#comparatively hes bright eyed and bushy tailed!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sungbeam · 1 year

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𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬

model!choi chanhee x fem!assistant!reader

you were just supposed to be his assistant, but at some point, you'd come to mean a lot more to him.

6.4k words (WHOOPS my hand slipped), technically s2l, fluff, angst if u squint, slight pining?, kissing, model stuff and first world problems 😔✨, like one curse word, barely proofread

a/n: istg it wasn't supposed to be like this ;-; it would have been longer but i got impatient </3

Choi Chanhee once made a girl cry because she had forgotten his phone in the car. In his defense, he hadn't gotten much shuteye the night prior, but Kevin liked to always remind him of that instance.

They said that was the first, true moment the tabloids began painting him in a new light.

'Choi Chanhee, Model-zilla, Hits the Streets of Paris for Fashion Week Once Again'. 'Choi Chanhee's Ex-assistants Come Forward with Shocking Experiences'. 'Satin or Silk: the Truth Behind New's Refusal to Wear Alexander McQueen'.

The last one didn't even make sense; Alexander McQueen only used silk, anyway, and Chanhee had walked in one of his shows a few years ago. Chanhee simply hadn't the time to pen the designer into his schedule since.

The one about assistants? Well, they were all entitled to free speech, but that didn't mean that he would spare them any mercy if they decided to blatantly lie about him. He could always trust Lee Sangyeon, his personal attorney, to take care of business, if and when any of his ex-employees decided that a good payout was comparable to spewing filth.

Then there was you.

Chanhee hadn't needed a new assistant in a little over half a year since you came along. Fresh out of university with a bachelor's in communication and punctuality, you waltzed into his life, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You'd sat across from him, no-nonsense; he hired you right there. (He had not regretted it since. This was the last time he would let anyone but himself do the interview process.)

The best part about you was not that you always had his schedule memorized before he did, or that you appeared at his apartment before the car picked you both up with his favorite coffee order, or that you actually had decent taste in perfume—not… that he paid attention to what perfume you wore—but it was the fact that you could look him in the eye when he spoke to you, and you to him.

"—and you have a fitting with Chanel at five o'clock this evening right after that meeting with Maison Margiela about the perfume line. We'll have just enough time to—"

Wow, your eyes were pretty in this lighting, he thought. The two of you sat before the massive, floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse apartment. The entire city laid sprawling at your feet while you sat across from each other at his breakfast table, eating blueberry muffins and drinking lattes.

And for some reason, all he could think about was how nice your hair looked again today, how brilliantly the shine in your eyes was from the sunlight, how impeccable your fashion sense was—even if it wasn't perfect, but that could easily be remedied. Chanhee would have to remind you to remind him to—

"Chanhee. Chanhee, are you listening to me?"

He snapped out with a flutter of his long eyelashes. He reached for his cup of coffee, delicately bringing it to his lips. "Hm? Of course, Maison and then Chanel. Did Changmin cancel our dinner or are we still on?"

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips when he saw how your expression lightened knowing that he was paying attention. You idly stirred your latte around with a little silver spoon. "He says he's still good to go for tonight. Same place, same time."

A nod. "Good."

He nudged up the Prada sunglasses on his nose as he turned his head slightly to gaze out the open window. It was an awfully beautiful day out today. The sunlight was gentle, the skies were an azure wave of silk, sewn with clouds of white. "Yn, dearest, are we clear until the Maison meeting?"

You blinked. "Yes," you answered, checking your watch for the hour, "it's 10:32 right now."

"Mm, that gives us about five hours to refresh your wardrobe."

Your lips parted, and he smiled in amusement. There was something so adorable about your flustered state. "Excuse me?"

"Call it a little token of my appreciation," he sang, standing up from the table to deposit his empty plate and cup into the kitchen sink. "Could you call the driver to round the front?"

"Oh, uh, sure—"

"Thanks, love. I'll be back in a few," he called to you just as he disappeared into his bedroom to freshen up. You were left at the breakfast table, dumbfounded. You'd only ever gone shopping with Chanhee for him or for someone else. Not you. You were always on the clock when you were with him, and you figured he would probably take everything you bought today out of your paycheck, but…

You couldn't deny the flutter of excitement in your chest like the wings of a butterfly. This could either be the best thing that happened to you… or a complete shitshow.

There was something odd about walking into one of Chanhee's go-to leisure shopping stores—Dior—with the mindset that you were supposed to be shopping for yourself. Chanhee had asked the driver to pull up to the Dior storefront even as the regular paparazzi camped outside.

Your eyes gazed longingly at the Macy's across the mall.

Chanhee followed your gaze with a little scrunch of his nose. "Absolutely not," he clicked his tongue, dragging you out of the vehicle and to the sidewalk.

The press already dubbed you a "miracle" for being in his employ for longer than a day. But when they got shots of him literally hauling you into the Dior… you could imagine what they would all claim now. This was going to be a whole lot of cleanup, but you had learned after months of working with Chanhee that he was way tougher than he looked. He also didn't mind biting back.

When the two of you were safely stowed away within the guarded interior of Dior, you breathed easier.

Straightening, you greeted the staff members with a shallow bow, who did the same to both you and your boss.

Chanhee wiggled his fingers in silent greeting, then beelined for a white, quilted blazer on a mannequin. A worker scrambled after him to talk about the piece while another stuck by your side to make small conversation.

"How was your morning?" They asked you pleasantly.

"Oh, it was quite nice! How was yours?"

"Pretty quiet," they smiled. They were about to say something else when both of you were interrupted with Chanhee calling your name.

His eyes were pinned to you from over the rim of his sunglasses. Draped over his arm was a tapered coat of some sort, a dress, and… oh, god no. "Yn, come here."

You could already hear your wallet crying. "Chanhee, I literally cannot afford a single thing in here—"

He pressed a palm between your shoulder blades and steered you in the direction of the dressing rooms. "That's besides the point because I can afford them; that's what matters."

Surprise made your footing falter. "Huh?"

"Silly Yn-ie," he teased, "did you think I was gonna bring you all the way out here to not treat you?" Before you could say anything else, he was shoving the items into your arms, and your body into the grandiose space of the Dior dressing room. He winked over his glasses. "Now hurry and put them on. I wanna see!"

He ripped the curtain closed, and you stood there for a moment.

In your hands were the jacket, the dress, and a pair of shoes that probably cost you more than your entire bank account combined. You blew out a puff of air, just as you heard a staff member offer him a glass of champagne on the other side of the curtain.

"No getting out of this, Yn," you muttered to yourself, then began hanging everything up."

Chanhee was no stranger to the effect he had on people. In fact, he wielded it like a dagger. It was how he had gotten so far in this industry in the first place other than his immaculate good looks, of course. The face of an angel and an attitude of the devil—at least, that was what one article had said about him. He quite liked it, actually.

There was something wholly different about his effect on you as you stood beneath his scrutinizing, heated gaze, as you tried on piece upon piece. He loved being able to unabashedly stare at you, to take in your flustered expression as you did little spins for him in the outfit of choice. For once, you couldn't look him in the eye, and when you had done so once, it had been when his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

It wasn't just the champagne he was tasting.

It was the next morning when you appeared in his home at 7 o'clock sharp, as usual, but with a new accessory hanging off your arm. It was one of the more low-key purses he had bought you yesterday—and to be honest, it was actually one of his personal favorites. It was a Chanel one, of course, and it complimented your pant suit quite nicely.

"Morning," you chirped, handing him his cup of coffee as he stumbled out of his room in a silk robe and with a yawn widening his mouth.

Chanhee smiled at the sight of you, graciously accepting the coffee from you. He leaned against the countertop next to you. "Good morning," he murmured lowly, peering at you over the rim of the cup, taking a languid sip.

He sighed as the caffeine began working its magic. "How are you this morning, dearest? Have a good night?"

You had set your purse down on the island, then moved away from him only to go check his refrigerator to see if he needed anything restocked. Always so attentive. "I had a good night. How was dinner with Changmin?"

"Lovely," he said fondly. "I see you are putting my gifts to use." His fingers danced along the gold chain draped along one end of the quilted leather.

He swore your cheeks flushed, but then again, his eyes had never tricked him for a second. "Ah, yes. Thank you so much for yesterday, by the way." The fridge closed softly, and you grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter to wash and munch on. "I really don't know how I can repay you—"

Chanhee dismissed you immediately, his wrist flicking outward. "Pfft, none of that. I told you it was all a token of my affection," he grinned, propping his chin onto his palm across the island counter from you. "And gratitude," he added. "I don't say this to just anyone, Yn, and I don't buy just anyone all that stuff—but I did it because I appreciate you."

Your chewing slowed and you swallowed. "Oh."

He said it so easily. God, was he lucky to have met you.

Knowing he had successfully rendered you speechless once more, he laughed lightly, deciding to change the subject. "What's today's schedule like?"

You immediately straightened; this was something you knew like the back of your hand. It was much more up your alley.

As you ran him through his activities today, you failed to notice the difference in his posture, the softer smile on his face, and the way his eyes could not leave you for a moment, not even to drink his coffee.

Grueling was an understatement. Today had been one of the worst days of your working existence under Chanhee's employ. You'd endured rough days and nights before, but today, it seemed to have been hassle after hassle after hassle. You probably got around thirty-thousand steps by how much you ran around trying to find emergency kits and emergency outfits and running to the emergency dry cleaner's.

As much as the fashion world enthralled you, sometimes you wondered how anyone could survive it.

Chanhee was just as maxed out as you were by the end. It was maybe three in the morning by the time the two of you collapsed into the backseat of his driver's car. Streets were barren at this time in the ungodly hours of morning, and your joints ached every time you breathed.

Chanhee was quiet as well as he leaned his head back against the headrest to allow his body some rest. He just barely managed to get through that last shoot—clearly the directors had no clue what they were doing, he thought with a dead look in his eyes. That was how he felt—dead. If it hadn't been for you swooping in with a creative direction…

You were brilliant; that much he was certain of. Without you, that shoot might have dragged on for another couple of hours, or Chanhee would have just walked out. Usually, he had a good sense and eye for things, but with everything that happened today, for once, he didn't have the energy to yell or direct.

He needed to treat you to brunch tomorrow, if he was even able to wake up in time—

His inner thoughts halted when he felt a sudden weight fall upon his left shoulder. He froze up.

Your head had slumped onto his shoulder, eyes closed and no doubt deep asleep. Your bangs had fallen out from the bounds of your ponytail and draped across your face as you slept. He could smell the Miss Dior on you with this proximity.

Chanhee smiled to himself, taking his other hand and brushing the hair from your face and gently caressing your cheek. "Cute," he murmured.

By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of his complex, Chanhee had made a couple of executive decisions.

He lightly roused you from your sleep, cooing into your ear, "Come on, Yn-ie. Let's get you to bed, hm?"

You hummed, lifting your head from his shoulder with a yawn. You rubbed your eye with no care for the makeup smudging. "Chanhee? Why're you still here?"

Normally, the driver would drop Chanhee off first and then you, especially when it came to late nights like this. But… what… was happening?

Chanhee helped you out of the car, thanking the driver while mustering up a kind smile for him. "You're too tired, love. I'm taking you upstairs to my place."

"Wait, I can't—" but you weren't physically protesting; your body ached and ached and ached. But this was your boss, your employer. This wasn't professional.

"Yn, you're exhausted," he countered, buzzing into the building and helping you inside.

You couldn't argue with him anymore. You just wanted your face to hit a pillow and be out for the night. "Okay," you mumbled, letting him press your face into his shoulder on the ride up the elevator.

"Good girl," he sighed. He tilted his head back against the elevator wall, one arm wrapped around your middle and the other cradling the back of your head. Just a little longer, then the both of you could finally get some well-deserved rest.

You would argue you had seen Choi Chanhee at some of his best and worst moments. He was one of the most beautiful human beings on this planet, and yet, none of the prior moments could even compare to when you stumbled out of his bedroom to the sight of his back to you as he fried eggs and ladled waffle batter into the maker in the kitchen. He had a big T-shirt hanging from his lean frame, as well as a pair of loose pajama pants on, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he waited for everything to cook.

Even at ten in the morning, the light pink waves of his hair looked immaculately styled. You almost forgot he hadn't gotten a perm in awhile.

The panic of waking up in his sheets instead of yours had faded when you recalled your conversation with him just seven hours prior. He had managed to wrestle you into an extra set of sleepwear he just had lying around (Gucci, nonetheless), before he deposited you onto his bed, then promptly curled up outside on the living room couch.

You swallowed. Now what?

It was then that Chanhee turned around with an innocent look on his face. You watched as it melted into something softer at the sight of you. "Good morning, dearest," he beamed, "sleep well?"

Drowsiness lingered at the corners of your eyes, but you somehow managed a nod. "Yeah, how about you?" You asked him quietly. Actually, that had been some of the best sleep you'd ever had. Something about his sheets with high thread count and the smell of Chanhee lingering on everything. But you weren't just about to say that to him.

"Well enough," he replied. He waved you over. "Come sit; breakfast is almost ready."

Your eyes widened a smidge. That was for you? Now you really needed to go home. "Ah, I appreciate it, but I've practically overstayed my welcome—"

He sent you a look. "Yn, come have breakfast with me."

You caved. Because at this point, you'd already screwed yourself over. And breakfast really did smell nice; what was the difference between Chanhee making you breakfast and you bringing him breakfast from the café down the street?

(You didn't even want to go home, as much as your logical brain was trying to urge you towards.)

So the two of you breakfasted, and for a moment, you could forget, for once, that you were just supposed to be his assistant.

Some things changed after that morning, and Chanhee found himself getting you to stay over more and more often. Even if he had to come up with something stupid like "You haven't watched the 2001 New York Fashion Week rerun?" For some reason, you bought into all his excuses, and even though he knew it was probably because you were always attentive to his needs, a part of him liked to fantasize that you felt it, too.

The pull.

Something had shifted after that morning when he made you breakfast and the two of you ate together at the breakfast table. Sleep had lingered in your eyes, and your hair was a mess, but it was soft and beautiful and… he'd never been so in awe at someone's "I woke up like this" look.

His heart had leapt at the sight of you in those pajamas with that subtle pout to your lips.

God, he thought he might sweep you into his arms and kiss y—

"New. Chanhee. Choi Chanhee—"

He blinked, lifting his eyes from his menu to meet Changmin's. "Hm?"

Changmin wrinkled his nose at him, adjusting the sunglasses seated atop his head to hang from the collar of his dress shirt. (How it managed to hang with two buttons popped open, Chanhee chalked it up to fashion magic.) "You're awfully quiet today. What, tabloids finally shut you up?" He joked.

Chanhee rolled his eyes. "One of these days, I swear, they will render me speechless with their ridiculous delusions," he muttered airily, half-heartedly skimming the menu again.

