. "Wear something nice. But, then again, it's you, so anything you wear is nice."

Sophie's face heated up more than it had in a long time.

Sophie looked through her closet, trying to figure out what to wear. She wasn't exactly sure where they were going. All she knew was to wear something nice. But that could be subjective depending on where they were heading.

After about fifteen minutes of back and forth between jeans and a dress, she finally called Biana for help.

On the fourth ring, Biana awnsered her phone. She was in front of the mirror, applying some mascara.

"What's up, girl?" She asked when she placed the mascara wand down.

"I need help with getting ready for a date tonight. He was being cryptic with where we're going, and I don't know what to wear.

"Hmmm," Biana thought. "How exactly was he being cryptic?"

"He just told me to wear something nice and that's it."

"Let me see your closet."

Sophie got up and opened the door. She switched the camera around fo Biana could see.

"So, do I wear jeans or-"

"Nope!" She cut off. On the video call, she pointed to the left.

Sophie reached into her closent to grab her red dress. "This one?"

"Yup! Now go try it on."

She turned off her camera as she got the dress on. When she got turned it back on, Biana squealed.

"Ok, now what are you doing for makeup."

Sophie shrugged. "I don't know. I don't really have much to work with."

Biana rolled her eyes. "Just show me what you have"

Sophie went into her bathroom. I side her makeup drawer was mascara, a small

eyeshadow pallet, concealer, and a lip gloss.

"We can work with this," Biana said before walking Sophie through what to do. Once finished, she seemed mighty pleased with her instructional work.

Sophie smiled. She had to admit that she did a decent job.

"Thank you," she told Biana. "I really appreciate it. Are you and Dex going anywhere?"

She lit up. "We are, actually. Going to go for ice cream and then to the fair in town."

"Well, I hope you have fun."

"You too!" She turned to somewhere out of frame. "Oh! I gotta go. Bye!"

"Bye!"

When Sophie got off the phone, she picked up her purse and put on her shoes. By the time she had sprayed on her perfume, she heard a knock on the door.

She hurried to go awnser it. She was extremely grateful she didn't wear jeans when she opened the door to find Keefe in a tuxedo.

He smiled and offered out his hand. "Shall we madame?"

She took it and dipped an exaggerated curtsy. "We shall."

He opened the car door for her, then went to get in the driver's seat. Sophie asked several times, but he still wouldn't say where they were going.

Sophie finally got her awnser when they pulled up to one of the fanciest restaurants in town. She gasped.

"How did you..." The words died on her tongue.

First of all, how did he get the reservation? She knew from her parents it could take months. Second of all, how in heck did that boy think he could afford this place?

Keefe must've been able to feel her unanswered questions, because he started to explain, "It was supposed to be a gift from Bo's family to him and Ro for Christmas. Well, for obvious reasons, they didn't want to keep it. Soooo, Ro offered it to me, saying the reservation was for Valentines Day, and I could surprise you with it."

"Aww," Sophie cooed. She reached over the center console to hug him. "You're too sweet!"

#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc sophie foster #kotlc keefe sencen #sokeefe #fanfic #Broken Heart/Broken Mind

10 notes · View notes

straykidsreactionsandscenarios · 2 years ago

Text

Stray Kids Scenario - I Thought You Hated Me? ~ Seo Changbin

Post Date: 29th January 2023 Content: Smut/ Angst/ Fluff - Changbin x Fem!Reader + ATEEZ’ Wooyoung Word Count: 6.6K TW?: Non Idol!Au/ Enemies to lovers/ Fake dating/ Brother’s best friend/ First Time/ Mentions of a toxic relationship/ Corruption Kink/ Slight thigh riding/ Cowgirl/ Manhandling/ Marking/ Penetration (Unprotected, don’t do this)

Summary: Changbin’s ex girlfriend is getting beyond with her obessiveness and Changbin needs a get-away. What else better than for his best friend, Wooyoung, your brother, to set you up on a fake date to make Sophie back off, much what you hated the idea of. You don’t like Changbin one bit. But how long does the fake dating and hating each other last?

Scenario Mobile Masterlist Prompt List

If you like my stuff and wanna tip, just buy me a coffee!

“Oh look, your favourite person is walking this way,” Wooyoung tries to hold back a loud cackle, alerting his best friend of the presence of Changbin’s stalker... His ex-girlfriend, Sophie.

