#i want you bach au part 1 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sukiglycerin · 3 years

Text

dolce (sweetly, softly, gently)

* pairing: accompanist/violinist!katsuki bakugou x violinist!reader (gender neutral!) ft kamijirou

* genre: fluff, kinda angst, enemies to lovers, classical musician au hehe

* words: 9.5k (holy crap, this was a rollercoaster to write)

* warnings: swearing bc not only does bakugou exist, he is a prominent character, brief viola/second violinist jokes (reader’s words not mine), poor rosins being dropped :(

* a/n: SO this is very late for @prettysetterbaby‘s v-day collab!! pls check out all the other talented writers involved >< jj is an ANGEL for putting up with me being late T_T there’s some violin terminology in here but it’s fine if you don’t understand it! more notes at the end aha

* playlist (spotify in source link): violin sonata no.9, op.47 in a major “kreutzer” (beethoven) ; liebesfreud (kriesler) ; violin partita no.3 in e major (bach) ; duo concertante for 2 violins no.3 in d-sharp major, op.57 (beriot) ; clair de lune (debussy) ; duo for 2 violins in d-major, op.67, no.2 (spohr) ; 24 caprices op.1, no.24 in a minor (paganini)

* synopsis: being a soloist is not made easy by your new accompanist, bakugou. you step on each other’s toes when playing - but that’s alright, he’s just a pianist. you’re separated in your two worlds of musical instruments, until one day, you’re not. bakugou traverses over realms like a simple string crossing, and there’s a lot more he’s brought with him.

a double stop in violin is a technique in which two notes are played simultaneously. played correctly, one violin playing two notes should sound like two violins playing separate notes. if your life was a violin, you only needed double stops to play it. you'd perfected the art of being alone, playing the parts of two in your sad solo sonata. you were so, so sure you could compose and play for the whole orchestra - a symphony that would surely please the audience.

you were wrong. after all, a double stop has its limits as well, impossible to play with an interval of larger than a tenth. you were content with your double stops and playing by yourself. this was how you won countless competitions - what good would changing anything be?

you were born a soloist, or that's what your parents would say. you never followed the crowd, sticking to your own mind and doing what was true to you. you never worked well in an orchestra setting (and who knew what would become of you if you ever landed in second violin!). thus, you became a soloist, determined to keep the spotlight on you. it was you and your perfection that kept the eyes of the audience transfixed; you were desperate to keep their focus enraptured by every slight movement of your bow, every shift in finger position on the fingerboard. you wanted them to follow every dynamic and tempo change like their life depended on it, feel their emotion spark the moment your bow pressed a string. you were the only one on stage, an entertainer and an artist to the audience. you brought joy and sorrow through key changes and wonder through glissandos and held suspense with every tremolo. the audience was yours for an entire piece, for a story, for a lifetime.

oh, and there was the accompanist. what was his name again? batsugou? bakugou. the last part was a joke, of course. you'd never forget the man who ruined your first recital overseas.

katsuki bakugou was quickly made your accompanist after the previous one quit last minute and schedule clashes between any other potential candidates rendered them unable to travel with you. no one in their right mind would've come along on a plane to play a piano accompaniment for you. indeed, bakugou was not in his right mind. his name was prominent locally, an orchestral prodigy with the gift of perfect pitch since the tender age of thirteen. he never ventured internationally, though given the chance multiple times to do so. you could never understand why he never took any of the opportunities. you'd jump at any chance of expanding your musical horizons and performing for a larger audience, so it frustrated you to see someone with such potential to throw away possibly beneficial opportunities. not that you really paid much attention to him, anyway. bakugou was a pianist, and you were a violinist. you only cared about competition, not those with blessings you could only dream of achieving.

the months leading to your recital, bakugou had gone quiet. well, you didn't know him personally, so it was news of him that had gone practically radio silent. he was no longer featured in news articles or even pinned on bulletin boards for upcoming recitals. there were no updates from him on social media, too. not that you really paid attention, anyway. he was a prodigy, gifted naturally with talent, and you were a violinist.

an ambitious violinist, at that. you had dreams to perform anywhere out of the stifling air of japan. even to fly a short distance to south korea would be amazing, because it meant you'd be outside of japan. you worked towards this goal tirelessly. you dreamed of stepping on a plane, violin case in your right hand and your dreams in another, to fly to another country and perform. you wished to see the talent beyond your own bubble and feel the music resonate in an auditorium in a different way than it did in japan.

one day, that dream was realized. your violin case in one hand and dreams in another, you boarded the plane flying out of japan full of hope and the faith that good days were coming. while yes, you didn't expect to step out of that plane with anyone but your old accompanist, momo, bakugou's presence comforted you in the foreign atmosphere. for the first ten minutes, he said not a word to you but made it a point to speak to everyone else he could in what seemed like very convincingly fluent english.

to which you finally mustered up the courage to say, in japanese, "i thought you didn't travel internationally."

his japanese voice was a comforting sound. "i don't. this is my first time out of japan."

you stared at him like he just said he ate babies for breakfast (which seemed just as astronomically insane as him never stepping foot out of japan).

"but-" you stuttered. "your english is so good?"