He and Changmin were seated at their usual booth in their usual restaurant at their usual time. It was their weekly dinner together, something they had kept up since their university days in order to keep themselves grounded. They, of course, touched base with all of their university friends often, but the two of them were two peas in a pod. They even refused to let Sunwoo in on these weekly dinners specifically (something the younger friend was undoubtedly salty about).

Changmin could figure out when Chanhee was occupied with something other than the present. Usually, he was all up and out of his seat dealing out gossip or what torture he and you had been… oh.

Changmin cocked his head to the side, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried and failed to suppress a sly smile. "How's Yn these days?" He asked nonchalantly, lowering his eyes to the menu in front of him even though he always got the same thing every time.

To his credit, Chanhee didn't even react. "She's lovely as always. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno," Changmin drawled, "you haven't gushed about her like you usually do. I feel like you hang out with her more than me."

Chanhee raised a brow at his friend. "She's my assistant; of course I'm going to spend more time with her."

"Yeah, but—"

"And she's a lot more agreeable most of the time."

"Hey!"

Chanhee grinned in impish delight. "You asked."

Changmin sent him a stink eye, huffing as he raised his hand up to summon a waiter. "Yeah, whatever. Okay, but you literally refused to go out with me the other night, and when I texted Yn if you had a schedule, she said that you two were at home!"

That got his attention. Chanhee pursed his lips together, sheepishness peering through his smile. "In my defense, she hadn't seen New York Fashion Week in 2001."

"You hated that year, Chanhee."

"Exactly."

Changmin sighed to himself, and just as he was about to add on, a waiter came by to take their order. Once that was done, Changmin laced his fingers over the table and leveled his friend with a pointed look.

"Just admit that you like her."

Oh, Changmin. If only you could hear the rapid palpitations of his heart when you called him out like that. Chanhee blinked innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he swallowed.

It wasn't even two days later that Chanhee had you staying a little later at his place, once again. There was something jazzy and vibey playing in the background, while Chanhee finished up plating dinner and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. You were over at the small table by the window pouring wine into twin glasses, your hair pulled haphazardly out of your face (for the most part) with a pearl-studded claw clip from Chanhee's personal PR box.

(You blatantly refused, but he then reminded you that he couldn't even use the clip himself.)

Chanhee didn't often think about sharing his life with someone, but it was moments like these—moments when he heard you hum under your breath, moments when the two of you could laugh about the day over dinner, moments when you weren't just his assistant but someone closer—that he could indulge himself. He wasn't a very domestic person; since childhood, he dreamed of places far away from home, seeing sights and experiencing cultures… but if he could come home to you? And experience this every time?

Suddenly dinner was over, and you were collecting dirty dishware and glasses to bring to the sink to wash.

"Yn-ie, hey, I can wash those—"

"No, no! You made dinner; I am washing dishes," you asserted, pushing him away from the sink when he tried to come up to you.

Chanhee broke into a laugh, coming up behind you to set his hands on your shoulders and rub the upper parts of your arms. "Okay, okay. Thanks, love," he said. He didn't even think before he pressed a kiss to your cheek and walked off to go to the bathroom.

Your cheek tingled where his lips had been, and you turned the faucet on to drown out the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears. What was happening?

You felt like you were floating on air as you hummed to the music and washed the dishes, with the ghost of Chanhee's lips left lingering on your cheek. It served as a reminder of your growing affections for him. This was dangerous, dangerous territory, and yet… it was thrilling. It was new, bold, and delectable. It was Chanhee, for goodness sake.

He was the man you saw crying drunkenly over a cat video on TikTok, the man who lended you Gucci pajamas and his bed for the night. He was on the face of every magazine cover, always excited when you could read his mind about a certain piece of clothing. Everyone in the world wanted to be him or be with him. He was so out of reach, yet right in front of you.

Maybe it was the wine making your head buzz with this wave of unmitigated sentimentality.

You finished up with the dishes, drying off your hands with the towel hanging on the oven door. Chanhee sang your name out from somewhere deep inside his bedroom, and you followed his voice to his location.

He was seated on the rug in the middle of his walk-in closet, the white LEDs washing you with light. It was a far cry from the darkness of his bedroom and the warmth from the kitchen. Chanhee patted the spot next to him on the carpet, where he had a smattering of PR gifts littering the floor around him.

Curious, you lowered yourself next to him. "Are we sorting through PR stuff?" You asked, already making a mental catalog of all the things he'd probably want to keep and the things he'd want to donate.

Chanhee hummed his dissent, rising onto his knees and shuffling over to you. Your eyes widened as he stopped close to you and you held your breath. He raised a pair of twin diamond drop earrings from Tiffany and Co to your earlobes, eyes narrowed in consideration.

"No," he muttered, dumping the earrings into their box, then digging out another.

You scrambled to delicately put the earrings back into their proper holdings. "Chanhee, what are we doing?"

"You—" Chanhee returned with a pair of sapphire earrings this time, performing the same ritual as before, but this time smiling, "—are going to sit still and look pretty for me. I am going through the PR stuff for anything nice."

"Anything nice?" You parroted in disbelief. It wasn't like he just threw a pair of diamond earrings into a box like it wasn't nice, or anything.

"I've never seen you in pearls before," he said offhandedly. From a black velvet bag, he withdrew a string of pearls clasped at the end in gold. His mouth parted in awe, and you suddenly thought of how cute he looked. Chanhee, oftentimes, was attractive and elegant and spellbinding—but this Chanhee was adorable.

He eyeballed it around your neck, then moved to clasp the collar onto you. He brushed the stray strands of hair away from the nape of your neck, gently grazing the pads of his fingers along the warm skin there. The action sent a shudder down your spine, and you were reminded of the cheek kiss from earlier.

"There," he murmured, coming back around to inspect you from the front. "Looks much better on you than it would on me."

You scoffed, reaching up to touch the cool pearls seated on your collarbone. "I disagree wholeheartedly."

He had turned around to go digging again, but the grin he threw over his shoulder at you was a certified heart stopper. "Then we'll just have to go get me a matching one."

"This is the last time I'm letting a company get me lunch," Chanhee grimaced as both you and he feverishly dabbed at the sauce splattered on his cream silk blouse.

One of the interns working on today's interview and shoot had come to deliver him his lunch when you noticed that the sauce lid on top was a dark red and not the usual light mayo Chanhee always requested beforehand. That, as well as the fact that the lid wasn't fastened all the way. Suffice to say that when you were about to point it out, said intern became flustered at Chanhee's side profile and spilled his lunch onto him.

You made sure to send the intern away before Chanhee could react.

"This was the Burberry one Haknyeonie got me," he whimpered in devastation as he took in the mess of dark brownish-red on his chest.

"Hey, it's okay. The cleaner I usually go to can fix it up," you said, biting your lip and assessing the situation. You gave a sigh, straightening, then swiping at the dampness on your forehead. "For now, you'll have to change into something else."

Chanhee pouted. "I promised I would wear this one for the interview…" He glanced back over at the clothing rack in the far corner of the dressing room at the dozens of options he had, as well as the backups you had brought, when all he wanted was to wear the shirt Haknyeon had given to him.

You wondered how long you had until the interview. You wondered how fast you could run to the dry cleaners and how fast they could fix this, if only to make that pout on Chanhee's face go away.

He pursed his lips. "I'll change into the YSL one," he resolved, standing from his vanity chair to go grab the YSL blouse from its garment bag. "Y'know," he said to you as he disappeared behind the changing divider, "we'll probably see something about this in the tabloids sometime tomorrow, depending on how bored the press people are."

You leaned back against the vanity counter, mentally noting the time. Hair and makeup would be here soon since the interview was set for half past noon. Chanhee would have to wait until afterwards before he could eat lunch. You frowned, "It wasn't your fault, Chanhee."

"I know." You saw him drape the dirtied Burberry blouse over the top of the divider and you walked over to take it down and inspect the damage yourself. "But it doesn't have to be my fault."

Unfortunately, he was right. The press would do anything for a juicy story, even if that meant twisting the facts just a little. You abhorred those stories; you always saw Chanhee's eyes glaze over like a shield at the "model-zilla" headlines, when in fact, it had little to do with Chanhee's "attitude". You wondered if someone would blow up his reaction to this out of proportion—he hadn't said anything to the intern before they ran out of the room in tears, but you supposed if you had spilled coffee on someone with as much name power as Chanhee, then you would also freak out.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, leaning slightly against the divider. A weight sank into the pit of your gut; you felt pathetic. These were one of the few things you couldn't just fix for him.

You thought you felt him lean back against the divider on the other side. "Nothing to be sorry for, dearest. It's just a shirt."

It wasn't just a shirt. It wasn't just the tabloids.

Chanhee, being the professional he was, carried on through the interview and subsequent photoshoot with elegance and grace. He wasn't in a bad mood, save for the slight melancholy in his smile when the intern's superior came by to apologize profusely and offer to have the blouse dry-cleaned for him. Chanhee politely declined—he only trusted one person with his items.

When you and Chanhee finally made it back to his penthouse suite, the sun had disappeared into the seams of the horizon, hoisting a bejeweled night into the sky. Chanhee collapsed onto the couch face-first while you dropped everything on the floor by the door and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

"I'm making tea," you declared.

Chanhee raised his head slightly. "Me too please."

You got the electric kettle started and brought out two porcelain mugs. While you waited for the water to finish boiling, you fished your phone out of your pocket to check your messages to see if the dry cleaners had alerted you yet as to the status of the blouse. On the way back, you had swung by to get the shirt to the dry cleaners. Hopefully it would be done by tomorrow morning so you could go pick it up.

Chanhee shifted and adjusted his positioning on the couch. He sat upright, leaning his cheek against his fist. "Yn-ie."

"Hm?"

"I'm lonely over here."

You huffed air out of your nostrils in a silent chuckle, but obliged him and went over to the couch. He raised his arms up toward you, making grabby hands and pouting. "You're lonely?" You repeated in amusement, slotting yourself next to him and allowing him to curl into your side.

"Well, not anymore," he said into your shoulder.

The apartment filled with the sound of water bubbling on the stove and the muffled sounds of the city outside the window.

With nothing said, you could imagine for a second that this was not your job, but your life instead.

You felt him move a little, his arms wrapping around your stomach. "Thank you," he murmured, "for everything."

Your chest tightened. "Of course," you replied simply. Because doing all of this for him was as easy as breathing air now. Taking care of him had become as easy as breathing air. It was just that simple.

He was quiet again, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of your blazer. Something lingered in his mind.

"Yn…" He slowly brought himself to sit up straight, one hand braced on the cushion space between your bodies and the other on the back of the couch. His face was so close—you could see the baby pink hairs falling in his eyes, the bits of glitter on his eyelids, the length of his lashes brushing his cheeks. But there was something wobbling, shimmering in his irises like the ripples in a pool of water. "I think we need to talk."

Your voice was trapped in your throat. He was going to fire you. He was going to tell you that all of it had been a lie. He was going to—stop. Stop freaking out. You knew him. You knew him better than what the people on the outside only claimed to know about him. You gulped. "Okay."

Chanhee brought his hand up toward your face, but instead stopped short, his hand dropping. He wet his lip, head ducking for a second before meeting your eyes again. "You know how much I appreciate everything you do for me, right?"

Oh no.

You nodded shallowly, hands clasped in your lap. "Mhm."

"And you know that I would rather hurt myself before ever hurting you?"

You didn't like where this was going. "Chanhee—"

His eyes shuddered. "Just—just listen for a second. I promise I'll let you speak, just… I just need to get this out."

"I can't really think straight," you croaked. His cologne—god his cologne. You would die suffocating in his cologne, but he was so close and yet so out of reach.

You thought you saw hurt flash across his face. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry—" He was leaning back now, and you were internally hitting yourself. You'd never heard Choi Chanhee stutter before.

You resisted the urge to say "come back". Come back, where you could pretend that he was yours. Shit, this had gone too far. "Chanhee, I think I have to quit."

Alarm shot his eyes wide open. "What?"

"I can't keep working for you because I have feelings for you," you blurted, staring him straight in the eyes. "I have to quit because the feelings—the want—I have for you are so strong and precariously unprofessional. And I'm sorry, because this was the best job I could've ever gotten, but—"

Chanhee grabbed your face and crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. Shock had you freezing, but it wasn't long before you held him close and let him wholly devour you.

When he pulled away, his forehead was pressed against yours, the space between your lips near nonexistent. His hands were still cupping the sides of your face and his breathing was slightly labored; all either of you could feel, hear, smell, taste were each other.

"I love you," he whispered, almost inaudibly you thought you'd imagined it. But then he said it again, "I love you", and everything…

Everything settled.

"How could you?" After all, you were just… you. It seemed impossible that someone as high as he was could love someone like you.

His reply was simple, paired with a sweet return to your lips. "How could I not?"

You stood outside the massive, sky-piercing high-rise of Vogue headquarters, your heart pounding in your ears and your fingers drumming nervously against the seam of your dress pants. In about twenty minutes, you would be in the topmost office of the building interviewing for a chance to become CEO Anna Wintour's newest personal assistant.

"Well?"

You glanced over to your left where Chanhee stepped beside you, asking the driver to make a loop around the building and meet him back here in a few minutes. His hair, freshly dyed a silken midnight black, had grown slightly to mullet-length; and this morning, he was clad in a pristine white suit set in a classy contrast. A pearl collar sat on his defined collarbones like it was a throne. Beautiful, as always.

There were reporters lurking around here somewhere. That definitely didn't make any of this better for you.

You released a breath. "I've got this, right?"

He passed you a gentle, yet teasing grin. "Hey, you survived me. How much worse can she be?"

That made you crack a smile.

The two of you stood side by side staring up at the building for a moment longer. After you had quit being his assistant to instead be accepted as his partner, you and Chanhee worked to find you a new gig. You received about a hundred dozen job offers from lesser brands and big names when they all heard you were leaving Chanhee's employ on good terms. Anyone who survived Chanhee, and left with a stellar recommendation letter, was a hot commodity.

Chanhee reached for your hand, squeezing your fingers slightly. "Breathe, darling. You'll be in and out and hired before you know it."

He turned you around so you faced him. His tongue stuck out between his lips as he adjusted the pearl necklace around your throat, then the lapels of your jacket. "Wow," he breathed out.

"Huh?" You hummed with a smile in your eyes.

"You still take my breath away."

A nervous laugh fell from your lips, and Chanhee swooped in to taste it—that, your laugh.

"I love you," he murmured against your mouth. Nevermind all the press and paparazzi, or Anna Wintour, or anyone. This was just you and him, even for a little. You could imagine the headlines, but that was the last thing on your mind right now.