Sophie is insane and toxic. Changbin had cut off his relationship with her because she was out of control, harmful, and controlling. It was so unhealthy, especially her obsession with him even after the breakup. She just doesn’t want to let go. She can’t get it in her head that Changbin wants nothing to do with her.

Changbin only has to turn slightly and notice the familiar face running towards him, arms out in front of her as she jumps on him, and Changbin's eyes roll to the back of his head in frustration. Trying to gently get her off him, he attempts to ignore her existence but it is proven almost impossible when she keeps trying to touch him.

"What do you want now, Sophie?" Changbin lowly growls between gritted teeth, side-eyeing Wooyoung, in search of some help in getting her away from him. Changbin doesn't want to react too badly, considering they're standing in public outside of the gym they regularly go to, probably why Sophie knew exactly where he would be.

"I miss you, please. I'm sorry, can we please work things out?" Sophie coos at him, pulling at the fabric on his arm, making it extremely difficult for him to contain his anger towards her.

"No. Please leave me alone," He asks as politely as he physically could, trying to refrain from any public conflict, Wooyoung seems to have no idea how to help. He just stands there giving Changbin weird looks as he switches his eyes between his friend and his crazy ex.

But as a good best friend would, Wooyoung tries his absolute best to think of something, on the spot to try and save his best friend as Sophie is persistent and repeats herself as she starts to whine a 'please' at him. "Sophie, leave him alone. He said no".

Sophie instantly shoots Wooyoung daggers, arms dropping to her side as she looks at Changbin, ignoring Wooyoung's existence, "But he's the love of my life, I can't let you go my handsome Binnie Boo".

Oh, how the nickname makes Changbin cringe, thinking he might've thrown up in his mouth. In further frustration, his head throws back as he tries to move away from her, "I'm not your Binnie, you're not the love of my life. Get over it". His tone is a lot harsher but she doesn't seem to care what he has to say.

"Don't lie to me, I know you still love me!" Hitting straight with the dramatics, Sophie starts to well up, tears pooling in her eyes and this just gives Wooyoung the perfect idea. Stepping closer to Changbin, he places a hand on his shoulder, "Come on, brother. Y/N would be upset if you're late to your date with her".

Changbin's face starts to contort out of confusion, looking at his best friend like he's just eaten the last of his favourite cake. "What? What da-" then it sinks in, "Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I shouldn't keep her waiting, don't want you hating me for making your sister upset. Let's go".

"A date? With who?" Sophie asks in disbelief, the whole thing going over her head as a tear falls down her cheek.

Changbin turns to her slowly, placing a hand on her shoulder and forcing an apologetic face, softening his voice, "I'm sorry, Soph. Y/N, Wooyoung's sister has my heart. She's everything I've ever wanted and more. I've loved her since we were little. I guess I just didn't realise it until she stayed up with me all night after our breakup".

Of course, that was a lie. It's all an act to get Sophie off his back. In fact, you and Changbin would much rather not know each other at all. Hate is a strong word, but you and Changbin definitely hate one another, and can't stand being in the same room.

So the thought that that's the best cover-up Wooyoung could think of is a definite cause for him to give Wooyoung a firm talking to.

It's a mystery why you hate each other so much, but you just can't even look eye to eye. You've hated Changbin since school, he was always trying to put on a show and make a fool of himself, and you've just never seen what's appealing about Changbin. On the contrary, Changbin thinks you're a spoilt brat, being the favourite child and you act like it too.

"Well I hope you're happy!" Sophie cries as she runs off, leaving Wooyoung cackling as Changbin shoots him evil looks, pointing at him, "Y/N? Really?" Changbin whispers aggressively, arms wailing as his friend continues to laugh, "I'm so getting you back for that".

An hour goes by and Changbin goes back to his apartment, meeting his other friend for a game night whilst Wooyoung waltzes into your room, with a massive grin on his face. "What do you want?" You look up briefly from your book, already dreading what he's going to come out with.

"I need a favour," He whispers, partially shutting his eyes with his hand in front of him, pinching his index and thumb together, "Just a little favour".

"I'm not lying to mom and dad for you again, forget it".

"No, no. No need for that, it's not for me. Well, it is but... don't get mad..." His voice starts to get high-pitched as he sits on the edge of your bed, keeping a distance to ensure his physical safety after he tells you.