"only because you can't understand it."

to be fair, he had a point. you could only say the basics, like, "hi," "how are you?", "i'm fine, and you?," and the ever-so useful, "do you speak japanese? my english is not good." he appeared to never use any of these phrases, so he was a god in english compared to you.

it was a miracle you navigated out of the airport with your luggage in hand and a general idea of how to get to the hotel you'd booked. you're not going to talk about the events in the hotel, though. sharing a bed with bakugou was a whole different story that consisted of him complaining about your phone usage at eleven pm and you complaining about his lack of sufficient english skills to be able to get the right hotel room (which he'd retort by saying "at least i speak english!").

the path to your first international competition was rocky, so understandably by the day of the performance, your metaphorical feet were sore and you only had water on your metaphorical mind. that is to say, you hadn't practiced with bakugou once until the day before the performance. said rehearsal was cut short due to misunderstandings as a result of bakugou's apparent not-so-fluency in english. you felt bad for him at this point.

and then you were up on stage, violin in one hand, bow in the other, and arms full of your childhood aspirations. also, definitely not prepared enough. you glanced once at bakugou before beginning and he looked confident enough. the lesson you learned that day was that looks can be deceiving.

something you could remember quite clearly was the way the spotlight shined on the varnish of your instrument as you held it, propped between your chin and shoulder. you focused on this shine before taking a deep breath, closing your eyes, and praying muscle memory would take over and you'd play the piece faithfully to the score.

you liked to think your playing was accurate. you, the soloist, were the main focus of the piece. the accompaniment made the piece richer and fuller, complementing the violin beautifully while keeping attention on said violin. the thing was, bakugou, like you, played like a soloist.

the performance was like a fight, and sadly not the graceful kind you'd see in a ballet. it was gory and a nuance to the ears, melodic tinkling of the piano becoming tears of a soldier dying in combat. at parts, you clashed by overshadowing the other by playing too loudly. sometimes it was you, and sometimes it was bakugou. it was a merciless game of tag; bakugou would be running to keep up with your playing; once achieving so, you were forced to start chasing after him. you can't exactly remember if he played well, though. for certain, he was not in sync with you, but you were mainly too preoccupied with your own playing to pay attention to his. listening to the recording of the performance, you were unable to evaluate his quality of playing properly, and thus, he remained your accompanist even when you returned to japan.

(actually, the biggest reason he stayed your accompanist was because of your classical musician friends' nagging. they were all in complete awe that the famous soloist, katsuki bakugou, had offered to be your accompanist, and begged for an autograph. of course, you declined.)

you figured that like you, bakugou was a soloist. he wasn't fit to assist your playing, far more suited to his own solos to entrance the audience with only his playing. being a soloist, he played like one too - that's simply how things worked. this understanding of him, though, still couldn't stop you from harbouring a small grudge against him for ruining your international debut.

and then there was the man himself, all standoffish and rough in words and persona. obscenities had no hesitation coming (thrust!) from his mouth. he yelled brashly and frequently and it astonished you that he was a classical musician, as most of your friends of the classical music profession were typically on the quiet, softer spoken side. those that were extroverts were optimistically so, in far contrast to bakugou, who you'd expect from looks alone to be playing in some heavy metal band. it was scary to hear his renditions of debussy's dreamy, serendipitous pieces when over your earbuds, he was yelling at some guy named "shitty hair" on his phone. you were curious how he looked recording the piece.

you didn't typically communicate, though. conversation, which only ever existed during rehearsal, was a question from you and a clipped grunt in response. there was nothing else to your relation; he played his part, and you played yours. sometimes you did this simultaneously, but it was as if you were playing two completely different things. performance, according to your friends, was now stilted. this was partially the reason you stopped listening to recorded performances. it wasn’t even like you’d ever derived pleasure from listening to them - you only nitpicked your mistakes.

your old accompanist, momo, on the other hand, was an absolute angel. she was kind, polite, and skilled on the piano, fingers dancing over the keys like a graceful ballet. you fit well with her; each performance was like a delightful conversation between friends, pleasant on the ears and twinkling with joy and laughter. with her, every performance felt like something resembling victory, even if it wasn’t a competition. to you, winning the audience’s gaze was enough.

then again, you didn't feel that you could judge quite yet. momo was your accompanist for years, and you could barely remember how the two of you sounded when you first started out. bakugou had been your accompanist for mere months (though it did feel much, much longer considering how frustrating he could be). you couldn't understand why he became your accompanist at all.

opposites. it was an accurate representation of your relationship with bakugou. he was a pianist, you weren't. he was a prodigy, you weren't. he was blessed with talent, you weren't. there was nothing to talk to him about, obviously, because of these dividing factors.

the longer you knew him, the more your disdain for the man grew. at rehearsals, it always felt like your performances were about him, him, and him. he was the star piano player, of course. he hadn't volunteered to be your accompanist as a sense of "stepping down"; no, no, rather, he was flaunting his piano playing with a violin playing in the background. he played perfectly. for a soloist.