Your tongue swiped over his bottom lip to catch the last bits of him. "I love you, too."

There was a cunning glint in his eyes, offset by the soft smile on his face. "Okay, this is it. Call me if you need anything."

You began walking toward the entrance backwards. "What if I need you?"

His smile widened. "I said call me, didn't I? Anytime, anywhere." I'm yours.

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @tayunji @im-a-big-mess @honeyhuii @y3jiishot @crazywittysassy @seomisaho @stopeatread @enhacolor @rnjfy @jaehunnyy @kpopjackie @spiderrenjunfics @soobin-chois @mingiholic @ja4hyvn @ethereal-engene @justalildumpling @vatterie @yogurteume @kflixnet

#kflixnet #the boyz x reader #choi chanhee x reader #chanhee x reader #the boyz oneshot #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fanfic #the boyz imagines #the boyz drabble #the boyz fluff #chanhee imagines #chanhee scenarios #chanhee oneshots #chanhee drabbles #chanhee fluff

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dmc5se · 7 months

Text

i can't stand it anymore i have to let myself speak abt how much the physical difference between 2r leon and 4r leon (and other leons) hurts me . i have to

this is extremely incoherent rambling but i hope it makes some sense, i'll also probably talk a bit abt his character in general

leon's eyes in 2r are so bright and full of life despite everything. he's still optimistic. he looks healthy, he doesn't look tired, his hair's rather neat and tidy.

and then six years pass after raccoon city, and leon's just exhausted. he looks exhausted. he has bags under his eyes, his eyes seem noticeably duller. they're especially dull in og re4, they look more greyish blue than his usual blue.. but leon's put on all this muscle in 4r especially because he had to essentially, his hair's messier. he's still not quite a mess but he's like. almost slowly getting there.

but seeing pictures of 2r and 4r leon next to each other kills me so much just bc of the fact that 4r leon is just.. so tired looking. he's been through so much shit in 6 years, and then he has to deal with all the shit that happens during 4r.

i do want to cherry pick when he gets injected with the plagas and also when he gets stung by the mosquito thing in death island because oh my god!!! it hurts me so bad!!!!

in death island, as soon as leon feels that sting, he almost immediately panics.

i mentioned it in the tags of my recent leon art but di leon is genuinely more playful seeming, his eyes are brighter, he's put on muscle again. he's healthy.

but as soon as that sting happens, its like hes 27 again. the sting happens on the same side of his neck as the plagas injection, and he's 27 again. he's that exhausted, not quite as bright eyed and bushy tailed 27 year old again.

i kind of got sidetracked considering this is supposed to be about the evolution of his physical appearance but when i think abt 4r leon i can't help but make the death island connection so consider it a bonus.

i'll get back on track but still on the topic of death island but now i'll compare di leon and vendetta leon and probably just talk abt vendetta leon for a bit.

vendetta leon is probably honestly the most exhausted leon's ever looked. while he's still a little silly, it doesn't feel quite as playful, if that makes sense? i feel like genuinely everyone can agree though when i say this is probably like. the peak of leon's depression. he's day drinking on his vacation, so his primary coping method seems to be alcohol. his eyes and the area surrounding his eyes looks darker, he's gotten leaner, he's a bit snippier, and he doesn't want to do this anymore. he's tired. he doesn't want to have to keep doing this anymore.

there is such a stark contrast between leon's appearance + attitude between vendetta and death island and while it makes me happy because he evidently has found some way to heal or a better way to cope, it also just makes me so viscerally sad. vendetta leon makes me so sad just bc of how he appears + how he acts at the end. the difference between him and di leon is night and day.

very quick warning for mentions of suicidal ideation in the next part, i'll try to keep it brief.

re6 leon is also just. extremely deeply sad to me. he also looks incredibly tired, and while he makes a lot of quips, he's not as playful as he usually is. there is a file from re6 where leon speaks about how he's thought numerous times about ending it, but only stayed because of claire and sherry. it's genuinely heart breaking, and not to kind of derail again, but it's kind of sad to me that he only found his anchor in staying alive bc of claire and sherry, and not necessarily for himself. leon very much focuses on others before he focuses on himself, and god that shit hurts!

i've kind of equated 6leon to being a sad wet cat bc of how wet his eyes look and honestly he just. is a sad wet cat. he's just sad. he's dealt with so much trauma that just keeps stacking up, he's gotten so visibly tired, and he just doesn't get to rest. i know it's somewhat of a joke that he wants a vacation or whatever, but like.

he really just deserves that vacation. he deserves time to relax. he deserves to be able to just not worry about things and other people as much for once. he deserves a nice breakfast, and he deserves to get better.

di leon does seem to have gotten better; much brighter and livelier. and that makes me happy. i wish he'd been able to be like this earlier, but i'm happy he's finally gotten there.

i'm happy that he's happy.

#resident evil #leon scott kennedy #im a little embarrassed abt tagging this but i wrote. a lot and idk i thought other ppl might like to hear my very incoherent thoughts about #leon .. its very long . its a lot. i love him a lot he means a lot to me .#if you read all this . thank you i appreciate it

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justanotherfanwriter · 9 months

Text

and they were ROOMmates

Cht list: (1) (2) (3) (4)

a/n: this one took me awhile, but hopefully, you can see Soul's other points of stress!

fyi I put this story on ao3 (as requested), so don’t forget to leave a comment or kudos (if you want lol). I’ll continue to update on tumblr as well!

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The bus jolted Soul awake. Its brakes squealed as it came to a halt, and his head bounced against the bus window. He hissed in pain and scrambled for the package the sudden stop had knocked off his lap. When the package was back in its proper place, he rubbed at his head, poking around the still-tender flesh.

“Shit,” He cursed, flinching away from his hand when it grazed against the goose egg that was beginning to form. The woman caddy corner to him, cradling a sleeping toddler, glared, which he returned, though he hardly believed she could tell. He was moving around Death City incognito with oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap, and his hoodie with the hood up.

It was a cakewalk going to the post office as an oddly dressed stranger compared to going as the Last Death Scythe. He couldn’t make it two blocks down the street without being stopped if it weren’t for the sunglasses, never mind the setting sun.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the bus. Even for a weapon, it wasn’t a bright idea, but as Maka had guessed, the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him. Being a weapon obsessive over protecting his meister was easier said than mentally done. He sighed and gently placed his head back against the window, relying on the bus to keep him jostled awake.

There was some shifting as the group from the back of the bus got off, and a new group got on. He watched the departing group’s reflections as they walked past. Each was sporting DWMA memorabilia, but he couldn’t recognize any of their faces, so he assumed they were a few years younger than him. Of course, that didn’t mean they didn’t know him, and because of that likely possibility, he was glad they hadn’t seen through his poorly-made disguise.

When things settled back down on the bus, he turned his attention out the window and blankly stared past his reflection. They were near the school but closer to the airport. He didn’t come to this side of the city as often as he once had and was only there now because Maka had accidentally sent her package to their old PO box. The ride from the DWMA clinic where Maka was staying to their old post office wasn’t a bad commute, but because it was in the opposite direction of their new apartment, he still had fifteen or twenty-ish minutes until he made it home.

He let out a deep breath, temporarily fogging the window. Mentally, he counted how many stop he had left until he got off, and then couldn’t stop himself from counting down how many stops were left between here and their old apartment.

DWMA’s independent student-living complexes weren’t glorious by any means, but it hadn’t been bad. Like sure, the air-conditioning busted on the days it was most inconvenient, and there was a minor bug problem, but when he thought of his childhood home, he didn’t think of the estate in Maine, but the two-bedroom, one bathroom mold-infested hellscape he had lived in with Maka.

He missed that apartment.

A lot.

They had moved out of their old apartment the moment he turned eighteen and could legally sign a lease off of DWMA property. They had left for no other reason besides the fact he had become too famous to stay there, especially with the amount of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed underclassmen wandering around this part of Death City that wanted nothing more than to meet the great, stupendous Last Death Scythe in all his freaky albino glory.

It wasn’t just the underclassmen, though, that wasn’t fair to the underclassmen—sorry, underclassmen—because the upperclassmen would sneak by too, but they, at least, tried being cool about it. Still, some piece of shit had ruined it for everyone and leaked their apartment address to the general public, completely destroying the low-key vibe. They tried their best to stay in the apartment, but after Maka had thrown away the third pile of used underwear from a “NO RETURN” sender, she had declared it was time they thought about moving out.

“Unless,” She had paused drying the dishes, looking at him almost shyly, “I mean, unless you want to live by yourself. We’re graduating soon, after all. There’s no reason we have to stay roommates. I can—” an uncomfortable look had crossed her face, and she swallowed past her discomfort, “—move back in with my papa, you know until I’m old enough to sign a lease somewhere.”

He could clearly remember the way he had stared at her, taking in the brave look on her face and considering, for the first time since they had moved in together, living alone. He had almost laughed at her. Maybe when he was thirteen, and she was twelve, yelling at him about leaving the toilet seat up, he had longingly thought about his own apartment without any roommates breathing down his neck, but now, he couldn’t imagine a life without Maka’s daily lectures.

And besides, he had asked, “Is that, like, even possible? Do I even make that much money now?”

Clear annoyance had pulsed through her features as she gritted out for the umpteenth time, “Soul, please, you have to start paying attention to your finances.”

“But then, what would you bitch about?” He had asked her through a toothy smile, “You know, besides the laundry, and the cleaning, and the cooking, and the—”

“—I’m not helping you anymore!” She had snapped, throwing the dish towel at his head, “Your money! Your checkbook! Your problem!”

She had stomped away to the sound of his cackling, and neither of them brought up the idea of living apart again. They had simply moved to another apartment together. Maka, of course, had taken care of everything, and he, of course, bitched about the thousands of cumbersome books he had to move while she stood around, clipboard in hand, nagging him and all the other poor suckers she had roped into helping them move.

Their new apartment complex was farther away from the school and, thus, the main part of the bustling city. They lived closer to the outskirts where the townies lived, where Death Children, like Maka, were raised. The people there wouldn’t have given two shits if he were the Death Lord himself. Death Children had seen plenty of Death Scythes come and go that Soul didn’t bother with the shitty disguises he wore everywhere else if he wanted a normal outing. In fact, the only person who seemed to care about them at all was Mrs. Ranger from across the hall, who hated Blair (human form) with a passion but loved Blair (cat form) like no other.

He readjusted his baseball cap down his eyes and nestled further into his seat, groaning at the thought of Blair. She had probably caused more trouble than she was worth while they were gone, and now, he’d have to deal with it. Alone. Just uncool.

“Hey, hey—” Someone belched, and Soul dragged his gaze away from the window to look back toward the bus aisle.

“Yes?” He bit back actual tears as the drunk guy, who was supposed to be sitting four seats behind him, leered down at him. Why couldn’t anyone leave him alone?

“’ Ey, do I, uh, I know you, right?” The man asked around another burp.

And, Lord Death, how many times would he be asked that today while he was just trying to exist in fucking peace?

“No. You don’t,” Soul lied, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose.

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, man.” He turned to look back out the window, but the guy persisted.

“Nah,” He said, sitting down, “I know youse. Uh, shit—” Another burp, paired with a hiccup, “—got a package, huh?”

“I do.” He glowered at his reflection, flipping the package label down so it wouldn’t give him away.

The drunk hiccupped, blinking rapidly as he stared at him. He pursed his lips in thought before his face lit up in recognition. Obnoxiously, he snapped his fingers and then jabbed one in Soul’s face, “Youse look exactly like that guy!”

“I don’t know you,” Soul repeated, knocking the drunk’s hand away just like he had knocked away Marc’s not even two hours before. Seriously, did manners mean nothing anymore?

Unbothered, the guy continued smiling. He looked five seconds away from passing out or throwing up, and Soul didn’t want to be involved either way. “Yeah, but youse—” the drunk man yawned and shook his head to keep himself awake, “—youse look like that guy, ya know, he, uh, he’s that, um, guy!”

“Nope.” Soul shook his head, tempted to jump out of the moving bus just to get away, but with rush hour traffic in Death City, his odds of survival didn’t look good.

Seconds ticked by without a peep from the drunk, and for a beautiful, wonderous second Soul thought maybe the interrogation was over. He chanced a quick look at the drunk just in time to watch the man slump forward as he passed out. In that instant, the bus hit a bump, and the guy’s head lulled to the side, landing on Soul’s shoulder. A snore erupted from the man and a wave of bad breath and booze crashed over him. He pulled a face and followed his gut reaction, shoving the man away.

Unfortunately, this woke him up.

The drunk shot up with a clap, evidently proud of himself, and bellowed, “The Last Death Scythe! That’s who!”

Soul froze for half a second, then shook his head, “Never heard of ‘im.”

“You don’t know who that is!” Some rando behind them cried, sticking his head between the seats. His eyes were rimmed red, and he smelt like weed. It pissed Soul off, but mostly out of jealousy. “You a tourist or sumthin’?”

“No.” He seethed, slouching further down his seat.

“You’re not a tourist, and you ain’t ever heard of the Last fucking Scythe?” The high man was flabbergasted, hitting the drunk man on the shoulder, “I don’t believe it! Do you believe it?”

“I do’not fuckin’ believe it!” The drunk man agreed enthusiastically, jolting up and confused but happy to be included. Out of the corner of Soul’s eye, he watched the lady with the toddler shoot the three of them a dirty look, and again, he glared back. Obviously, she also had an issue with him.

“Well, do.” He sneered, returning his attention to the men, but they both ignored him; the high guy was sputtering his continued disbelief, and the drunk man was wiping drool from his mouth.

“Don’t he look like him? The Last Death Scythe?” The drunk man slurred, asking the high man, who, in turn, said to Soul, “You don’t gotta be embarrassed about being a tourist. I know all the good spots, ya know. I run a little tour business; a bit of a side hustle, you understand. I can give you a discount, and show you around. For just a small fee, I can have you running around this City like an authentic Death Child. We’ll check out the school!”

“I’m not—” Soul paused and gave the guy a dry look, “—the school? You’re leading with the school? Everyone knows the school. That can’t be your first suggestion.”

“What’s wrong with the school?” The high man gave him a dirty look.

“You can’t just say you know all the good spots and name the one spot everyone knows!”

“What would you know? You ain’t fuckin’ from here!” The man bristled, and the drunk man followed suit, acting as a useless echo, “Yeah, you ain’t fuckin’ from here!”

“I live here. I work here.”

“And what do you do?” The high man leaned forward.

Soul gritted his teeth, “What does it matter?

They went back and forth like this, their argument getting progressively more aggressive the nearer they got to Soul’s stop. He let out an annoyed groan, rubbing a hand down his face as he, again, shoved the drunk guy’s sleeping head off his shoulder.