Dropping the book into your lap, your arms cross on your chest, unimpressed already. You're just waiting for him to say it.

"It's for Changbin..." He tries to say as quietly as possible.

"For who?"

"Changbin," He repeats a little louder, scratching the back of his neck as he smiles in hopes that'll help him get away with it.

"No."

It was an instant answer, the mentioning of his name makes your blood boil, and if you know your brother as well as you do, he's dobbed himself into some shit he can't get out of.

Leaning towards you with pleading hands, he whines, "Please!!", but you stick your ground, shaking your head at him as he practically lays on you, begging you. Slowly losing your patience, you snap, "What is the favour then?".

Wooyoung spaces himself away from you again, knowing you'll end up slapping him after he tells you. Almost ready on his toes just in case he needs to bolt it out of your door. Preparing himself, he looks at you, with the famous grin, "I need you to pretend to be Changbin's girlfriend... Only for a couple of weeks. Just to get her off his back".

"You're joking right?!" You yell, fists balling at you and glare at your brother, who's now on edge, waiting for the attack, "I hope she continues to bother him. What went through your mind to involve me in his issues? I don't care for him!".

There was nothing you wanted to do more than to hit him, but instead, you loosen the tightness of your fists and caress your temples, a headache forming from having to deal with your brother's antics on the regular.

"Please?".

"Fine... I'll do it but not for free. I need payment for you putting me through this torture," You sigh in defeat, his pleading eyes and hands giving you no other choice, and the instant return of the grin instantly makes you regret agreeing to it.

"I have 20 bucks," He quickly replies, pulling a 20 out of his pocket and handing it to you, offended when you just look at it, "50 and we can call it a deal," You add in an instant.

"Fine, I'll transfer you the 30 now".

"Thank you, you better love me for doing this. You know how much I don't like your best friend. Would rather lie to mom and dad for you," You laugh, choosing to laugh otherwise you'd cry and throw fists at him.

"Well... That's another thing-" He smiles, instantly dropping the smile when you shoot him more daggers with your eyes, "I'm joking! I promise not to ask for a favour ever again!" He backtracks himself, laughing as you snatch the 20 out of his hand, placing it in your pocket and kicking him off your bed.

A few days go by and you're sitting on your bed, head in a book when your phone starts to ring. Picking it up without looking at the caller ID, you answer it and put the phone to your ear.

"Hey," You answer, unknowing to who was actually phoning you.

After taking a deep breath and trying to remember that you've agreed to do a favour for him, Changbin replies, "Hey, Y/N. Thank you for doing me a favour. I know neither of us wants this, but I thought I'd ring you to thank you".

It was difficult for him to be civil but he really was grateful you'd do this. Of course, he knew you had a price for it but that wasn't an issue for him, even transferring Wooyoung another 50 to send to you too, just for the favour.

"Ugh, it's you, yeah. I guess. Would much rather be someone's fake girlfriend, but you've both paid me to do this so I can't complain I suppose". It was difficult for you too, but you couldn't be too mad about it like you said, you've been paid for it.

There's a moment of excruciating awkward silence before Changbin perks up again, "So... With this whole fake date thing, would you go out on a fake date with me tonight? Just to where Sophie works so she sees for herself and actually get a grip?"

It makes you cringe so badly that you have to do this but you have to say yes, you weren't doing anything else for the night, so you agree to do it, agreeing on a time and meeting place before hanging up and forcing yourself to get ready for the night.

Hearing a small knock at your door, you sluggishly walk over to open it, being welcomed by Wooyoung's smug face, "Oh, you look nice for your little date~" He sings lightly, dancing on the spot as you roll your eyes and walk away from him, going back to doing your make-up.

"Don't taunt me, I'm doing this as a favour and a favour only. Maybe I'll ask for better payment, maybe a payment per date I have to go on," You retaliate, making Wooyoung's hands fly up in defence.

Whilst you're bickering with Wooyoung, Changbin is also sluggishly getting ready, dreading the night as it could either go extremely well and Sophie is off his back for good, or either one of you will end up making it too obvious that it was just a scheme. Hoping for the prior, he walks into the kitchen, the panic of the night making him thirsty, grabbing himself a glass of water.

Minho walks into the room, leaning on the door frame and lets out a low snicker, "Well don't you look good for your date".