as time passed, these frustrations with him became more and more apparent. you became acutely aware of how his performance would outshine your own, and it sickened you. slowly, the quality of your own performances took a nosedive. if the piece was originally pianissimo, you'd take it up to piano (then, if bakugou increased his volume, forte). if the tempo was andante and he was playing moderato, you'd play allegro. it was a competition at this point - instigated by him, of course. you were just upping the ante, even if it meant sacrificing your own artistry.

a lot of people warned you of what would happen, but you ignored them. the fierce competition you felt between you and bakugou caused your own downfall as a musician. slowly, gigs stopped trickling in, like a faucet being shut off. you blamed this on bakugou. ("i was international before him. now, i can barely get a gig in musutafu! why does everyone think he's so great?" you had fumed over the phone to jirou, your old roommate from university. she asked you if you had even listened to him play.)

you were scrambling for places to perform at this point. (“fire him,” the very unhelpful hagakure told you. you didn’t know what you were thinking when you asked her, a violist in a local orchestra. it wasn’t like she ever got a solo.) you’d seriously considered doing so, but came up empty when looking for another accompanist. online forums and friends’ connections could only do so much. they were all either unavailable during rehearsal schedules or inadequate in terms of adapting to the music given.

“you need to try working together with him,” jirou advised you one day over the phone.

“yeah, say that to yourself and kaminari,” you muttered bitterly under your breath. kaminari was a guitarist in jirou’s band who hadn’t quite gotten along with jirou well. jirou made fun of the lightning bolt streak in his hair. when you first met them, all they did was bicker day and night; now, according to the other guitarist, tokoyami, they still did this, though on a smaller scale.

she heard you. “well,” jirou said, slightly ticked off, “we get along better now. because of communication. look- i’m not saying you need to be best friends with bakugou or anything, but you need to talk to him about what’s working and what’s not. respect him as another musician, y’know?”

“i’ll… try,” you said begrudgingly.

you heard a muffled yell from the other side of the call. “kaminari, you idiot!” jirou called, voice a bit far. “what did i tell you about plugging in the amp? i said not to-” she cut herself off. “sorry, y/n, i need to go now. kaminari’s back to his normal antics.” she sighed, but it sounded more endeared than irritated. the call ended.

respect bakugou as another musician. you could do that. bakugou was only a pianist. you were a violinist. he was your accompanist. he was to support your playing. you’d forever be separated from him, doing your own thing. he, certainly, couldn’t understand the woes of being a violinist. not the intonation nor the techniques; you were sure that if you handed him a violin on the spot, he wouldn’t be able to even hold the bow properly. the notion of bakugou, piano prodigy, struggling to make a decent sound on the violin with a bow clenched in an ungainly grip deeply amused you.

these thoughts kept your relationship with bakugou afloat and restrained you from strangling him every time he stepped a toe out of line during rehearsals. ploddingly, with as minimal communication as you could manage, you tried to play with bakugou together, as a duet rather than as two soloists playing simultaneously. you swallowed your pride to play accurately to the music, patiently explaining any qualms you had with bakugou’s playing.

eventually, you found yourself building up your performances to the quality they had once been with momo. it was still far from the pristine playing that led you to an international invite - but it was an improvement, and that was all that mattered to you. innately, you were slightly ashamed of the thoughts that allowed you to keep working with bakugou. they were thoughts that told of your superiority to him, because he was playing piano for you. that’s all he was; an accompaniment to you. you told yourself that having these thoughts on the inside was better than fighting with bakugou.

somehow, along the strings of notes slurred together and shifts of fingers from one spot on a string to the next, you found yourself experiencing a strange joy gliding your bow against the strings of your violin. the rich sound of your instrument, withering and blooming with every stroke of vibrato you performed, fulfilled you unlike how it ever had before. up until now, you’d been playing for the audience, rather than yourself. the melody reverberating in the hollow body of your violin was never for your own ears to enjoy, it was for the audience’s satisfaction and listening pleasure. for it was their own enjoyment that won you competition after competition, playing with a blank face. on some occasions, you’d open your eyes during the applause to see some audience members crying, which ultimately confused you. how you were able to draw emotions from them with your playing when the music was unable to render you anything but indifferent?

you knew it in yourself, though, that the happiness you felt was hollow. delightful notes supposed to boast joy and love echoed in the rehearsal room, falling flat on your ears.

you were a soloist, though. you couldn’t let thoughts like these get to you. you could only play, for both your pride and your audience. these woes were for you to shoulder, on top of the violin you held between your chin and collarbone.