“Listen, buddy,” He addressed the high guy for the umpteenth time, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. I’m not a tourist. I’m not interested in your tour program. I’m just trying to get home, so get off my dick about it.”

“If you ain’t a tourist, you shouldn’t have a problem confirming where you work.” The high guy countered.

“Fine!” Soul rolled his eyes, pushing the drunk guy away again, “I’m an agent working for DWMA.”

The high man fell quiet, and for one foolish moment, Soul believed he’d stay silent, but as soon as he had thought it, the man began laughing loud enough to wake up both the sleeping toddler and the drunk man. While the drunk man snorted awake and started laughing as if he had been cognitive throughout the whole conversation and not drooling down Soul’s shirt, the toddler began to scream, just like Soul wanted to.

“But you don’t know the Last Scythe,” the high man (impressively) cackled over the screaming, “fuck off, kid. Just admit it, you’re a tourist.”

“Excuse me,” The lady with the now-not-sleeping toddler snapped, “could you three stop with the cursing? There are children on board.”

“Lady,” Soul snapped back, already pissed off and matching her energy, “you’re the one who brought a kid on a public bus, okay. We’re not the problem here.”

“Can you believe this kid?” The high man asked the lady, “A tourist thinks he knows more than us!”

“I’m not a tourist!”

“You’re certainly acting like one! So loud and rude! This whole ride!” The lady turned her nose up into the air, and Soul gasped, affronted and offended.

“Does it really sound like I want any of this conversation to be happening?” His voice was a touch bit hysterical, “How is this my fault? I was just sitting here. This is so stup—I-I am not a tourist! I work for DWMA. I went to the school! I don’t need advice!”

“Then you’re a liar.” The lady sneered, “And that’s worse than a tourist.”

“And now I’m a liar.” He threw his hands up in disbelief, “How am I suddenly a liar?”

“You work for DWMA and don’t know who the Last Death Scythe is? He saved the world! You should do better to know your superiors.” The woman tsked, and he covered his face with his hands, muffling something akin to a high-pitched scream. More people on the bus were chiming in now, accusing him of lying, causing a scene, and thievery, for some fuck up reason, and slowly the world around him began to spiral out of control.

Like the concerts he performed when he was a child, all the attention quickly became suffocating, and the noise amplified in his head, a constant drumming beat behind his eyes. His lungs began to constrict, his vision started to tunnel, and just as he began to panic about spiraling into madness—with Marc and Kid’s bullets still on his mind—to his relief, he felt the bus decelerating as it came to its next stop.

“Fine! Fine! You wanna know why I don’t know him?” In one fluid motion, he shot up and threw off his cap and sunglasses, “Because I am him! See,” He motioned to his face, “not a fucking tourist!”

He gathered his duffel bag and package before jumping over the drunk guy. Heat continued to prickle the back of his neck, and he hardly paid attention to the group’s faces as he yelled, “I’m not a liar! So, fuck you, fuck you,” He flicked off the high guy and the drunk guy, then the lady, “fuck you,” and after tucking Maka’s package underneath his arm, he double flicked off the crying toddler, “and double fuck you!”

He turned down the aisle before anyone could say anything else.

“Fucking bus,” He grumbled, bounding off the steps and pushing through the crowd.

“Holy shit, is that the Last Scythe?” He overheard one person say, and there were a few other shouts of recognition as he elbowed his way to a more secluded side street. Once there, his actions caught up with him, and he immediately regretted tossing his glasses and hat to the side. Hunkering into the hood of his hoodie, he walked the remaining few blocks to safer territory with his head down.

He cringed at his supreme idiocy as he thought about the baby he double-flipped off and kicked a can against an ally wall

“That’s gonna bite me in the ass,” he predicted out loud, sucking his teeth. Karma never not bit him in the ass.

Given the substantial detour he had been forced to take, he got back to their apartment way later than expected. The heat of the day had lingered well into the evening, and by the time he bounded up the eight flights of stairs to his apartment—because, of course, the elevator was out—with all their shit still cradled in his arms, he had sweat pouring down his temples. Fucking Nevada, right?

He was hot, sweaty, tired, and felt guilty about everything under the sun, and all he wanted was to make it without another bad thing happening, but just as he had predicted, karma, of course, came walking around the corner.

“Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me,” Soul chanted under his breath, breaking into an awkward half-run-half-walk toward his and Maka’s apartment door.

“Soul!”

He froze, glaring at his doorknob like it had murdered his family before plastering on a fake, toothy grin.

“Hi, Mrs. Ranger,” He gritted out through his teeth, “how are you?”

Mrs. Ranger wasn’t a tiny, frail old woman. The seventy-something had a spunk in her that wouldn’t die. She wore bright red-rimmed glasses that enlarged her eyes to a comical degree, always wore a shawl or scarf in the same uppity fashion, and, worst of all, was the biggest busy-body he had ever met, and one of his best friends was Liz Thompson.

“Not well!” She snapped at him.

Go figure, he thought as he said, “That’s too bad.”

“Your wretched cat-sitter was back again!”

That checked out too. Fucking Blair.

“That does happen when we leave,” He remarked, fumbling with his door keys as he balanced Maka’s package and their duffle bag in his other arm.

“I don’t know why you two insist on hiring her. I’d be more than happy to watch Blair for you while you’re gone instead of having that—that—” Mrs. Ranger’s cheeks tinted red with anger, “floozy coming around, making noise, talking to my Jeffery. I had half a mind to call the police on her, Soul, half a mind. Now, I respect Maka and you more than that, but still something has to be done,” She continued to screech. “Someone has to do something! So, I’ve talked to the Board. I’ve done it. I’ve had enough! Something must be done. Must be!”

He swallowed a broken sigh. Jeffery Ranger was quite the opposite of his wife. Mr. Ranger hated Blair (cat form) but loved Blair (human form). He and Maka had told Blair hundreds of times to avoid their older neighbors, but each Ranger was a horrible enabler to the side of Blair they preferred. Mrs. Ranger left out treats and toys, and warm milk. Mr. Ranger—well, quite frankly, Soul did not want to know what Mr. Ranger got up to with Blair in her human form, but at least he didn’t kick her while she was in her cat form, which Soul was sure Mrs. Ranger would do one day while Blair was in her human form.

Gah.

“Mrs. Ranger, Blair’s a—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” The woman cried, cutting him off like she always did when they tried to explain what Blair was. “I think it’s admirable that you want to help that poor girl. She needs all the help she can get, but there are certain standards we abide by in this building.”

She thrust an envelope into his crowded hands, “You’re being summoned by the Board. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but her type is truly not welcomed here any longer.”

He gawked at the red slip, “B-but, wait, we—we pay the pet fee!”

“And we all love Blair,” Mrs. Ranger announced as she crossed the hall, “but the cat sitter has to go.”

With a dramatic flourish, she yanked open and slammed her door shut, making him flinch.

“Jeffery!” He heard her scream, “Jeffery! I’ve done it! It’s over, Jeffery, it. Is. Over.”

“For fuck sake,” He spoke under his breath, staring at the incriminating red-letter envelope. He didn’t know whether he was annoyed or offended on his and Maka’s or Blair’s behalf. Death City was progressive, but sex workers still got the shit end of the stick. Of course, they had repeatedly warned Blair not to mess with the Rangers, but still.

“For fuck sake,” He growled again, crumpling the envelope before turning to their door. Just another damn problem to solve!

He ignored the happy little ‘Welcome!’ sign and started fumbling with his keys again. After dropping them twice, he threw open the door. When he was finally inside, he let out a puff of air, closing the door with his back and leaning against it. The pleasant thrum of their air conditioning met him like a caress, and he sighed again, relaxing further, pushing “out there” farther and farther away from the forefront of his mind.

He dropped their duffel bag unceremoniously off his shoulder and onto the floor, stepping into the living room before pausing. A flash of guilt filled him as he looked back at the limp bag, which had probably endured more hardship this past weekend than all of them combined, and yet, here he was, tossing it to the side like it had done nothing for them at all.

He groaned and shuffled back to the bag, berating himself for personifying a thing, but hey, he was a part inanimate object on his mother’s side; for all he knew, he could have just tossed his cousin.

“Oy-vey,” He muttered to himself, scooping up the bag and laying it down more carefully than necessary onto the couch along with the package and the letter. “Soul, for fuck sake, you’re losing it.” He stepped away from the sofa and continued to talk to himself, “Sides, I’d be more related to a butter knife than a bag anyway.”

Fathers hide your daughters, he snorted; a Death Scythe and a comedian.

He stood straight, cracking his back before calling, “Blair! You little shit! Are you home?” When he got no answer, he scowled, “Blair, get out here now. You can’t hide! You’re in deep shit!”

He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the package, and sent it to Maka.

Got the package, he texted her and debated mentioning Mrs. Ranger and the Board summons. Before he could decide, she texted back, You’re the best <3 I owe you

Something warm flooded his guts, and he bit the inside of his cheek before responding, duh. Wha’s in this thing anyway its heavy as hell?

She didn’t text back immediately, so he picked up the duffle bag and walked through the apartment, checking each room and all of Blair’s hiding spots.

“Blair!” He called, looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t in his closet, curled up on one of Maka’s pillows, or in the bathtub. After circling the living room and the bedrooms, he dropped the duffle bag on top of the laundry machine and went to the kitchen. There on the counter was a handwritten note.

His phone buzzed.

Don’t worry about it, Maka answered him.

He groaned and rolled his eyes, Maka fr. It better not be more books. We don’t have any more room. The PANTRY has books in it.

I said don’t worry about it, didn’t I?

Your ridiculous.

And *you’re worrying about something I literally said not to worry about.

He shook his head and shoved his phone back in his pocket, turning to the mysterious letter on the counter. Purple glittery ink, screaming of Blair, stared back at him.

Kitten, the letter began,

Mama’s with her other kitten! Blair switched shifts with Lay-Lay, so she could make sure Maka-baby has all the extra purrs she needs to feel better! But don’t worry~ Mama left you something yummy in the fridge! <3 <3 <3 Blair will see you soon! Sleep tight!

Love,

Bu-tan, nya~

P.S.xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooooooxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxxxxxxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooooooxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Soul quickly flipped through the next three pages of Blair’s note, which were all filled with the same sequence of X’s and O’s, so he tossed the rest of the packet to the side and stared at the fridge with deep suspicion. Anything could have been in that box; if it was like last time, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He pulled out his phone and shot a warning text to Maka, FYI Blair Incoming.

Her response back was almost immediate, She’s already here.

As evidence, a photo quickly followed suit, depicting Blair cuddling Kid. He snorted, Better him than me.

Next, he cropped the picture so it was just Kid’s face. His eyes were wide and embarrassed, shit, is that the Gay Panic Liz is always talking about???

Maka sent three laughing emojis, shut up it still hurts to laugh. You should have seen how fast he booked it out of here.

What’d Black*Star do?

Oblivious, as always.

shame.

Truly.

He placed his phone down, squared his shoulders, and turned to the fridge. He took a deep breath and counted to three before yanking the door open. He jumped backward, ready for anything to pop out, but what awaited him were four dead mice lined up in a row right in front of the milk, all in various states of decay.

“Better than last time,” He mumbled, reaching for the plastic gloves Maka kept on the counter as he recalled the (very much still alive) python Blair had once dragged home. Still, the fridge would need to be wiped down. He glanced at the clock and tried to figure out how much time he had until Spirit bludgeoned down the door.

“Better safe than sorry,” He shrugged, letting the fridge close and making a mental note to come back later.

He circled back to the laundry room, dumped their dirty clothes in the wash, and pulled out her toiletries. He took those and the package to her room and looked around for another overnight bag, or at least something cleaner than the duffle. He found what he was looking for stored in her closet, and while there, pulled out two days’ worth of comfortable clothing, stuff he knew she could sleep and walk around in without feeling “silly in public.”

He folded the oversized shirts and shorts, and then, popped into her attached bathroom. He had let Maka have the primary suite, and he used the bathroom in the hall. The separate bathrooms were meant to minimize their morning arguments, but it didn’t appear to matter because there was the pile of his headbands that she was hoarding next to her sink. He rolled his eyes and tossed two in, along with her hair bonnets. He skipped over her books, found an extra charger, and packed her a box of her favorite tea and a few protein bars to tide her over until he could locate some real food.

Next, he stopped in his room to grab a sweater from his dresser. He almost tossed it in the bag, but thought twice and held onto it, debating if it was a good idea. It was only a regular black sweater with the school emblem on the chest pocket. While Maka always insisted she didn’t steal his clothes, he had caught her one too many times to believe it and knew she liked this one. Most everyone at DWMA had some variation of the same article of clothing, so if someone saw her wearing it, they likely wouldn’t think anything of it. But what if they did think it was his? What would they think of him giving it to her? Was it odd or desperate? Did it prove some disloyalty to Kid?

He huffed, shaking his head, and stuffed the sweater into the bag—other people be damned. Maka liked wearing his sweaters because she liked wearing sweaters, nothing more to it. It meant nothing at all. Not to her. Not to him. Not to anyone.

And if wearing his sweater brought her some comfort, or made her feel safe, or—

“Stop.” He commanded himself, zipping up the bag.

He couldn’t think of much else to pack but tucked in her headphones just in case and tossed the bag onto the couch. The very moment his ass touched the sofa, there was a knock at the door.

He groaned as he stood up.

Spirit Incoming, came Maka’s warning text.

Already here.

The knocking increased in volume the longer he took to get to the door, and his mood soured even more.

Ugh. Stall him, please, Maka responded.

“Hello, Spirit.” He deadpanned, opening the door. Spirit didn’t stop knocking until it was completely open, and when he did stop, he glared at him. They were now the same height, so if Spirit’s glare was ever intimidating, it was now completely lost on Soul.

Spirit stuck out a hand, “What took so long? You know Maka’s waiting! Give me her things!”

Soul turned away from Spirit’s outstretched hands, letting the door fall wide open, “Her shit’s in here, old man. Calm down.”

“Old man!” Spirit sneered, stepping into their apartment after him.

“I was just getting all her stuff together,” He sighed, ignoring the way Spirit was practically breathing down his neck, “it’s right here on the—”

He reached for her bag, but Spirit snatched it up before his fingertips could even graze its handles. Soul felt a vein pop in his forehead, but he gritted his teeth and bared it. Spirit was Spirt, and their relationship had always been strained.

But, hey, it took two to tango.

“I’ll take that!” Spirit announced, clutching the bag to his chest, “I need to see if you actually packed useful things—” He unzipped the bag and began to root around it while he lectured, “—my daughter’s very particular, and she only gets the best, especially when she’s hurt. You know, she shouldn’t have even gotten hurt in the first place! What a useless weapon you are, by the way. You’re supposed to protect her! If she just let her papa take care of her, this wouldn’t have—”

Spirit stopped short. Slowly, he raised a garment from the bag, revealing one of Maka’s compression shorts. Soul’s eyes rolled to the back of his head before Spirit could even say anything.