"Fake... Fake date. You know how much me and Y/N hate each other, I'm going to ruin Wooyoung when I have an idea what to do," Changbin bites, leaning on the countertop whilst his friend continues to laugh, "I bet 20 bucks that you'll end up together officially".

"There's no way, she's doing me a favour and that's all it is. Once Sophie gets the hint I don't love her anymore and backs off, Y/N and I can go back to our own lives. I'm hoping tonight is the only night I'll have to spend with her".

Patting his friend on the shoulder cockily, Minho passes him to grab himself a drink, "Whatever you say".

- Time Skip -

Patiently waiting at the agreed meeting spot, Changbin rocks on his heels, nerves going through him and regrets letting Wooyoung even consider this to be an option but he starts to consider how this may help sort things out between you both.

It could potentially be a thing where Wooyoung's playing devil's advocate, unintentionally making a bad situation into something that could turn out better than expected.

However, Changbin is grateful that it's you in some kind of way and not anyone else, understanding that there's mutual feeling in this but he knows for one thing, he definitely won't be able to hate you if all goes well and the plan works. He'd be able to tolerate you, maybe even consider you as a friend but that was as far as he'd go. For now.

"Well don't you look... decent," A slight snarky comment is heard from behind him, turning to see you and without realising, a smile grows on his face and he's in awe at how good you look.

He's never really paid attention to how you look, but you're so attractive, and he couldn't deny appreciating good looks. It must run in the family "I guess you do too".

Same for you, using the word 'decent' for him is an understatement. He looks better than decent but you weren't going to admit to yourself that he looks amazing, well kept and that smirk? You weren't going to listen to the heart in your chest that's pounding so much it could burst out of it.

"You ready to put on a show?" He distracts you from your subconscious arguing with yourself, offering his hand out as you take it, surprisingly neither of you has a major reaction to the physical touch, remembering this is just for show. Just a fake relationship.

Walking into the restaurant, you’re greeted by the person who you’re putting this whole show on for, the waitress, Sophie. The second she looks up from the desk, her heart drops. She looks for signs of a possibility but with the way Changbin pulls you closer, arm now around your shoulder as he kisses your temple, she chokes on her words.

"Table for two, please?" Changbin politely asks, smiling as your hand rests on his on your shoulder, looking at Sophie with a smirk as you watch her crumble on the inside, maybe this will be more fun than you thought.

The physical touch and affection that you're receiving bothers you slightly but you have to admit, Changbin is a true gentleman, gentle and courteous. You couldn't complain, he wasn't saying anything or doing anything bad and just as you keep reminding yourself, this is going to be worth it. It'll all end soon.

"Of course..." She chokes, "Right this way".

You could feel the jealousy and hate towards you radiate off her and you find yourself enjoying it, really wanting to play on it as you stand next to your assigned table, making sure that she was watching you as you reach up to place a soft kiss on Changbin's cheek after he pulls your chair out for you.

"You're really getting into this," He remarks, smirking as he watches you take your seat.

Shrugging, you turn to him, "It's the perks of fake dating, plus she really hates this. I like a little drama and being a little petty sometimes". Your reply makes his eyebrow rise, his smirk growing slightly bigger as he hands you the menu.

At this moment, Changbin realises you're really all not that bad, actually considering that he might enjoy this more than he's expecting to. Maybe Minho was right to a certain extent, just not the whole dating thing.

Whilst he's scoping through the menu, you just by chance look up from yours and your eyes fall onto his face, making your heart flutter a little more as you somehow start to appreciate that he's more than just good-looking, realising that he's a genuinely good guy.

However, this starts another fight in your head, that it's just a facade purely for the intentions of why you're fake dating in the first place, but something in your mind and in your heart wants to break free to yell at you that you've thought wrong about your brother's best friend this whole time.

"Are you guys ready to order?" Sophie forces her customer service voice and a smile as she glares at you, cursing you and the ground you walk on as she awaits an answer from either one of you.

Looking at you, Changbin nods, gesturing to you to order first, "Hmm, I think I'll have the steak, medium, and a glass of wine please", You ask, putting on the fakest, softest voice you could, smiling back at Changbin who's grinning more than he has since you've met up.

"Oh, good choice, baby. I think I'll have the same, and a side of garlic bread, please?" He looks up at Sophie, writing down the order and it was clear as day that she was not happy in the slightest.