“you’re here early,” bakugou commented one day, opening the door to your shared rehearsal room. tucked under one arm was his folder of sheet music. he caught you in the middle of practicing one of the pieces for a gig - liebesfreud, by fritz kreisler.

it was true. the morning sun basked the window sill and laminate flooring, warming the particular spots it shone through. you’d arrived an hour or so early. pleased by the bright nature of the morning, you pulled up the blinds. typically, you ran late, arriving ten minutes after bakugou’s text of “you’re late again, idiot” with a coffee and a bagel in your hands. those mornings, you were really grateful for having a case with backpack straps. if you hadn’t the time to eat your bagel on the way to rehearsal, it was cold and hard by the time you had a lunch break.

thankfully, today was not one of those days. whether it was the sun or the title of the piece (“love’s joy,” how wonderful), you’d woken up and decided that today, you’d have a warm and soft bagel for breakfast. you had a coupon for a free coffee and surprisingly, the commute to rehearsals was more punctual than usual. thus, you arrived an hour early, a smile on your face as you opened the door. you opened your case with extra care and rosined your bow with extra zest, humming a tune you heard playing on the radio. bakugou would’ve had a heart attack had he saw you then.

you ignored his entrance, only peeping one eye open at the man and nodding your head toward the piano as you continued on with the piece. you allowed yourself to become immersed in the music, following the soft pace bakugou set in his playing. closing your eyes, you saw the audience before you and felt your fingers sliding and pressing the strings. time flew while playing the piece; you’d barely noticed that the piece was nearing its end, playing its familiar melody one last time before opening your eyes. a glance at the rosin dusted in between the bridge and fingerboard of your violin satisfied you, like salt on caramel. you surely played just as sweet, smooth and saccharine like the gooey texture of a caramel confection. you relished in the sunlight streaming through into the room, ignoring the shuffling of papers behind you (from bakugou, no doubt). that was how you should play.

“something’s off,” you blearily opened your eyes to the sound of bakugou’s gruff voice. he was frowning, eyebrows furrowed in a not atypical manner.

“what,” you said flatly. “it sounded fine to me. i didn’t mess up or anything.”

“no,” he replied, deep in thought, crimson eyes darkening a shade. “we don’t have proper… emotion in the music.”

“huh?” you felt a comical question mark rising out of your head. “i played it perfectly to score. it conveys the composer’s emotions to a t,” you said, getting annoyed with the pianist. your grip tightened on your violin’s neck.

“well- yeah,” he gritted his teeth. “but what about your emotions?”

“who cares about my emotions?” you said. “all that matters is that my playing is perfect. the audience feels the emotions, not me.” why else had you been plucked into violin lessons when you were five? surely not for your own enjoyment.

“idiot, that’s definitely not how it is.”

“it’s just violin playing!” you snapped. “it’s not complicated with- with emotions! it’s the same as anything else!”

“you’re wrong,” bakugou coldly answered.

“what would you understand?” you seethed. “you’re just a damn pianist. you follow my lead.”

he ignored your remarks. “why do you play a fucking instrument, then? why bother to enter competitions or recitals?”

“to win, like any other normal person!”

he let out a clipped, exasperated breath. “fuckin’ explains it, then.” he didn’t elaborate. dismissing the topic, he said, “whatever. play the piece from the top. actually try to look at me this time, so we can stay together. put more emphasis on the downbeat at the start.”

“it’s not like you even heard me play the beginning,” you retorted, but made sure to accent that note even more during the replay. pianists. they always were on their high horses.

something you looked forward to every year was the valentine’s recital. the organizers, an old couple, had known you since you were a child, and thus developed a soft spot for you. you were a shoo-in for the event, relied on to learn the music on a short deadline. last year, you played preludio, from bach’s partita for violin no. 3. this year, though, the catch was weird.

“the letter says it’s a violin duet?” you said to jirou while video calling her. “i don’t have a violinist on hand, just a pianist. it’s not like bakugou can suddenly master violin.”

jirou looked at you with a surprised expression. “you don’t know?”

you stared back at her. “know what?”

“he plays violin, too.”

“huh?” you must’ve misheard her.

she nodded. “he’s pretty good, too. have you not seen the videos?”

“videos?" your eyes widened as you soon realized the implications of bakugou harbouring an aptitude for violin. "i’ve… i’ve got to go.”

“he’s as good as you, y/n,” jirou said with a knowing smile. you were quick to press the hang up button.

five seconds into teenage bakugou’s rendition of one of paganini’s caprices, you exited youtube.

the next day, you kicked open the door to the practice room.

“you,” you pointed a finger at bakugou, who sat at the piano midway through a piece.

“what is it now, dumbass? you’re late again.”

“shut up,” you grumbled. “that’s beside the point. you- you play violin?!”

he shrugged, not avoiding your piercing gaze. “i’ve dabbled in it, yes.”

you shut the door behind you. “and why did you never tell me?!”

“tch. you never asked, did you?”

“you’re my accompanist, i should know these things!”

“you know i play piano, and that’s enough,” bakugou said stubbornly. “i only play piano with you.”

“not anymore.” setting your violin case down, you shuffled through the pocket that held your sheet music. flipping out a packet of sheet music, you thrust it in bakugou’s direction. “here.”

he grabbed the sheets from you, skimming the title. “duo for two violins in…. fuck,” he muttered. “why didn’t you just say no? who even is this from?”

“valentine’s recital. the pay’s good, bakugou, and we need it.”

“you need it,” he mumbled bitterly, holding the sheets out for you. “i don’t.”

“it’s not like i’m happy about it either. since when were you a violinist?”

“since when was it any of your damn business?”