Here it comes, he thought; here comes the drama.

“What, Spirit?” He sighed, crossing his arms and leveling the older man with a look, “It wasn’t like I was going to let her go without underwear.”

“You went through my daughter’s delicates?” Spirit asked through gritted teeth, letting his voice fall into a whisper at the mere mention of her “delicates.”

“No.” He disagreed, “I went into her dresser and pulled out underwear.”

“Who gave you permission to do that?”

“Maka.”

“No.”

“Oh brother,” He muttered, then said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. We live together. We do laundry together.” He rubbed at his face, exhausted, “Anyway, sorry, but Maka’s boy underwear doesn’t do anything for me, Spirit, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Admittedly, he added that last part to piss off Spirit, but it was true. It wasn’t like he was rooting around in Maka’s underwear draw for fun. If Maka even had sexier underwear, he wasn’t privy to it.

“This isn’t boy underwear!” Spirit shook the compression shorts in his face, “You’re saying this doesn’t do it for you? What kind of guy are you, huh! My Maka isn’t good enough for you? I don’t believe your lies. Where’s Blair! She should have packed her underwear. I know she’s not working tonight!”

“Are you keeping tabs on our cat?” He drawled, but the accusation didn’t faze the pervert.

“Blair!” Spirit called out, turning in circles, still flapping Maka’s underwear around, “Blair! Where are you!”

Soul massaged the bridge of his nose, “She switched her shifts, Spirit. She wanted to make sure she had time to see Maka. I think she’s planning on staying the—” He paused and cursed, “—shit, hang on, I forgot Mak’s sleeping mask.”

“You forgot!” Spirit chided, “See! This is exactly what I’m talking about. She needs someone more dependable.”

“You’re the expert,” He mumbled under his breath, slipping down the hall to her room.

Spirit followed after him, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” He sighed, nudging her door open. Spirit didn’t follow him inside. He stopped at the threshold of her room, going still and quiet, as Soul rooted around her bed in search of her sleeping mask.

The sudden change in Spirit’s behavior wasn’t as odd as one would believe. Of course, it had nothing to do with any sudden appreciation for personal space, but instead, everything to do with the constant fragile state of his and Maka’s relationship.

Soul stole a look at Spirit’s reflection in Maka’s mirror, and he seemed to be taking in the entirety of her bedroom in an awe-like state. It was likely the first time in years Spirit had seen the inside of his daughter’s room, filled to the brim with potted plants, books, and hundreds of to-do lists, calendars, and agendas. It was cluttered, but it was Maka’s, so at the same time, it was all very organized.

This was the deepest Spirit had ever gotten in either of their apartments. Usually, Maka didn’t let him get any further than the living room or the kitchen. Soul was fine with this rule, but Spirit didn’t listen to him.

Out of some strange pity for Spirit—even if he didn’t deserve it—Soul took his time finding the sleeping mask, purposefully letting him soak it all up. It wasn’t like he was a bad dad; he was just, well, Spirit—too desperate for her attention and prone to fucking up. Embarrassingly, they had this common whether Spirit knew it or not.

So, Soul gave him those extra few seconds before tossing over the mask, “Here it is.”

Spirit caught it without looking, his eyes tracing the collage of pictures she had stuck in the frame of her mirror. On top, partially hidden by a picture of him, Maka, and Crona, but still visible if you knew what you were looking at, was a baby picture of her and Spirit.

“About time,” Spirit ripped his gaze away from the picture, “you’ve held me up for so long, I bet she’s wondering where I’m at.”

“Sure,” he rolled his eyes, ushering him down the hall, “tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow. If she needs anything, she knows to text me.”

“No need,” Spirit squared his jaw, “I can get her anything she needs.”

“Right-o, pops,” He mock saluted him, opening the door, “best of luck to ya.”

Spirit glared, “Keep it.”

He slammed the door shut on the heels of Spirit’s feet and flopped face-first onto the couch with a loud groan. When his body registered he was practically suffocating himself, he turned his head to the side and stared blankly at their tv.

With another sigh, he pulled his phone out and quickly texted Maka, Spirit Incoming.

Dammit Soul. You couldn’t keep him with you any longer? She replied five minutes later.

Mak, I love you, but not that much.

BOOOOOO!

He snorted and rolled off the couch, the silence of the empty apartment suddenly too much to bear, and crawled his way to his turntable.

After the week he had, he needed at least a month of musical therapy to unwind. He plugged in his headphones and started flipping through his vinyl. All of his regulars were there and accounted for and guaranteed to make him feel better, but why feel better when you could wallow and feel worse?

There was certainly nothing like being self-destructive to end an already shitty week.

He hopped up and made his way into his bedroom. Carefully hidden in the back of his closet, behind the mountain of clothes Blair seemingly nested in, was a box he didn’t break out often. Tonight, though, he yanked it out of its hiding spot and peeled back the flaps to reveal the variety of keepsakes he had taken with him when he first set out for DWMA.

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for since it was still right on top, just as he had left it before their work trip. The record cover was a sleek black, and on the front, in embellished font, was his mother’s first name. His father had composed this record as a twenty-fifth-anniversary present. There were twenty-five tracks—a two-record album to hold it all—and each song marked a year of their marriage. His father’s recording studio had only released a limited number of copies the same year Soul had left for DWMA, and despite it having been his father’s passion project for as long as he could remember, Soul hadn’t heard a single note of it.

Of course, he had known about the release. It hadn’t been any secret. The music world had been buzzing for it, and despite what other people thought, he still kept tabs on his family.

What could he say? He was a masochist.

He had counted down the days before the album’s release, and then, on the day of release, he locked himself in his bedroom, cried his eyes out, and stress-ate two large pizzas by himself. He hadn’t gotten his hands on a copy of the record; he hadn’t wanted to, but the night before he and Maka were set to leave for their mission, Liz and Kilik had dragged him to the record store for a blow-out sale.

He had found the album in the used section and couldn’t help feeling insulted. Objectively, Soul knew it was a good album; his father didn’t compose bad albums. His father’s limited-edition vinyl didn’t go for cheap, to say the least, so why anyone would want to resell it was beyond him.

He had tried to ignore the record, purposefully picking up more albums than he could reasonably afford. Still, after he eyed some old guy examining his father’s music, he returned to the resell section, snatching up the vinyl before someone else could. Liz or Kilik hadn’t known any better, which wasn’t unexpected; he didn’t talk about his parents.

“Hey, what’s that, Soul?” Liz had asked, “Jazz?”

“Yeah,” He had shrugged, placing it carefully in his bag, “just replacing an old one that got ruined in the move.”

Kilik had tsked, “I told Black*Star not to fuck with those boxes. He just doesn’t get it, man.”

He felt bad letting Black*Star take the blame for a split second but figured the guy owed him one or two.

“Eh, it’s whatever,” He had shrugged again, “you two hungry?”

He had gotten home that night without looking at the album. He had shoved it directly into his keepsake box, hoping Maka or Blair wouldn’t notice anything wrong with him. He suspected Maka knew something was up by the way she kept staring at him, but he refused to acknowledge her stray looks.

Despite buying the record, he had never actually planned on listening to it. He had only wanted to save it from that store and the old man, but Spirit had triggered something within him like he often did. How much Spirit cared about Maka despite her thinking otherwise made Soul think about his father, and he wondered if he hadn’t left for DWMA what their relationship would have been like now.

“The piano ain’t got no wrong notes,” His father had always told him, quoting Thelonious Monk, who would have been his name’s sake—and in some ways still was—if not for his father putting his foot down.

He could remember the conversation he and his father had about his name perfectly because it was during one of those rare instances his father had the time to help him with his piano scales. Soul had never expected his father to seek him out, but there he had been in all his musical glory, choosing to help him get out of some piano-related punishment his mother had ordered, instead of using his precious little free time to do something more productive.

“I suggested Monk to go with Wes, but she’d only agree to Monk if your real name was Thelonious, and I wasn’t going to do that to ya, kid.” His father had explained one night, “Which was a shame; it was hard enough getting her to agree to Wes. You know what your mom thinks of jazz.”

He had rolled his eyes because, of course, he knew. His mother’s heart had and always would belong to the classics for reasons beyond him. If everything had gone his mother’s way, his name would have been some horrendous mash-up of Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

“Aw,” His father had winked and laughed, stretching his fingers across their grand piano, “she means well, you know that. You were a stubborn kid. You hardly kicked or moved when she was first pregnant with you, so she thought you were a goner. Completely gave up on names, no matter what I said. But the first time you heard jazz—” his father had run his fingers across the keys in a fast flourish, “—boom! It was like you had finally found your soul! She cried for weeks. You should have seen her.” His had father laughed again. It had sounded warm and fond. “I said, I told her, babydoll, it’s like they always say—”

“—ya gotta have soul, Soul,” Soul snorted, finishing his father’s lamest joke as he gently placed the record on the turntable.

He turned it off before it reached his birthday. He wanted to hurt, but not that much.

#soul eater #soul x maka #long fic #my writing #longer a/n on ao3 #plz forgive editing issues lol i was tired

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daisiesonafield-blog · 1 year

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Review -After many a postponement, for the first time since his debut world tour in 2017, Grammy award winning artist Harry Styles touched down at Mt Smart Stadium, bringing Harry Styles: Love on Tour to Tāmaki Makaurau.

Released in 2022 and recently awarded Album of the Year at the 2023 Grammys, Harry's House, built in London by way of Hollywood, Malibu, and Wilshire, and engineered by the likes of Kid Harpoon, Tyler Johnson, and Samuel Witte has seen almost every major city of the world. It's only fitting that, at long last, Aotearoa finally got a taste of the artist's highest acclaimed album.

Decorated from head to toe in sequins, sparkles, cowboy hats and the coveted feather boas, punters, who had been lining up as early as two days before the concert itself, descended on Mt. Smart Stadium bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to get as close to Styles as they possibly could. His charm, wit and general crowd interaction is a major selling point of the tour itself - something all 47,000 attendees were eager to get a taste of.

Aotearoa's own Ny Oh and Isle of Wight-based band Wet Leg opened the show, to a crowd that, although mixed in demographic, got behind every single beat. Seeing Wet Leg at Mt Smart was a bit of a big deal; the last time they were here, they performed to a sold-out Tuning Fork - a venue which can hold up to 300 people. Fast forward eight months, playing to a sold-out stadium, comprising a crowd who, for the most part, know every word to every song, is something to marvel at.

I always admire an artist who has an impeccable pre-show playlist - it shows that not only do they know their crowd well, but when done right, the right selection can show that they know the city, or in this case, country, well too. Classic tracks such as 'Best Song Ever' by One Direction and 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen had the crowd doing vocal somersaults over one another, singing as loud as they could.

What took me by surprise was the addition of Poi E by Pātea Māori Club - released in 1983, sung entirely in te reo, now playing to a crowded stadium before Harry Styles of all people graced the stage. He knew his crowd, and where he was in the world, extremely well.

Styles is known for his on-stage outfits. Some are understated, some are extremely overstated, and most, if not all of them, end up being one of the main focal points of every performance. The last time he was in Aotearoa, he wore an all-black suit, assumingly paying homage to the All Blacks. Last night, he wore a short sleeve raglan tee with a bejewelled whale's tail adorning it, with a pair of purple dress pants. Not the most spectacular outfit compared to his recent Australia tour, but we'll take what we can get.

After all, fashion comes second when you're stood mere metres from One Direction's Golden Child.

It's always special when an artist comes to any given country and does more than just plays their show and jump on the next flight home. On his recent Australian tour, Styles immersed himself in the culture of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia, and his stop in Aotearoa was no exception.

At his first break in the show, Styles, who, earlier in the day, had spent time with Te Matatini finalists, Angitū, sang the start of 'Tūtira Mai Ngā Iwi' - written by Canon Wiremu Te Tau Huata in the 1950s.

The crowd, clearly stunned, sung the rest of the waiata back to him without hesitation while he danced around the stage. He continued to do this multiple times throughout the night, which kept the crowd on their toes. I was almost waiting for it to happen every time he got the chance to speak. At one point in the concert, he picked a Tino Rangatiratanga flag from the crowd, and put it on his mic stand - the flag found itself to be a permanent fixture on the stage for the rest of the night.

The moments of the concert I remember the most vividly seem to be the same at almost every one I go to; the times when the whole crowd is still, flashlights up, yelling the lyrics of the saddest songs back at the person singing them - and last night was no exception. At the end of the catwalk which spanned what felt like ten trillion miles, Styles performed 'Matilda', 'Little Freak', and 'Satellite' one after the other, and for all three songs, I've never heard a crowd with so much gusto.

Harry performed songs from across all three released bodies of work, such as 'Woman', to 'Golden', and even far back as a new rendition of One Direction's seminal hit, 'What Makes You Beautiful'. He even snuck in crowd-favourite unreleased weapon, 'Medicine' which went viral during the tour for his last album, Fine Line. During every song, the crowd didn't hold back. So much energy in one space - it was amazing to bear witness to.

It's crazy to think that, from Harry's end, there are 47,000 people in the same space as you are singing the words to the music you wrote back at you. Those moments stick with an artist - I feel as though they stick with the crowd for eternity.

Crowd interaction is paramount for an artist as big as Styles. Throughout his time as a solo performer, he's always placed a large emphasis on connecting with his crowds, and as he's grown, the interactions have only evolved to be more intense.

Last night was no exception. From pointing out a fan who had been throwing fruit at him (which then proceeded to him singing a two-minute-long song about people dressed as bananas, eggs, aubergines, so on and so forth), the singer, who encourages fans to bring signs with him to his shows, went back and forth with two fans. One, who allegedly sold their cats leg to be at the show, and the other, who was with her best friend going through a breakup. After finding out the now ex-boyfriend wasn't prioritising them, hence the breakup, he told the crowd to "not be a Michael, be a Romy!"

Styles also asked the crowd about the census, telling everyone that he too had filled it out prior to the show.

Finishing with crowd favourite, and aptly named, 'Kiwi', Styles had made the nights of 12-year-olds with their parents and mid-40-year-olds alike, as well as everyone in between. Harry Styles is truly an artist who transcends all levels of musical talent and incomparable wit, with a hint of charm that can't be matched.

The remnants of the 47,000 plus feather boas will live on the field of Mt Smart Stadium until Harry Styles makes his triumphant return to Aotearoa.

Admittedly, he doesn't actually know when that will be. All he knows is that he hopes it won't be too long.