Walking away with your order, Sophie looks back over her shoulder and it's clear that there are tears in her eyes, trying to hold them back before disappearing behind the bar.

"She doesn't seem happy at all, I think it's working," Changbin scoffs behind his hands, cupped together in front of his face, the smile never going away, only growing more when you look up at him, eyes sparkling in the light.

"I think she's ready to cry, I feel kind of bad for her," You tilt your head, hand down on the table whilst the other supports your head, shoulder on the table, "But as long as she leaves you alone after this, it's a win-win".

Both of you at this moment realise that the hatred you had towards each other was seriously useless, that you hated each other on no grounds, but out of pure distaste because you just couldn't ever see eye to eye. In this moment, you realise that you're willing to get past that as your heart flutters when he looks up at you.

Unconsciously, Changbin's hand is on top of yours, caressing the back of it and you think nothing of it, maybe he's noticed that Sophie is looking but he really couldn't look anywhere else, utterly infatuated with you in silence. Only really realising what he's doing when you move your hand slightly.

This setup is the sign of bad intentions going right, and both of you struggle to even consider letting the other know that you can't really have the same feelings for each other that you had, just waiting patiently for your food in such awkward silence.

"You know what, this date... I mean fa-" Changbin gets cut off by Sophie coming over with your glasses of wine, silently putting them onto the table before walking away, now with a huge amount of attitude, not even being able to look at either of you.

"You were saying," You lightly brush up, taking the glass into your hand as you go to take a sip of the wine, Changbin's cheeks turning a light pink as he dismisses it, "Nothing, just saying that this is doing well, she's getting the hint I think".

In reality, he wanted to say he's genuinely enjoying this night for more than what it was intended for, actually enjoying your company. Not thinking much of it, you just agree with him, trying your best to ignore the fluttering of your heart when your eyes meet again.

"I still hate you," You whisper as quietly as you can, raising an eyebrow at him, getting the same in return.

Not waiting for much longer, your food comes out, being placed in front of you as you start to dig into it, making small talk about what you're both up to whilst trying to keep an eye out for Sophie's presence so you can play on the fake dating ordeal. Though she tends to keep a distance, seemingly just wanting to give you both safe and safe to say, she's realised that she has no chance of getting Changbin back.

Though you're both full, you couldn't resist eyeing up the dessert menu, thinking why not take the opportunity to make the most of the night? And oh, was the dessert so worth it? Especially for the price as well, neither of you could say no to the new waitress that comes over.

"Come here, you have something on your lip," Changbin sighs in a teasing voice, leaning across the table, grinning as his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, making you smirk at the warmth of his touch, your heart pacing faster than ever before.

"Thank you, Binnie," You reply, unintentionally giving him the nickname, making Changbin's heart race as he remembers, it's part of the act. But he wants nothing more than for it to be real.

In the time it took for you to order dessert, wait and receive it, Changbin's mind floods with ideas of making a first move on trying to "improve" your relationship, not wanting to be enemies anymore and if he is to listen to his heart, maybe he starts to think more of you.

You're pretty, you're kind, funny, and just amazing in his eyes and he's kicking himself that he's never noticed it before. Not that he's really had the chance to in the past, always being around Wooyoung and thinking he hated you too much to even acknowledge you.

Just as you're about to leave, Sophie calls Changbin, "Go wait outside, princess. I'll be there in a minute," He says in a soothing voice, caressing your cheek before letting you love, "What do you want Sophie? Thank you for being a great server tonight".

Taking a deep breath, she nervously looks for the words to say, fighting back tears as she struggles to look at him, "I hope you're happy with her, I want nothing more than for you to be happy. I'll love you forever, but I know I need to let you go".

"You do, and I'm happy. More than I thought I would be, she's..." He realises that there's more to the night than just the fake dating, but the way he smiles whilst thinking of you, he's smitten, "The best. I wish you the best, Sophie. There's someone out there for you," He nods to her before meeting you outside, sighing and throwing his head back, in relief.

"What did she want?" You laugh, making the first move to walk back home.

"Only that she's noticed how happy I am..." He starts, stopping himself momentarily when you turn to look at him, "With you".