"you're supposed to be my pianist! not anything else!"

you didn’t understand how he could be so musically inclined. you blinked, and your sight smeared, blurring the sight of your feet with the laminate flooring. this wasn't right, you thought as you felt a telltale heat creeping up you. why were you crying now?

if there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was your violin playing. it seemed to be the only thing you were good at as a child when academics and athletics failed you. sure, you hated it at first (as most children did when their parents forced them to do something), but as time went on, the applause of the audience and the title of "winner" rewarded you enough. you were no prodigy, so you worked endlessly every day to prove yourself worthy. you never understood how you'd worked so hard only to be in the shadows of others so naturally gifted who surely would never understand how much you practiced to become better.

when it came to bakugou, he was never supposed to be better. he was your pianist, talented in a completely different musical realm than your own, so he could never be superior to you - and now he wasn't. he never was. here you were for the past year or so, looking like a fool in bakugou's eyes. on the days you struggled so hard with fourth finger vibrato, he was probably laughing at your inadequacy at violin. as easily as he played the violin, katsuki bakugou played you like a fool.

everything collided when you stepped out of the room, leaving a particular golden haired boy alone to stare at the sheet music you tossed him. your head throbbed with the groggy sensation of almost-tears and anger coursed through your veins.

you couldn't back out of the recital now. you couldn't.

you couldn't stand to look back into the vermillion eyes of katsuki bakugou now. even more so now, you couldn't.

your solution?

"hey, what's up?" jirou's collected voice filled your ear, your phone pressed to it.

"hey, kyo, i… kind of did a bad thing," you said, feeling jittery as you sought a commute home. you'd already made up your mind that your sorry-ass wouldn't be able to look bakugou back in the face for the rest of the day.

"...again?" she asked, tone concealing a hint of surprise. "don't tell me it was with bakugou. don't you usually practice now?"

"...usually, yes…" you sheepishly shuffled your feet, standing outside on the sidewalk. "i'll be resuming it again, 'course, when i get home…"

"why aren't you with bakugou right now?"

"that's… that's a long story," you laughed nervously.

"i can wait," jirou coolly replied. "kaminari got his foot stuck in his guitar case - don't ask - so i have time."

you considered asking about kaminari, then thought better of it.

"you know about the valentine's day recital they have every year? well, this year…" you recounted the events that led you to now, standing outside on the phone with jirou.

"where are you going to find a violinist?"

a silence found itself opportune as jirou waited for an answer. "i'm, uh, not…?" you said, deflecting the question back to jirou.

"well, you can't play both parts in the duet, can you? actually, don't answer that. i know you'd try. didn't you try that one time in-"

"what's done in uni stays in uni," you hushed her before she could recall that one time you tried to play a sonata with a recording of yourself. "aren't you going to tell me to try to make amends with bakugou?"

"no," she said thoughtfully after a pause. "you've tried before, and it's not working for you. i don't think you should be forced to do something you obviously don't want to do. i just think," she continued, "you need to find someone to do the duet with, if you don't want to work with bakugou. but objectively, he's your best bet."

as jirou always was, she was right. you thanked her for her advice not before hearing a distraught kaminari shouting for jirou in the background, and then she ended the call.

you repeated her words in your head once you got home, sliding your bow back and forth on your small block of worn rosin. the score for the duet was spread next to you on the floor. it wasn't that you didn't want to work with bakugou. or was it? had you been that selfish all along, sabotaging other performances because you didn't like him? if even jirou had noticed it, had bakugou noticed it too?

your sigh let out a thousand burdens piled up in your mind, blowing air out like dust accumulating on your tribulations. you picked up your violin and bow thoughtlessly, testing out the strings and plucking a couple with your left hand.

was it really only you with the contempt for working with bakugou? you'd assumed mutual hatred with him after your international debut, but had it really been so? had you been the only one picking fights during the time you'd worked together? as you backtracked, your fingers slipped into a familiar position. you began a piece you knew positively by heart, an absolute favorite of yours for years. you played mindlessly, serenading yourself with familiar notes and string fingerings as you thought long and hard about bakugou. how much shit had you given bakugou? he hardly complained, too, but why? why hadn't he quit after you'd been so ceaselessly difficult with him?

why were you so angry at bakugou, a gifted prodigy since childhood? the answer found itself as the composition descended into an array of complicated fingerings and string changes, sounding like an incoherent chaos somehow strung together by the music. you pretended you didn't know the answer.

it was much, much easier to leave bakugou as just a pianist. respectable in his own field, and incomparable to you. it was too good to be true, obviously. all your life, you played to win, and couldn't allow anyone else to surpass you. violin was about winning, winning, winning. how were you supposed to cope when all those hours of practice were easily overcome by someone with innate talent?

the piece eased your tension with a fermata, drawing out your vibrato to think. bakugou's perfection infuriated you, you concluded. knowing this, though, didn't help with anything. you almost screeched the last note as the composition came to an end, unsettled by thoughts of bakugou. you really couldn't stand him.

in an attempt to distract yourself from your dilemma, you decided to start practicing the recital composition. you pulled out an old portable music stand, bending the parts into place and stacking it up. carefully, you placed the sheets on the stand and skimmed over the music, bringing your violin up to your collarbone.