#LOT auckland #everybody loves harry #harry march 2023 #long post

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threadbareturnbacks · 2 years

Text

Black Sails and Facial Hair - Part 3, (Long) John Silver

One of the important aspects of character creation in Black Sails is that it proports to show not the Pirate Of Legend (a la POTC) but the Origin Of the Pirate Legend. But nothing can be created in a vacuum, you cannot reference pirate legend without engaging in some sort of historical storytelling that connects to the modern audience, which is, at its heart, the stuff of pirate legend. Narrative is an ouroboros, constantly eating its own tale.

John Silver shows up bright eyed and busy tailed and a perfect picture of a late 18th century sailor, down to the black shoes. His hair is a little too short, but reasonable and he’s rocking just a shade of a five o’clock shadow, but nothing untoward for a merchant ship in 1715. He’s a bag of snakes and like any good bag of snakes, he could get off in any port in the New or Old World and slip into the crowd without being noticed. He is, like Flint in 1704, perfectly suited to his surroundings. Flint’s crew take him at face value, but we know that this is a skin he wears that gives him more freedom than the bewhiskered pirates around him.

Throughout the first season, he stays pretty well shaved and clean. I mean, look at our boy after 5 days at sea and a shipwreck. This is the face of a man who plans to disappear into civilization as soon as he can. He even tells Flint, “I’ll find somewhere else to survive” - His appearance isn’t predicated on fitting in or telling a story, it’s predicated on survival. He’s handsome enough, but no one would look twice if they didn’t need to.

Unfortunately for Silver, everything he says comes true. And when he says “I don’t want to be a pirate”, well, I’ve got bad news for you snake man. He might say that out loud but his face tells a different story. After the capture of the galleon and his little Stomp Stomp routine, he stops shaving. It’s subtle at first. He’s still bright eye’d and bushy tailed (haired). But his hair is longer, his face is rougher. He’s starting to ingratiate himself with the crew, starting to become essential to Flint, starting to even find a place of belonging and in doing so, he drifts further from the safety of anonymity.

By the end of S2, he’s teetering on the edge. He’s got the mustache but compared to almost the entire crew, he’s still relatively respectable. However, look at how different it shows up in the light verses the dark. He might look like a citizen in the day, but at night his true self comes through and it’s all pirate.

Just as Flint’s door is closed at the end of s2, so is Silver’s. He can never again be an anonymous citizen, a snake in the grass. He might be able to integrate, but never again without notice. And he reflects that in his face. A full, patchy beard, very long hair barely brushed or contained - this is not a man who can step off a boat in any city and blend in. He’s clearly not taking care of himself.

Amputees are occasionally depicted in 18th century illustration - often in two distinct ways: The Good - employed and respectable (and clean-shaven) and The Poor - unemployed, whiskered, and dirty. Silver’s decided that since he can’t blend in, he might as well lean into the stereotype.

Additionally, there are instances of white men with beards living in the ‘civilized world’, particularly England and North America, but their lives are not easy. The beard is an essential feature of their Otherness, often Jewishness, and choosing to exist with that facial hair is a conscious statement. Whether as a statement of faith or as embracing his new condition, his beard is a clear rejection of reintegration or assimilation.

Contrast Silver’s unruly mop to Flint’s managed goatee, which he keeps neat and clean. The two of them, to an early 18th century observer, would make a terrifying pair, appearing as a mad Jacobean and a feral beggar, both ready to kill and not to be trusted under any circumstance. Quite literally the stuff of cultural nightmares and a sign of society unraveling.

Madi’s presence helps a bit, as does his standing as Long John Silver in Nassau. His hair is more managed but the beard does not get any less wild. And he mostly stays this way through the rest of the show.

(a side note: the slick hair from the doldrums on is actually a factor of the production. Many outdoor scenes were filmed in the wind and to avoid Silver’s hair flying everywhere, it was slicked back, from Fathoms Deep)

By the time his in the forest, dealing himself his own emotional death knell, he is as uncontained as we see him. The beard and the hair are one, there is no pretense of return or control. He has become undone, he is scrambling to grasp at the last tendrils of his humanity.

Which makes his final scene all the more fascinating. Because the last we see of John Silver makes him look downright professional. He’s still rocking the beard, but it’s trimmed, his hair is in a neat tail, he is no longer wearing heavy layers, or even sagging his back all that much. He looks, for lack of a better word, civilized. Certainly far more civilized than we have any right to expect him to look after what we’ve seen.

He’s made his choice. He has chosen the safety of society over the wild uncertainty of war and resistance. He’s back, in essence, where he started. Able to walk into any port in the known world and be just another invalid, returning from war.

But the last year has done a number on him. He’ll never fully integrate. He hasn’t quite abandoned his pirate self (the beard remains), but he’s willing to work within the rules. He’ll never be fully in the system, but never fully out of it. He’ll always be on the shore, never on the sea or on land. He’ll always be a character archetype, never a full person. His existence is now essentially liminal, just as he wears a beard and a ponytail, a combination that is exceptionally odd for the period, but just perfect for our last view of the famed pirate king.

Part 1 - History of Beards

Part 2 - Captain Flint

#black sails #black sails meta #black sails history #long john silver #john silver #fashion history #ya'll had enough beard meta yet?#i think silver's facial hair journey is a trip #i lost my shit when i saw the last scene of him with a nice neat queue the first time #it's the clearest 'im trying to fit it' thing we see him do #and such a contrast to flint who's last scene is such a fuck you to civilization and rules of propriety #they become each other's mirror #this show is going to destroy me i stg #black sails beards

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yallemagne · 1 year

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plus it's like

dracula, the villain, monologuing: hahaha i have tainted her for transgressing her boundaries, that'll teach her a lesson so she'll be my errand girl

jonathan, the hero: you didn't taint shit. and if god disagrees with the statement that being assaulted makes you tainted, he can eternally fuck off

mina: also i'm gonna hunt you down with your own power now, how's that for a lesson

like, you are not supposed to be finding the FORMER guy to be the Gothic Romantic Hero here and you're not supposed to be finding her as interested in his bullshit instead of in her 'boring, stuffy husband'

Hollywood at once values the sanctity of marriage far too much and despises it. Like they're so obsessed with marriage that they make up this whole shitty "oh Mina's... uh the... *flips through notes* the reincarnated wife of Dracula? I fucking guess? let's just cross out the part of the vows where it says you part at death, right? so like she's gotta be with him bc they got married a long time ago" and we're like "but she has a husband right now, if you're so obsessed with the institution of marriage then--" and they're like "EW GROSS THAT'S REDUCTIVE AND SHE SHOULD CHEAT ON HER YOUNG HUSBAND TO BE WITH THIS OLD OLD MAN!!"

Like... I don't think the centuries-old vampire who ordered a mail-in bride is the paragon of "letting his wife do cool shit". I'm pretty sure he's gonna be the more sexist of the two. LIKE?? I doubt whatever the values were... in 13th century Wallachia were super liberal for woman compared to Victorian England (bc all the reincarnation plots cast Dracula literally as Vlad III).

He's literally like... a movie director. He's one of those awful producers that force actresses into terrible contracts. So I guess no wonder Hollywood loves him so much. (goddamn it now I wanna plot out a semi-modern Dracula AU where all the characters are actors and Dracula's a shitty producer)

"Mina's boring, stuffy husband" Jonathan's like TWENTY ONE, he's a baby, there's nothing boring or stuffy about him, he is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and he eats things that give him terrible indigestion and doesn't learn from it. He's beautiful. HE IS THE MAN YOU ELOPE WITH. HE'S YOUNG AND HOT AND NEURODIVERGENT WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?!

#update #people ask me things #dracula #dracula daily #dracula rant

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lindszeppelin · 5 months

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I’m legit concerned for Austin. I just saw the post where the anon said the body knows it’s in a bad relationship. I’ve never heard that but I’m well versed in mind/body connection stuff so I imagine that’s true. And I’m in the camp that the relationship is super weird. Holy hell, I never thought to compare how bright eyed and bushy tailed they both were two years ago compared to now. That anon has a point 😱

That said, we also only know the tip of the iceberg. About them as a couple and whatever else goes on behind the scenes in their lives in general. Austin looks wrecked. I don’t want to put stuff out there into the universe, but I’m afraid something is seriously off. Maybe the relationship is a factor but I don’t think it’s juussst that. His weight constantly fluctuates. His eyes are dead. He looks a bit unkempt even for his casual style. He’s at a media event and can’t turn it on. Something major is wrong or a lot of smaller things are adding up. I’m speaking from experience. I’ve been sick but looked healthy. I’ve had invisible stuff behind the scenes and looked dead. I’ve been both sick and had other stuff happening and looked super dead. It’s never totally linear but if people are noticing like everyone seems to be, something or a bunch of things are seriously wrong. I hope he’s okay.

That mind/body connection is 100% true. I've witnessed it firsthand. The body knows that you cannot lie your way out of loving someone that you do not. The longer you stay in a situation that hurts you, your body will show signs of neglect. You will age prematurely, the signs of stress will be visible. It's almost like gaining the fountain of youth when you finally break away. I'm telling you, watch Austin reverse back the clock when he is eventually free from her. He will look more youthful and most importantly he will look happy. When the body is under constant duress, that stress and anxiety wear on you and it will get to a point where you can no longer hide it. And he is certainly at that point. When he is in a safe and loving relationship, he will thrive.

#lindsay's anon asks

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insurrection-if · 1 year

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Retriever likes pessimist MCs??? 😭😭😭 i’m perfect for that. Could u explain more?

Yep, Retriever is drawn to the doom and gloom, haha! (✿◠‿◠) (Fun Fact: His original doomed-romance RO was an absolute pessimist herself, and a sarcastic one at that, haha!)

Being someone who wishes to see the best in the Gifted and Humanity, Retriever possesses a simple, hopeful(ly cautious) ideal for the broad future of the world. But the thing about Retriever's sense of optimism, however, is that . . . it's dangerously close to becoming a mere façade. He’s not quite the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed altruist he had been at the start of his hero-work, though he still tries to cling to that mentality he once wielded so easily.

Despite of his immense desire for optimism within himself, Retriever admires those willing to look at the world through a more realistic lens, unafraid to confront the existence of certain dour truths, even if their pessimism might inflate or exaggerate the precise extremity of those truths. The world would not be able to function near as well as it does, he thinks, with aspiring dreamers like him alone— dreamers, like him, who at times need to be guided back down to earth by their more doubtful counterparts. And he certainly does feel grounded, perhaps even humbled, by his pessimistic companions whose wariness can be interpreted as their unique brand of care (when it comes to managing his expectations / saving him from some potential grief). It's also just reassuring to know they won't sugarcoat for the sake of his ego or a false veneer of joy when something is clearly troubling them.

Beyond all that, Retriever simply enjoys interacting with more pessimistic individuals. Call it a hero complex if you will, but he likes to be the one who provides a bit of sunshine into someone’s perpetually cloudy day. Pessimists tend amuse him more than they dishearten him, or so is the case when that doubt is not solely directed onto him. He hopes that his sense of optimism, dwindling as it may be, can offer a comfort or something to lean on for pessimists in his company. Plus, pessimists may provide him somewhat of a soundboard for countering his own doubts as he sets on cheering up their vision towards what's to come.

Retrieve does appreciate fellow optimists, feeling inspired by their potential feedback loop of boosted positivity with him, but it doesn’t quite compare to his fondness for pessimists who just give him a sense of needing to protect and comfort them . . . even if that protection and comfort is rooted in proving their gloomy expectations wrong! (＾ᴗ＾)b

#c: retriever #minor ro

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pidge-poetry · 1 year

Photo

FOALS Continues To Bring Passion and Heart To The Stage

December 3, 2022 | Langen Goldstien | twincitiesmedia.net

The winter slump has hit us up here in the Twin Cities. I’m not saying there aren’t some amazing shows coming up, there are, but I’m seeing my calendar slow down. Maybe it’s a blessing being that winter is always insane and I truly hate driving in the snow because my car is about the size of a go-cart. Maybe it’s a curse because my life is live music and, without it, things start to get weird in my head. Regardless, I find myself going to very random shows this time of year, and Thursday night’s concert was one of those. It’s not that I didn’t know of FOALS. I’m super familiar with them and have seen them a few times before but they are just not my standard go-to. That being said, I walked into The Fillmore on Thursday bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

[...]

When it comes to the energy from the stage– it was electric. With six members, that was to be expected. However, I loved how each member seemed to be in their own little world while performing while still having silent communication with the other members. It was a super cool thing to see and just proved that this band is full of seasoned professionals. FOALS have been around the block. They have been around since 2005 and even though they have gained some success with a few more commercialized singles, I feel like they have always stayed just ever so slightly underground. This band has a sound that could easily fill an arena but that sound is just a bit obscure when compared to other bands in the scene which has both helped and hurt FOALS in my opinion.

When it comes to the energy from the audience– it was weird and even got the attention of vocalist Yannis Philippakis. Right when FOALS took the stage, I noticed security weaving in and out of the audience. A few times, it looked as if they were escorting some people out of the crowd but I didn’t think twice about it. I figured it was just people having a few too many drinks as that is something that seems to spike in the winter months. I went on about my night and shifted from the front of the audience to the back so I could see the full effect of the light show happening during FOALS’ set and that’s when I realized something else had to have been going on. After a couple of songs, Yannis took a breather and asked the crowd what the heck was going on. He kneeled towards the crowd trying to hear what the commotion had been about. I don’t think he could hear a full answer but returned to center stage explaining that people were there for a concert, not a WWF event and that it was only a Thursday night… not even Saturday. He was right. the majority of the audience was there for a show and I feel so bad for those audience members who had found themselves next to whatever fight was happening because Yannis was right. This was an audience there to see the music, not the drama, and the way it visibly affected Yannis and the rest of the band made it clear that they were there to give the audience what they wanted.

Beyond the slight hiccup of drama during FOALS’ set, they went on to play a set full of songs that got the audience moving. They played each of those tracks flawlessly and with a sense of flair that is impossible to get from their recordings alone. FOALS may not be one of those bands that I listen to on the daily, but every time I see them perform, I am reminded of their sheer talent and passion and that’s what will keep me coming back to their shows as long as they do them!

#foals #liy tour #minneapolis #jimmy smith #yannis philippakis #jack bevan #kit monteith #jack freeman

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interxstitial · 2 years

Text

@idleds:

( origin! )

seunggi truly, honestly feels like an absolute moron. and that's putting it very, very nicely.

he doesn't know which part of his brain he should blame for the expectations he had for jiwon's home, but he knows there's at least one nerve-ending in there that had him living in his own little twilight zone. now, don't quiz him on specifics (he's got none, really), but for some odd reason, he swore jiwon's room, his home, or even his neighborhood would look entirely different compared to his own. he doesn't spend too much time with muggles or even learning about them outside of class apart from what jiwon tells him, but — it was hard to not imagine something like an alternate universe from what little he did know, alright?

seunggi's observations, day one, hour one:

the neighborhood does look a little different, for the most part. only because seunggi doesn't really have neighbors — the closest ones are acres away, so asking for a cup of sugar is next to impossible. jiwon's, though, is quite nice. seunggi understands his sweaters and never-ending kindness now.

the house kind of does, too, but that's only a matter of size. again: acres, and whatnot. but jiwon's house isn't lacking. in fact, seunggi feels that there's so much warmth in the atmosphere that the house could swallow him whole and still not be full.

there's no real difference otherwise — the rooms are all the same, there's still a damn kitchen and bathroom, and — shocker! — muggles have television, too.