Standing on the corner of the street, you couldn't help but laugh at him, but notice how serious his expression has gotten, genuine eyes with the softest smile on his face. And for a moment, you're infatuated, couldn't get your eyes off him, unknowingly getting closer to him, and kissing him.

"What are you-" He gets cut off by the sudden feeling of your lips on his, hands resting on his shoulders as his snake around your waist, slowly melting into the kiss and sighing happily.

The kiss was totally unintentional, you didn't even know why you did it, but god, did it feel good. Sophie wasn't even watching and even if you would try to use that as an excuse, you couldn't deny how you felt after you finally got out the one thing you wanted to do, just to confirm the feelings that brew inside of you.

Pulling away from the kiss slowly, Changbin's smirk was nothing like you've seen from the night, his eyes turning sultry as he looks down at you, tongue between his teeth as you panicked, removing your hands from him and walking away quickly.

Only to stop yourself, take a deep breath and come to terms with what you've just done.

"I thought you hated me," His sarcastic, teasing tone was enough to make you bite your tongue, his hands slowly returning to your waist from behind as you couldn't even look at him.

"I do".

"Sure you do, that's why you kissed me," His voice deeper and quieter, inching his head closer to your ear, "And what a good kisser you are, for someone who hates me".

Maybe it's the whole "fake-dating" thing that's gotten to you, maybe it's the pent-up rage from Wooyoung making you agree to do this for Changbin that's made you unable to think clearly, but there's one thing now, there's no way you can take that back. You kissed your brother's best friend, who you've claimed to hate for years, and now? The pent-up frustration with yourself turns into something a lot more... Sexual.

Turning around swiftly, your face is barely a centimetre away from him, almost as if he's challenging you to see if you'll kiss him again, and so you do, but this time, it turns into more of a make-out session, in perfect view if Sophie was to notice.

"I hate you," You breathe through the kiss, fighting back every urge to rip his clothes off there and then, "Sure you do," He responds cockily, pulling away before taking your hand, "Come on, you're not going home now, let's go chill at mine".

And you aren't going to say no. There's no way you could say no. Maybe you'll regret this by the end of the night, but right now, you thought you've gotten this far, how much worse could it get?

The second you get through his front door, your lips reattach, and there's no mercy in the way you kiss each other, with fiery passion as you fight with your tongues, making your way to his bedroom, completely ignoring the fact that Minho was in his bedroom.

"You still hate me now?" He cockily asks, gently laying you down on his bed before his lips attach to your neck, making you sigh heavily and pant at the feeling that sends shivers down your core and a burning sensation pools there too.

Never have you been in this type of situation, and never have you had someone touch you like this. It was your deepest, darkest secret that you've only ever gotten as far as foreplay with someone, never really finding the want or need for sex, until now.

"Wait," You quip, slight panic setting in when his hands make their way under your shirt, warm hands on your bare skin on your sides.

"I'm sorry, do you want me to stop?" He says with a pure apologetic tone, instantly retracting his hands and leaning back on his heels to give you a little bit of space.

Looking up at him, the feeling of reassurance you instantly feel when he gently caresses your thigh makes you comfortable, "I've just never done anything with anyone really," You say in an almost whisper, almost sounding apologetic, but the reassuring smile on his face couldn't be any more help than it already is.

Hearing that, it just makes Changbin's mind go wild with thoughts of him being your first, finding it to be a huge shame that you've never known what a good night really is, with a slightly smirk and a seductive tone, he leans in so his face is almost touching yours, "That's okay, I can show you how to have a good night. Only if you want it though".

He doesn't move his face, just staring at you with lustful admiration, your eyes wide and glued to his as you do as you did earlier on, randomly kiss him with your hands grabbing at his biceps, tongue swiping his bottom lip.

"Do you want to stop? You can say so if you need me to?" Changbin asks again, softer, his voice lighter as he presses another kiss to your lips.

You shake your head slowly in reply, taking a deep breath before reaching to kiss him back, with much more passion than it has been for the last few minutes, "I trust you".

Looking into your soft big eyes, there's something about your innocence and the change in attitude from you that sends him over the edge. He now wants to make it extra special as his feelings play on his mind, finding that at this moment, he's completely and utterly falling over heels for you.