your eyes followed one measure ahead of what you were playing as you sight-read the piece. ahead, ahead, was all you could think as your fingers fumbled the notes, eyes moving from the score to the fingerboard. bakugou was far from your mind as you caught up to the music, too preoccupied with the sharps and flats you'd forgotten and the time you had to keep. you were busied by the shifts and the repeat signs in the music over anything else. your priority lay here for the time being, after all. the sight-reading was almost enough to make you forget you only play one half to a duet. there was still still an emptiness that lurked between the rests and the redundant beats that even your stilted practice couldn't mask. you tried not to worry about that, though.

time floated by as you repeated the piece over and over, playing for accuracy first. it wasn't enough, but you pretended it was. the metronome on your phone ticked away like time, endless and impatient, until you couldn't stand it anymore and packed away your violin.

the proceeding day was filled with more of the same practicing, working on tweaking hesitations and polishing up your playing. it was kind of convenient, practicing at home rather than waking up early to practice with bakugou. you missed the bagel the most.

you were definitely not playing your best, and it was clear by the way your bow occasionally screeched and how you fumbled the fingerings when you were particularly negligent. the piece just didn't sound right without the second part. (bakugou was definitely not the second part missing. not at all.)

by the third day you gave up and admitted to yourself that yes, bakugou was the second part missing. you were only a little bit miserable buying your usual bagel and coffee and rushing to rehearsals fifteen minutes late, aware that you'd be unable to eat it before practice. you were substantially less miserable than how you were the day previous, practicing alone.

you weren't surprised to see bakugou already there, sitting on the piano bench and tightening his bow hairs. he acknowledged you with a grunt as you set down your breakfast and beverage.

"showed up, huh?" he said finally, voice rough. he stood up, setting his sheet music on a stand. you stared at him, awed by his nonchalance. he picked up his violin and bow (which, by the way, looked super expensive) and propped his violin up by his chin. it felt so foreign to see him in position to play violin, fingers already expertly in first position and wrist beautifully curved, yet it inexplicably clicked. the scene in front of you looked like he'd done this everyday, as it was always supposed to have been, his back confidently straight. his fingers arched over the fingerboard and his bow appeared mathematically parallel to the bridge, held delicately between his fingers. you'd never carefully watched him play piano (probably due to your distaste to him and lack of knowledge about the percussion instrument), but he made the violin look like an instrument of the gods. he hesitated, though, bow moving a centimeter then back. he frowned at your idle silence and turned back to you. "well? are we doing this duet or not?"

"oh," you reacted intelligently. "yeah. yeah." it kicked in what you were doing by the time you'd started tuning your violin, first bowing your a string. after tuning your violin (with the help of a tuning fork and none from the perfect-pitched bastard bakugou, who appeared to be watching you with a triumphant gleam in his eyes as you struggled to tune your violin properly), you set your sheet music next to bakugou's.

"ready?" you asked, as if you'd been the one waiting for bakugou all this time.

"ask yourself that," he snorted. "i'll do the count."

you nodded.

"one, two, three, f-"

"wait, wait," you said, squinting at your music. "isn't it supposed to be a bit slower than that?"

"it says allegro," bakugou said, tapping his foot. "need an italian lesson? lively, briskly."

"i know what allegro means," you gritted. "seems too fast, when paired with dolce."

"maybe for you," he smirked.

you narrowed your eyes at him. "and that means what, exactly?"

he opened his mouth to reply some smug, smart-ass answer, but you stopped him.

"nevermind," you said. "do the count again, at the same tempo. i can do it."

you were bluffing, of course. since when was allegro this fast? you wondered as the opening notes sped by you in a musical blur. already familiar with the melody, you messed up dynamics the most. of crescendos and diminuendos? it wasn't like bakugou would notice, too preoccupied with his part.

the ending of the piece took your breath away, storming toward you in a whirlwind. adrenaline filled your veins as you raced to the last measure of the music, overcome by the tempo and the music. this time, full of energy and exhilaration, the piece felt complete. your and bakugou's sound surrounded the two of you, overflowing the room with a saccharine melody. it felt right simply standing beside him playing a two part piece, chest heaving from the piece's energy. you could only hear your breathing, a gentle encore to your playing.

"your playing is sloppy," bakugou said bluntly. he leaned over to your sheet music, starting to point at dynamic markings.

you swatted his hand away before he could say a word. "yeah, well, i just got the music three days ago," you interjected.

"you also had two of the three days off, so i'd say you're not doing enough." he glanced back down at your score. he pointed at a measure. "this is a crescendo, moron, why didn't you get much louder?"

"just- pay attention to your own music!" you said. "besides, it's dolce. i can get away with playing softer."

"that wasn't very dolce to me," he argued. "nothing sweet, soft, or gentle about that," he mumbled.

"i can be sweet, soft, and gentle if i want to!" you retorted.

he raised a brow, as if a challenge, scarlet eyes glinting in the light. "tch. i'm sure you can, but your playing damn can't."

“it can, too! listen,” you said, impetuously raising your violin and bow again. you slowly started to play a d major scale, impatiently scrunching your nose and squeezing your eyes shut to concentrate on making the music soft and gentle, tampering with different degrees of vibrato and bow pressure.