(he's joking. he swears. just remind him to tell the actual moron who sits behind him in his potions class that they have the technology for moving pictures, too.)

even so, seunggi feels his brows furrow upon stepping into jiwon's room after a long, perfectly needed conversation with his friend's mother — seunggi almost bowed about ten times out of utmost respect and thanks, in case you were curious. his eyes flutter around the room, a small huff of confusion slipping free as he takes in his surroundings.

yup, that's a bed. where jiwon sleeps. probably. right?

after a moment of simply staring, seunggi tosses his bag for the week onto the little makeshift bed on the floor he assumes is for him (leave it to jiwon's mum to make it look extra comfy), his head whizzing around to look at his friend with an utterly perplexed look dawning his features. in fact, he turns so hard he almost sends the bag of takeout boxes they'd picked up on the way flying across the room. (he's careful to catch them, of course, only because he doesn't think he can handle another public space until tomorrow. he can still feel the led's searing into his brain, thank you very much.) "you mean to tell me you don't sleep on the ceiling?!"

jiwon, despite the excitement thrumming in every cell of his body, is nervous. it’s seunggi’s first time visiting his home and, quite possibly and more importantly, his first time visiting a muggle home. from the moment jiwon first saw him, he knew seunggi came from a noble house. brand new robes, a shiny trunk with his initials engraved into the padlock, and eyes that spoke volumes of their familiarity with all the wondrous magic that greeted them upon their first foray into hogwarts castle. bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, eleven-year-old and yet-to-reach-his-growth-spurt jiwon could not have known about pureblood families and the ideals several of them would adhere to. but he knew then that na seunggi, just recently sorted into hufflepuff, was someone important.

now, he is perhaps the most important person here. while his mum fawns over seunggi and tries to unload a frankly alarming amount of snacks upon him, jiwon fiddles with the strings of his hoodie. he tries to take in his home with new eyes, to see everything from the gaze of a visitor. their tree has already been set up by the window but remains free of decorations at jiwon’s request. several boxes of shiny baubles, shimmering string lights, and glittery garland sit stacked nearby. though the tree has yet to be decked out, the rest of the home is dotted with holiday knick-knacks. bookshelves lined with snow globes, the coffee table full of gingerbread men, a little santa doll hanging on the front door with a bell in his over-sized belly. the air is full of cinnamon and brown sugar, the perfect sweet contrast to jiwon’s dad grumbling over a football match on the telly. everything certainly seems festive enough, but jiwon can’t help wondering if seunggi finds any of this ridiculous.

does any of this meet his expectations? would it be worse if it does?

eventually, jiwon takes mercy on seunggi and saves him from his mum’s attempt at getting him to answer whether he’d prefer a citrus tart or tiramisu for dessert. insisting that they’ll give her an answer before long, jiwon all but corrals his friend to his room upstairs. with the door shut, jiwon sighs with relief and gently sets his bag onto the desk near the window. not a moment later, tea wiggles out and makes herself cosy in a strip of sunlight falling across jiwon’s bed after a long, well-deserved stretch. after two seasons spent in the cramped dormitory, the sight of his favourite comics on the bookshelf, glow-in-the-dark stickers dotting the window, and a corkboard filled with old-fashioned polaroids is a breath of fresh, beautiful, swansea air.

then comes seunggi’s question, sending jiwon into a fit of laughter so strong that he has to steady himself against the door.

“what? on the— no, of course not!” jiwon exclaims, plopping onto his bed (very much on the floor) and disturbing a now disgruntled tea. with a sharp look that transcends species and language, the ball of fluff moves to the cushioned nook where only a fool would dare to squeeze in with her. “are you sure your family isn’t even a little bit part-vampire? because they definitely sleep on the ceiling, i’ll tell you that. and on that note, you should really be honest if you are part-vampire, because that fried rice is not going to sit well in your stomach if you eat it now.”

#idleds #au: lumos maxima #//oh my god i love this so much #and yes jiwon is welsh in this au what of it #i feel so warm rn :')#i'd love to read an entire journal of seunggi's muggle discoveries #wait til he learns about the mailman!! and their little cars !!!

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roo-bastmoon · 2 years

Note

https://stormblessed95.tumblr.com/post/693066593767424000/what-do-you-think-about-the-festa-photoshoot what are ur thoughts on this

Dear Thoughts On This,

So let me preface this post by saying, if you're shopping for opinions, Stormblessed95 has been part of this fandom for more than a hot minute and has damned near encyclopedic knowledge of BTS... I am just a toddler Army who has seen maaaaaybe half the official contents. So please always invest more in what Storm says, okay? She's an excellent gauge.

That being said, I did have a different perspective on this. Honestly, what I saw of this photoshoot had me concerned for Jimin. I'm used to bubbly, giggly, playful, upbeat (or at least excited and engaged) Jimin. And what I saw here was a consummate professional who did exactly what was asked of him, but was maybe not really enjoying himself.

Compare his energy in this video to, say, Tae's or Hobi's. (Footage starts at about 3:12 minutes in.) He didn't smile much, he barely looked at JK, he didn't crack any jokes or strike up any conversations in the behind-the-scenes footage that we've been shown, no dancing, no wiggles, no silly faces or experimental poses. He was there to get the job done and that was it. When his members asked him about his outfit, his voice was very quiet when he gave his reply. To my mind, his whole vibe was just "muted" for lack of a better word.

youtube

Now, there could be a lot of reasons for this that don't spell trouble.

Perhaps the whole concept of the shoot was going for a "hard" or "cold" look and he was trying to stay in character.

May he was really busy, or tired, or not feeling great that day, and just needed to conserve his energy.

Maybe he wasn't thrilled about the look and feel of the family portrait concept but he always does his best.

Maybe this was shot during the whole insurance - apartment - OST drama and he was just stressed and / or less than pleased with life in general.

To me, compared to how he normally acts, he just seemed... a bit upset. Not with his members or JK (in fact, he seemed totally fine when JK touched him and pulled him closer, and at one point, he seemed to reach out to hug JK instinctively before he realized he was supposed to face the other direction). So, like, I didn't sense he had any beef with anyone, not at all.

But I'm thinking about the sweet, shy, smiley, happy and open Jimin during this workshop Vlog... or the loud, giddy, touchy-feely, jumping around Jimin during the post-Comeback Vlive... and this family portrait festa photoshoot Jimin is a different flavor (to me). It didn't leave a great taste in my mouth, that's for sure.

Doesn't mean there was trouble in paradise or anything super deep was going on. But it definitely had me baffled, and if I had started to see too much more of that going forward, I would have been really worried for Jimin.

Thankfully Jimin nowadays seems perfectly fine; he's crazy busy on his album and all, but when we do glimpse him out of the studio, he seems to be enjoying himself and looking bright eyed and bushy tailed, which makes me happy.

So I chalk this incident up to Jimin being less "on" than I expected, but it wasn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And plus some of the photos look super awesome (even if the fashion choices aren't my style). I mean, they got some really great shots. So all good!

Yours,

Roo

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lovethewayyoudoso · 1 month

Text

Basketball Practice

(Just a silly little one-shot scene that was running through my head tonight.)

Rosaire sat on the second tier of the bleachers, his coat folded neatly in his lap below his idling hands, and smiled to himself as he watched the players run back and forth down the court. He didn't care for basketballs, or any sports for that matter, but he was feeling like he was overdue for some 'cute boyfriend stuff', as someone else would call it. So there he sat, with Fabienne, and a few dozen other scattered family members and onlookers.

It was a practice game between two local casual teams. Just adults who loved the sport and wanted something organized for the weekends. The red team was the home team, from the gym they were playing in; the yellow jerseys were from the west side of town. Some of the men had played back in senior high school or even university but most were purely hobbyists. Amongst Team Red was the local senior high phys-ed teacher and basketball coach, and he was surprisingly one of the youngest. Most of the other men were well into their forties, but Toshiya was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed compared to them.

Long legs sticking out of his running-style shorts and red tank-top jersey bearing the number 8, he looked like he was having an awful lot of fun. Rosaire couldn't tell if he was any good or not, but the score on the electronic board seemed to reflect his boyfriends enthusiasm.

The pair of French friends had shown up in the middle of the second quarter and found a nice wide open spot to sit. It was a bit annoying when another guest showed up and took a seat immediately behind them. It was quiet at first but before long...

"So are you two here for one of the players?" The woman was awfully peppy, far too much so for Rosaire.

Blue eyes gave a sideways glance to Fabienne, who smirked, before he turned partway back toward the other guest. "Yes, in fact we are."

"Oooh, which one? Number 22 is my boyfriend! He wants to join the amateur leagues one day." The women pointed out one of the red players and sighed overly sweetly.

"Aha, well, mine is--"

The buzzer sounded and the end of the quarter was called. The players all returned to their representative benches for water and a quick break. Number 22 happened to look up and spot his girlfriend, who began waving wildly and giggling as she screeched his name. Beside the other (somewhat) younger man was Toshiya, wiping his forehead off and looking up with a confused expression at the shrieking. His attention was immediately drawn to the other patrons, far more unique from the rest of the crowd.

"Oh! Ros! Fabe!" He smiled broadly and waved at his man and his assistant, both of which waved back. "What are you doing here?"

"Heads up!" another player called as a ball had been passed and was missed by its intended recipient, only to bounce right off the side of Toshiya's head. He stumbled aside with an 'oof!'. Rosaire stood up, looking a bit worried, but Fabienne remained seated and cackled.

"Hey, nice play!" Fabienne jeered and sipped at her beverage. Behind her the other woman looked horrified briefly and turned her attention to Rosaire.

He sighed, shoulders slumping, "Yes, that one is mine."

After the game, Rosaire and Fabienne stood and waited for Toshiya to jog over to them. It was no rush, but on the other hand... Rosaire had more than enough sports explanations from his friend for the day. And the girlfriend behind them.

"You two! What did you think?" A long arm reached out toward Rosaire and found his hip, about 50cm higher than where it usually was. He had to look upwards just a bit to share a sweet, quick kiss with his usually diminutive man. "Ooh, I kind of like that!" An endearingly dopey smile, "Maybe I need to find a tall boyfriend too, huh?"

Rosaire gave him a little sideways smirk, "You know, the sooner you get washed up and changed the sooner we can go out for dinner, go home, and I can be above you as long as you want."

"Oh, come on!" Fabienne laughed as Toshiya gave a little suggestive brow wiggle before turning a delightful shade of pink.

"Don't be so embarrassed, Fabienne... I'm usually ontop of him anyway. I love looking down into his sweet, puppy dog eyes."

"Ros!" "Rosaire!"

Another smirk and a laugh that was a borderline cackle, "Meet us out front, would you?"

"Oh you bet I will...!"

#lovethewayyoudoso #lgbt romance #toshiya x rosaire #my boys #original character #one shot blurb #just for fun

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rachelsteapot · 3 years

Note

Hiiii I saw you would like to write about Arthur Shelby!! That’s great cause there aren’t many stories about him. Could you please write one where he gets jealous or possessive? Please and thank you

OMG YES! One jealous and posessive Arthur coming right up!

Disclaimer: I really do not know how good this is, I wrote it in like one sitting so any constructive critcism is apprecated :)

Warnings: Sexual harrassment, Fighting, blood if you squint.

Tags: @theshelbyclan

I Promise (Jealous!Arthur x Fem!Reader)

From the first time he set eyes on you, Arthur Shelby knew that you were going to be his, and there was no room for anyone else. At first, his brothers thought he was sick; he was so far from his normal demeanour that sickness must have been the cause. It was most unlike the eldest Shelby brother to not hire a whore when they went into town, and god forbid he stopped playing in the snow. Then, his brothers realised the root of this change in his behaviour.

You were the newest addition to the Shelby assistants. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, you were always ready and willing to dive headfirst into a stack of invoices, or sit and steadily decipher one of the brother's chicken scratch handwriting. Tommy had hired you specifically to work with Arthur due to his struggles with most, if not all, literary ventures. Especially the numerical kind.

You had been warned by Tommy that Arthur could be difficult to say the least. According to your boss, he was prone to fits of rage, often came across as rude, and liked to snort cocaine. However, this was a side of Arthur that you never saw. Tommy put it down to your voice, perhaps thinking that the way you spoke reminded Arthur of their mother, but you weren’t so sure. Sometimes you noticed Arthur watching you when he didn't think you were looking. There was something else in his eyes, beyond the sadness, there was love. You weren’t sure, but didn’t exactly intend to ask about it. Sometimes, when you were helping Arthur with his numbers, he would sit you on his lap and have you check his maths as he worked. He was slowly improving, and you were sure that he knew, but more and more often he would seemingly make deliberate mistakes so you had to come and help him.

Throughout your time together, you had grown close to Arthur and he to you, perhaps a bit closer than a boss and his assistant should have been. But what mattered was that Arthur’s work was improving, and you were doing your share of the paperwork.

Recently however, you had noticed Arthur daydreaming when you worked with him. While you were explaining maths, his eyes would drift away, and he wouldn't seem to hear what you were saying. During these periods, the mistakes he made were genuine, causing him to get frustrated more and more often.

The only thing left to do was ask him what was wrong.

It was a warm Thursday afternoon when you noticed Arthur drifting in and out of thought. You were sitting at your desk, reading through a stack of invoices, while he sat at his, reading some memo from Tommy. A heavy sigh interrupted your train of thought and you looked up to see Arthur cradling his head in his hands. You stood, kicking your shoes off before slowly padding over to his desk.

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you leaned over the back of his chair and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” your gentle query received another sigh.

“Nothing, Y/N. Just Tommy being a twat again and not asking what I thought.” came his grumbled reply. You gently placed a kiss just above his ear and sighed too.

“Why don’t you tell him?” That received a dry chuckle as he sat up and you slid off his shoulders, coming to stand next to him.

“It doesn’t exactly work like that, but maybe. There’s a family meeting tomorrow. I might, but I doubt he’ll listen.” You nodded and licked your lips slightly in thought.

“Just let me know if there’s anything I can help with,” you said gently as you returned to your desk. He nodded in response and you both quietly slipped back into a swirling world of numbers and letters.