A gentle gesture of his thumb caresses your cheek as you look back at him, smiling, you realise that you seriously wouldn't do this with anyone else, under any circumstances. The night going from being a fake date, hating each other to now being underneath him without any anger or hatred towards him, your heart warms at the thought that maybe you're second-guessing your hatred, maybe this night will definitely change the relationship between you both and you weren't going to fight it.

The passionate kisses turn into something heated as his hands find their way to your waist, holding you tight as there's no space left between you. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you gently pull on it with the flow of the kisses, soft pants and whimpers in between.

Ths kissing is enough to make your core pool with a burning sensation for him, and the way he smirks into the kissing, your mind is going insane.

"So you don't hate me?" He pulls away, fingers teasing at the hem of your shirt, his smirk permanent on his face as he slowly teases it up your body.

"Shut up and fuck me already," You quip, winking at him as you take control and take your shirt off instead.

The drastic change in your attitude makes him feral, his eyes turning lustful and his mind going places he never thought he'd go to, especially thinking about you. You're going to be the one he's never going to be able to let go of now.

His lips were on your lips now they were across your collar bone, making your chest rise at a quickened pace, making you pant as the gentle touch of his lips on your bare skin made their way down your chest until he reaches the top of your bra.

His hands tease around your back and within seconds, the bra is unhooked, sliding them off your body before his lips wrap around one of your nipples, making you gasp at the feeling. Tongue swiping across the sensitive nub whilst his hand caresses the other, thumb brushing over the other nipple, making you whine more.

Just above the nipple, he marks the skin, sucking and licking over the bruise as it rises to the top, leaving a dark red blotch, continuing this on as he lowers himself down your body, marking your bare skin with hickeys from your chest to just above the waistband of your trousers.

Within seconds, they're gone too, his eyes dark and sultry as he glances up at you, with a pout on your lips, face reddened by how hot it was getting in the room. but also with how good he's already making you feel.

Wanting to match with you, he gets rid of his own clothes, throwing them onto the floor haphazardly to join yours.

In the time it takes him to do this, you get the greatest idea, pushing him back onto the bed as his back hits the wall, legs lying across the bed, situating yourself onto his lap.

Though before you could even find yourself to be sitting perfectly on his lap, you land on his thigh at first. The movement of trying to correct your position, your core brushing against your thigh, you whimper. The muscles of his thigh tense purposefully, making your head throwback when you roll your hips onto him once more.

The friction of his thigh muscles tensing and releasing against your core makes you whimper and whine, his hands back onto your waist, holding it firmly, letting out a low sigh at the sight of you getting off on his thigh alone.

"Awh look at you~" He coos playfully, teasing you as he pulls you over his lap, situating you properly and laughing when you glare at him, "Awh don't tell me you hate me now".

"I hate you," You lie through your teeth, of course, you hate him for teasing you but that's about it, now you're full of lust for him, even going as far as to say admiration for him too.

You're holding yourself up, watching as he carefully lines himself up to your core, soaked from all the teasing and kissing already.

"You're on top, you're in control," He says, smirking as you look down at him, slowly lowering yourself down onto him, taking your own time and as he said, you're in control.

There was seriously no need for foreplay at this point, you needed him, and you need each other. The tip was enough to have you crying, your head throwing back once again as you push through the slight pain from the stretch and sit down, letting him completely fill you up.

"Fuck!" He hisses, feeling your tight walls tensing around him, giving yourself a moment before you make another move, getting used to the feeling, "I love a girl on top".

With his words playing with your mind, finding his lips again, you slowly start to move on his cock, lifting and lowering yourself slowly. Making you moan on his lips as he eats them happily, hands moving from your waist to your ass, holding you up and giving each cheek a good squeeze.

"You're so fucking hot, riding my dick like such a good girl," He groans through the kisses, his grip getting harsher on the flesh of your ass.

This just gives you the incentive to bounce on his cock, moans filling the room as you cry his name. Loud enough you're sure that the whole street could hear you but you couldn't care.

"Who thought you, my best friend's innocent little sister could ride a dick so good, huh?" He continues, biting his lip when you roll your hips after slamming back down on him and loudly crying on his lips.

"Shut up," You manage to cry out, finding your head fitting in the crook of his neck, also finding this to be the perfect opportunity to mark him just as he did to you, leaving bigger and darker purple marks down his neck.

From this alone, he uses his strength, not that it was a challenge anyway to hold you up, thrusting up into you as you bite down onto his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head with barely audible cries and whimpers flowing out of your mouth. Your mind goes completely numb.