“... that’s just piano,” bakugou said, moving to you as you bowed an a. your bow came to an abrupt halt, making an unpleasant squeal, as bakugou positioned himself behind you. you felt his body warmth radiating behind you as a sweet, homely scent wafted around you. he brought his arms around you, hands overlapping where you held your violin and bow.

“you need to be,” he murmured into your ear, gentle tone almost slurring the words together, "fragile when you play dolce." he angled your bow slightly, moving your hand. "bow closer to the fingerboard." the smooth baritone of his voice resonated within you, becoming lost within the violinist's embrace.

"most of all," he said, dropping an octave to an intimate tone, "you need to feel it. you can attempt to play it, but without feeling, it's fuckin’ meaningless."

"feeling?" you repeated blankly. “the audience’s, you mean.”

he stepped away, a gesture that made you breathless, and shook his head. he crossed his arms over his chest, unintentionally accentuating their volume. “your damn feelings. what do you feel when playing the piece?”

there’s a pause for perhaps a second too long, as you mulled over different answers in your head.

“tch.” his eyes don’t leave you, gaze a laser burning into you. “‘s what i thought. why do you play violin?”

you held your tongue from answering my parents. “to win. i play to win,” you stated.

“and that’s the damn problem,” bakugou said, releasing a breath of frustrated air. “you win to play.”

“that means…?” you were starting to get impatient with the man, who seemed to be stalling and dragging out your limited time.

“you win competitions to play more.”

you almost scoffed, but his words were plausible. “what’s the purpose in playing more if not to win?”

he made a scratching noise in his throat, cool demeanor shifting to that of the bakugou you knew. “l-l-” he coughed, “love.”

“love?” you repeated, the word a surprise to swallow.

he nodded, gagging on his reply. you couldn’t see bakugou as the romantic type - the same bakugou who called all of his friends demeaning nicknames and could barely say the word love out loud. he was explosive, maybe, and talented, sure - but acquainted with love? you pursed your lips at the stuttering man trying to advise you.

“whatever,” he dismissed, voice oddly hoarse. “just play it from the top. fix the dynamics.”

weeks passed in a blur, though bakugou’s advice was left unforgotten. it had, for the most part, faded from your mind but lingered like a ghost in an abandoned attic, stirring up dust in complete silence. it was valid criticism on bakugou’s part, but the problem was that it was criticism you couldn’t digest. it was a ghost that you could not rid of, whispering and lurking until your music played over it.

four weeks before the performance, you had the piece almost entirely memorized other than a few flukes here and there. you managed most of your dynamics, playing in sync with bakugou by your side. three weeks and the piece was mostly smooth, foregoing all sheet music and practicing in the middle of the room with bakugou tapping out the tempo on the honeyed floor. any mistakes were recovered from quickly, and you were pleased to say that the amount of bakugou’s slip-ups equated to yours. at two weeks, though, he brought up the pest bugging your mind.

“play with more emotion,” he sighed exasperatedly, letting out a huff as you played for him. “start on f sharp again.”

you’d tried time and time again, but the longer you’d replayed the same few measures (followed by his criticism for the nth time), the only emotion you felt was frustration. your bow would push too hard or your vibrato would lay on thick, immensely irritating bakugou. you didn’t know why he even tried.

the air felt stale and the lights shone obnoxiously bright. the pads of your left hand fingers had hardened by now, indented with a pair of parallel lines from your unforgiving violin strings. you inhaled rosin dust and occasional bow hairs miserably dropped to the floor. your arms were tired, sore, and sick of playing; your ears painfully endured the same tune again and again, the originally fluid and sweet notes becoming high frequency static.

“i can’t do this.” you were tempted to flop onto the ground, hopelessness pouring over you.

“you can,” bakugou insisted stubbornly. “you just need to try harder.”

“harder?” you would’ve snapped (and you were surprised your e string didn’t already by the repetitive motions on it) if you weren’t so exhausted from rehearsing.

he nodded like it was obvious. “try harder.”

you shakily inhaled, trying to smooth your voice over. “i’m sorry i can’t be a prodigy like you.”

he stiffened, tense to the point of trembling. “whatever,” and it was a strained word pulled from his mouth. it was very atypical for him to give up like this, but you didn't care. you avoided his eyes as you restarted the piece, unable to bloom anything from it.

outside of your rehearsal time, you practiced. arguably, your solo rehearsals were more rigorous. you forced yourself to add emotion to the piece, sometimes playing for jirou. she agreed with bakugou (though was a great deal less irritating), stating that your playing was somewhat hollow. (you restrained yourself from knocking on the instrument and saying that yes, indeed, violins were hollow.)

"how… how do you get any emotions from playing?" you asked jirou at one point, watching one of her band's rehearsals. they were on a break, chatting idly and taking sips from their water bottles.

“well…” jirou started, glancing back at her band members. “i think about the feelings i want the audience to feel because of my songs. i think about how the song makes me feel, then i put that into how i play.”