Friday evening was the next time you saw Arthur. He was working away from his office for most of Friday, especially since there was a race on and Shelby Company limited still operated a betting shop. You had been counting the earnings of today’s race for hours, so when Finn pranced into your office at the end of the day and asked if you wanted to go to The Garrison with him and the boys, the answer was a resounding yes.

As you left your office for the evening, Finn linked your arm with his and walked you to the Garrison, happily comparing the work that you two had done. There was nothing flirtatious about your relationship with Finn, he was too young for you anyway. But, he had an easygoing sense of adventure and was known to crack a joke about anything. Besides, Finn had his suspicions about you and Arthur, and he knew that if it was as he suspected, it would not be wise to try anything.

The two of you arrived at The Garrison and relaxed into the noisy, smoky atmosphere. You could have easily entered the Shelby box, but preferred to mingle with people more akin to yourself once in a while. Finn ordered for you, and before you knew it, you had been challenged to a drinking game. Usually you wouldn’t have bothered, but tonight, you were out to win.

Arthur stepped through the doors of his beloved pub, just in time to see Y/N drinking his baby brother, Finn, under the table. He chuckled lightly to himself, but his mood soon turned sour when he noticed that you weren’t just experiencing his attention. The man sitting next to you at the bar had placed his hand on your waist and was trying to pull you onto his lap. Try being the keyword here, as you had turned to him and tried to explain that, one: you weren’t a prostitute, and two: you weren’t interested. But this man was adamant, even reaching up to feel at your breasts.

Arthur could feel your discomfort from where he stood. He could feel the fire of rage building up in his stomach, until, finally, he snapped.

You hadn’t even noticed that Arthur was here until you felt the man that had been bothering you get ripped away. As you turned to find out what was happening, you saw the side of Arthur that, until now, you had doubted the existence of.

Arthur had your harasser on the floor and was beating him with a fury that you'd never seen before. It was clear that this man was unconscious, and his face was a bloodied mess. If no one stopped him soon, this man may die. And, really, that was what Arthur wanted. You were under his protection, regardless of whether you liked it or not, and no one would hurt you again.

You stepped forwards, wobbling slightly from the alcohol you had consumed. As you approached, Arthur tensed, sensing that someone was coming. Slowly, you placed your hand on his back and he spun around, towering over you.

“Arthur, please. Stop.” Finally it clicked in Arthur’s brain that this newcomer was you. His eyes softened.

“Let’s go home, love,” He croaked, sliding his hand around your waist and leading you out of the pub. You gently steered Arthur towards your home, unlocking the door when you arrived and sitting Arthur down on the sofa. He sat there, silently shaking, while you gathered a first aid kit.

“This is going to sting a little bit, Arthur,” you whispered as you sat down on the sofa beside him and dabbed some whiskey onto a cotton pad, taking his hands into yours to clean the cuts. He winced slightly, but sat still as you began to wrap his hands in bandages.

“Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you do it?” you asked, leaning onto his shoulder as you tied off the bandages. Arthur looked down at you and took your chin into one of his hands.

He held your chin, tilting your head so you looked him in the eyes.

“You’re mine, Y/N. I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt you. I love you too much for that,” he muttered before pressing his lips gently to yours.

“I will never let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

#Arthur shelby #Arthur shelby x reader #Jealous Arthur Shelby #fluff #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #shelby brothers #shelby company limited #john shelby #finn shelby

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hearts-hunger · 3 years

Text

early morning lover || dave york x reader

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Summary: He’s your early-morning lover, and he wants to give you another baby.

Pairings: Dave York x Wife!Reader

Genre: Smut, fluff | Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, talk of pregnancy

A/N: This one's for my sweet nonnie who sent a very soft ask about baby-making sex with Dave. Nonnie, thank you so much for your patience - I hope you like this fic! ♡ (Also, in my little fantasy world, we're pretending Dave isn't a scary assassin. He's just a soft suburban dad who loves his wife and kids ♡)

It was barely light outside when the alarm on Dave's phone went off. You felt him roll over to turn if off; a moment later, his face was nuzzled against your neck as he pulled you against his chest.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

You gave a sleepy groan. “I don’t wanna get up.”

He laughed softly, his breath warm against your skin. “I know, honey.”

He placated a bit of your grumpiness with his gentle kisses, his big hands roaming over your body as both of you woke up. Even though you both got up at the same time - him for work, and you to get the girls ready for school - he had always been more of a morning person than you were, and often spent the first few minutes of the day cajoling you out of bed.

“Do you ever wish I’d just spring up out of bed like you do?” you asked.

He chuckled and pulled you closer. “No, because then I wouldn’t get my morning cuddles.”

You smiled. “You do like your morning cuddles, don’t you?” Dave’s love language was physical touch, and from sunup to sundown, he could be counted on showing you how much he loved you. It was something you loved about him, and you especially liked how affectionate he was first thing in the morning, like he was giving you as much love as he could before he left for work.

Despite your best intentions, though, this morning routine frequently found Dave easing into the day while you eased into a few more minutes of sleep. He was just so warm, and you were so cosy cuddled up against him, and surely it wouldn't hurt to sleep a little longer...

“You’re falling back asleep, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone affectionate and much more awake than you felt.

You huffed and buried your face against his chest. “No.”

“It’s ok if you are, honey,” he said sweetly, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “But I think I know a nice way to wake you up.”

You considered that. “A shower?” you asked. That was one of his tricks, inviting you into the shower with him to help you wake up, and it usually worked.

“No,” he said. “But we can take a shower afterwards if you want.”

You frowned. “After what?”

“After this.”

Untangling himself from you, he ducked under the covers and tugged off your pajama shorts and underwear, leaving you in nothing but his well-loved Dallas Cowboys t-shirt.

“Dave!” you squeaked, already feeling yourself respond to his warmth.

He peeked out from under the covers at you, an impish smile on his face. “Do you think this’ll work?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help an exasperated smile. “Well, if you’re already down there, you might as well give it a try.”

He grinned. “Atta girl.”

He worked his way over your thighs and skilfully eased into your heat, kissing everywhere, sloppy and sweet and hungry for you. Dave was nothing if not enthusiastic in his lovemaking, and his tongue quickly had you pulling at the sheets, squirming under the heady flood of stimulation.

“I’m already - oh fuck - Dave - ”

You were fleetingly concerned about being too loud and waking the girls, but damn if your husband wasn’t determined to make you cum before you could even register it happening. You didn’t really have time to be loud, so quickly did he bring you to the edge; you let out a sharp gasp of pleasure as he groaned against your heat, cumming on his tongue as he drew your orgasm out as long as he could.

“Jesus,” you managed as you came down.

“Uh-uh,” Dave said, giving your thighs a few last kisses. “Just me.”

You breathed a laugh as he wiped the back of his hand on his mouth and laid on top of you, his head and chest resting on your tummy.

“That ok?” he said. “I know it was a little fast.”

“You’re apologizing for being good at eating me out?”

He laughed. “No, I - ” He shook his head. “I won’t apologize, if you liked it. It just occurred to me that it was a little too fast, maybe.”

Compared to how he usually went down on you, it had been fast - most of the time he liked to draw it out, teasing and torturously slow, leaving you absolutely spent afterwards. But you would have been worn out before the day even started if he’d done that, and his fast pace this time had done the trick.

“No, I liked it,” you assured him.

“So you feel good and woken up now?” he asked, raising his head to give you a cheeky smile.

“Yes, thank you,” you said, combing your fingers through his hair. “I’m downright bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

He chuckled and laid his head back down, kneading his fingers into the soft parts of you that you often didn’t like, reminding you how much he loved them.

“Hey, honey?”

Your fingers trailed down to the nape of his neck. “What’s up?”

You felt him take a deep breath.

“I think... we should have another baby.”

Your fingers stilled. “You... you do?”

He pushed himself up until he hovered over you, leaning down to give you a kiss before he met your eyes. His face was warm and gentle with sincerity as he studied your face, and you couldn’t help a bashful smile.

He smiled too. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said. “I like it when you look at me like that.”

He hummed in agreement, pressing soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, your nose. “I love you.”

You let your hands drift over his shoulders, his neck. “I love you too.”

“I think we should have another baby,” he said again.

You smiled. “So you said.”

You thought of what it had been like to find out you were pregnant with Alice. Dave had been so excited and proud; you wouldn’t have been surprised to know everyone in the CIA knew Dave York was a dad-to-be. He’d been the same way with Molly, fairly glowing with happiness at the news.

Everyone knew Dave loved being a dad, especially his daughters. He was goofy and gentle with them, firm when he needed to be; he helped coach their soccer teams and came home after long days at the office to help them with their school projects. He always said the worst part of his job was leaving the three of you, his best girls; he called home every night he was away and took all of you in a bear hug as soon as he was back.

You pictured Dave with another baby in his arms, being chased around the house by three giggling little ones, telling everyone in the office of another baby York - maybe David Jr., this time. You smiled.

“Why the sudden baby fever?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just..." He gave a soft laugh. "I love having kids with you. I love you, and I love our girls. I can't believe how lucky I am to be their dad and to be your husband."

You ran your thumb over his mouth. “Dave.”

“I know, I know. Since when is your husband so sentimental?”

You smiled. “That's not what I was going to say. I think it’s sweet.”

He kissed your fingers. “I think you’re sweet.”

You softened as he worked his way over your fingers, kissing the tip of each one.

“Dave?”

“Hm?”

You drew him down to kiss you. “I think we should have another baby too.”

You could feel his smile as he kissed you deeply, his hips lightly pressing against yours, nothing between you but his boxers. You were already warm from his earlier lovemaking, and you felt your body ease back into that languid, comfortable desire you felt every time he took you to bed.

“What if we start trying right now?” he said against your jaw.

You glanced at his phone on the nightstand. “Do we have time?”

“Plenty of time,” he said, not turning his attention from you.

His kisses were heady, and you felt your legs widen to draw him closer as you pushed his boxers down. Every part of Dave was as familiar as it was lovely to you now, after ten years of marriage, but you would never tire of the feel of him, broad and warm and safe against your body.

He eased into you slowly, taking his time, kissing your face and murmuring words of praise. It always surprised you, a little, when he kept your lovemaking slow without having to be asked - he usually liked it a bit rougher, a bit faster. You liked it when he had his way with you, but you loved it when he was gentle with you, and both of you took turns indulging each other’s tastes and enjoying what the other liked.

“Let me give you another baby, Mrs. York,” he said tenderly, hovering over you, kissing your face. “You do make mighty pretty ones.”

You tilted your head back as he moved in you, gasping softly, basking in the feel of him. He kissed your throat and gave a soft groan.

“Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?” he asked.

You cradled his face in your hands and kissed him. “Maybe a boy. It’d be nice to have a boy, wouldn’t it? I bet he’d look just like his daddy.”

He smiled. “Yeah, it would be nice to have a boy. But I hope he’d have your eyes.”

He dipped his head and kissed your collarbone, leaving love marks across your skin.

“Fuck,” you gasped. You knew you needed to be quiet, but you couldn’t help it - you bit your lip and gave a desperate moan as he angled himself deeper.

“Dave,” you keened.

His whole face lit up in delight and surprise. He moved his hand over your mouth even as he laughed.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he said gently, adoringly. “You’ll wake the girls.”

You gave a choked sigh against his hand as he rolled his hips; he moved his hand down to your breast and kissed you deeply.

“I love you so much,” he said. “You’re so beautiful. I love you.”

He took his time with you, letting your pleasure be the focus of everything he did. He cooed soft love words to you, gently reminding you to try and stay quiet, delighted when you weren’t able to. He told you he loved you when you came for him, your fingers gripping him tight enough to leave bruises as you drew him close. His sigh was choked with pleasure as he came deep inside you, kissing all over you, praising you for how lovely you were.

You curled up next to him afterwards, wanting his warmth; he propped himself on his arm next to you, tangling your legs together, tracing his thumb over the hem of your shirt where it had bunched up under your breasts.

“You look pretty in my old shirts, Mrs. York,” he said. He kissed you tenderly. “You think we made a baby?”

You smiled and ran your hand over his bicep. “Maybe. But we could always keep trying, just to be safe.”

He chuckled and kissed your jaw. “Yeah. Just to be safe.”

He kissed you for a few more minutes before his phone buzzed, and you felt his body shift against yours as he made to get up.

“No, don’t go,” you said, pulling him close. “Just stay in bed with me all day.”

“What if it’s a national emergency?” he teased.

You brushed your fingers over his cheekbone. “What’s a national emergency compared to your wife?”

You felt his smile under your hand as you saw it brighten his face.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said. You drew him down to kiss you again; you didn’t know how long you would have kept him if his phone hadn’t buzzed again.

“Maybe it is a national emergency,” you conceded. “You should probably answer it.”

“Probably,” he agreed. He gave you a quick kiss before he turned to reach for his phone. “You want to get the shower started while I see what’s going on?”

You untangled yourself from the sheets and his warmth, already missing them as you took off your shirt and put your pajamas in the laundry. You blushed under the affectionate way he watched you even as he answered the phone, his tone all business like it was every time he answered a work call.

The sound of his voice drifted across your bedroom, but the conversation was lost to you as you turned on the shower and stepped in when it was warm enough. You didn’t have to wait long for Dave; he joined you after a few minutes, wasting no time soaping up and getting ready for the day.

“Was it a national emergency?” you asked.

He smiled. “No, but I do need to get going. Apparently there’s a bunch of high-schoolers coming in for a shadowing program, and I’m supposed to be in charge of them.”

You couldn’t imagine anyone better suited to the job - most of the people Dave worked with would have nothing but disdain for a group of nervous high-schoolers, but Dave would be kind and friendly and get them where they needed to go.

“Well, in that case, you better get a move on,” you said. Your morning shower together was usually a more leisurely affair, but you kept your hands to yourself - a valiant effort, considering how much you wanted to kiss every inch of him - and let him get cleaned up. He was out of the shower before you’d started on your hair, and he was nearly dressed when you got out.

“You look very handsome,” you told him, watching the way he straightened his tie in the vanity mirror.

He smiled. “Thanks.” He turned and kissed you, a brisk, passionate goodbye.

“Sorry I can’t help you get the girls together,” he said.

“That’s ok,” you said. You patted his chest. “Go wrangle some high schoolers. The girls and I will be right here when you get back.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, affection warming his expression.

You smiled. “What?”

He smiled back. “Nothing. I’m just glad we’re having another baby, that’s all. I love you.”

“I love you too.” You kissed him goodbye, already thinking about how much you’d like to try for a baby again when he got back home.

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#ok i wasn't thinking i liked this but actually i do #it's pretty cute #let me know what you think!#dave york x reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york fluff #dave york smut #equalizer 2 #maddie writes stuff!

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