"Awh look at you, baby. Taking this dick so well, your moans are so sweet," Growling in your ear, something in the way your moans sound like sweet melodies to him turns him animalistic, growling more and digging his nails into you, biting your shoulder with little nips just to make you moan more.

Though he's loving every second of you being on top, he just couldn't hold back much longer, holding you with one arm, he gets to his feet with your legs wrapped around his waist. Holding you up, with no issue at all, he lifts and lowers you down onto his cock, just to show off his strength and of course, just to see your reaction when he does it so effortlessly.

The way his tip brushes right up against the sweet spot in this position makes you wail, screaming his name louder and louder each time as the knot starts to tie and tighten with a quickened pace. Almost too quick that you're ready to come all undone over his cock any second.

Feeling that you're so close, with the pulsating sensation around his cock, he nips at your ear lobe, making a deep sigh at the pleasurable sensation, "Fuck, is my pretty girl going to cum? Cum on this cock and still claim she hates me? Huh?".

And with that, your legs shake as the pleasure hits you hard. "Changbin! Fuck-!" You scream repetitively, holding onto his shoulders with everything you have as you tighten your grip around him, only bringing his own orgasm closer.

"That's it baby, you're okay," He reassures softly, lowering you down onto his cock, just letting it sit inside of you as you catch your breath and come to your senses, gently being placed back on the bed.

His finger traces your hairline, gently placing the stray hair behind your ear with gentle rocking motions with his hips meeting yours.

"I... don't hate... you," You sigh through your pants, smiling before another moan escapes your lips when his hips rock into you a little harsher, "Fuck!".

"I know you don't, princess," He huffs through another pleasure hit, the urge to cum getting harder to avoid, pulling out and hot strings of his cum covering your abdomen, the both of you taking in a deep breath as his cock twitches in his hands.

Sitting back on his heels, he just looks at your fucked out state, eyes fluttering, warm and a sheer layer of sweat coats both of your bodies.

Letting you lay there, he rushes to the bathroom, coming back with a warm wet cloth to clean you up, being ever so gentle with you. Even going as far as grabbing you one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, putting them on you so you didn't have to move.

"It's okay, don't move. I'll take care of you," He softly speaks, peppering the tip of your nose with kisses as he pulls down his shirt down your torso, shortly after getting himself into some clothes too, joining you in the bed and pulling you in close to him.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" You choke, finally back to reality, looking up at him as you're rested in his arms and against his chest.

"Because I can't bring myself to hate you, my heart won't allow it. I know today was meant to be a case of getting Sophie off my back, but I never thought I'd end up falling for you as I have," He whispers, head above yours, fingers tracing circles on your bare thigh.

"It's been a good day, I never thought I'd enjoy it as much as I have... Wait..." You completely didn't realise what he said as you try to continue on from the conversation of the fake date plan, the realisation hits you and you're wide-eyed.

"You... Like me?" You quickly add, turning to face him completely, and being greeted with the softest, sweetest smile, eyes pure with admiration.

"No... I hate you~" He teases, rolling his eyes jokingly before placing another kiss on your forehead, "I don't hate you, I wouldn't have let you kiss me if I hated you that much".

"Well, I still hate you," You poke your tongue out at him, giggling as he rolls his eyes again. Bursting out into laughter when he starts to tickle you, "No! Please," You squeal.

You try to get out of his grasp, "Okay, okay! I'll be honest, I'm glad Wooyoung unintentionally set us up. I don't hate you either, I think being in the restaurant and seeing how nice you actually are, made me realise that I've always needed someone... Like you".

"Now that's a conversation we have to have... with Wooyoung. I don't think he's going to be very happy that his plan worked but not to what he thought it would," Changbin breathed in, side-eyeing you before you both crack with laughter.

But that will be a conversation for another time, now you just wanted to enjoy each other's company. Now there's no hate in the way, you realise after a long night, you don't think you could be without each other.

Taglist: @hipster-shiz, @ateezreactionsandscenarios, @whatudowhennooneseesyou, @bellscamander

#stray kids #stray kids blog #stray kids fanfic #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids smut #stray kids hard hours #stray kids changbin #changbin #seo changbin #changbin smut #stray kids imagines changbin #stray kids changbin scenarios

181 notes · View notes