“how do you…” you shifted uncomfortably, “know what to feel?”

she looked at you, taken aback, but replied easily. “you don’t. it just… happens.”

her response was vastly different than what you’d been taught a child. emotions? sure, there was perhaps a time where playing evoked a feeling in you, plucked something melodical from your heartstrings. it was when you were a child, though, so it was irrational and erratic, an outburst in the middle of your otherwise level playing. your violin teacher didn’t approve when you’d follow how the music made you feel. she said it made you stray too far from the original piece and would make you lose competitions. no matter how you pushed back against her, her advice haunted you over and over every time you got anything other than first place.

your performance is the audience, she’d told you. you didn’t understand what she meant at first, but she made sure you did while practicing for your next rehearsals. the audience, she quipped with thin lips under her sharp eyes, is everything. if the audience wasn’t satisfied, your performance was worthless, no matter how well you played technically. you play for them and you win - it was that plain. there was nothing more than you wanted but to win, at the time. you wanted a trophy, a medal, a certificate stating that you were better than most. it was palpable evidence that you were good enough - for your parents, your peers, anyone. like that, you practiced, a servant for approval. you weren’t a prodigy, but you sure as hell would try to play like one. her advice worked for over a decade, soundly racking you up with countless awards that filled your otherwise desolate self-esteem.

you didn’t say anything else to jirou about it, instead thinking about the bits and pieces of human feeling you could extract in between your piece’s accidentals and eighth notes. perhaps there was a possibility, through the phrases of notes and dynamic markings, you’d find a word that said love. a renewed interest sparked itself when jirou’s band continued their rehearsals, finding yourself to be a normal audience member (maybe even crying at the end. maybe).

you returned home to practice, practice, practice, coercing any hidden message in the music to vibrate in your violin and echo around your room. you watched other renditions of the piece to find something you were missing, but imitating them didn’t seem right. this continued for the following weeks, hiding any potential development from bakugou (or trying to, at least). you knew you’d be disappointing him if you failed after trying so hard. it was only safe to play what you knew, secure in the written parts of the composition and keeping it at that.

by the time the performance came around, you were glad bakugou never found out about your secret efforts. if he had, you knew he’d be sorely dispirited by your lack of tangible progress, your sound just as hollow as the soundbox of your violin. you failed, you knew, and as crestfallen as you were on that cold february morning, the show must go on.

the performances were held in an auditorium, warm compared to the snowy wonderland outside. it was typically couples comprising the audience, all romantic and pepped up in the spirit of valentine's day (white day was no different). some arrived early, finding seats in the empty auditorium and chatting amongst themselves (or sometimes making out, which made you want to throw your violin at them and gag). bakugou’s and your performance was last; it quite the heavy honor to play the finale to the recital.

backstage was a vast contrast to the hushed atmosphere settled over the assemblage. hovering over the staff and performers for the day was a sense of panic, hurry, and hecticness. bits of rosin were scattered on the ground where you prepared for your rehearsal, some belonging to your block and others not. your pack of extra strings lay next to you on the sofa you sat on, arm resting on the side of the seat. similar to your violin's strings, spun tightly over pegs to be kept in place, you felt high-strung. the buzz of energetic excitement flitted in your head, knee bumping up and down and jerking your violin in the same motion. it was hard to calm when you tuned your violin to absolute perfection, relying on bakugou's perfect pitch to do so. the fine tuners on the end of your strings probably hadn't had a harder time in the years you'd owned your violin.

"you're shaking the entire sofa, idiot," bakugou deadpanned next to you. “some of us are trying to rosin our bow, unlike you.” he glanced at the floor, where amber shards of rosin lay amidst white dust (also made of rosin).

“to be fair, most of those aren’t mine,” you pointed out. you reached into your violin case, finding the rectangular case of rosin and opening the top. "mine's only chipped in a couple corners, and the rest is just worn on the edges from my bow."

you leaned over to look at bakugou's rosin, two stubs in its case. "and i'm the one dropping my rosin?"

his ears turned a deep red, matching the velvet curtains on stage. "that's different," he muttered, putting the lid on his rosin and putting it away.

"you ready?" you watched him swallow before speaking, not looking at you. you could hear one of the presenters speaking, introducing the first piece to be played (an ever-so romantic rendition of clair de lune), but the voices felt distant and muffled over the sound of your own nervous heart beating.

"yeah," he replied. he turned to look at you, scarlet eyes meeting your own. "what, you're not scared now, are you, dumbass?"

you gulped. "no… just excited," you said. in truth, you felt disappointed in yourself for being unable to find any emotion in your playing - thinking about the piece, you were devoid of anything but the measures and the notes. what was the piece trying to say in the white space between staff lines? after the clef at the beginning of the music, where did the emotions start and everything else end?

quiet notes, twinkling from the piano on stage, met your ears. you took a deep breath. how did they make you feel?

…not very good, because this pianist was certainly a beat or two off tempo. a large hand on your knee startled you out of your trance. its warmth was surprisingly comforting. you followed the arm connecting to the hand to meet bakugou's concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched.

"don't shake your knee like that. also, why are you so damn cold?" he moved his hand away, leaving an imprint of heat on your knee. you hadn't noticed the physical manifestation of your nerves prior to bakugou's words.

you left his question unanswered, staring at your violin in your lap. you traced the patterns in wood, fingers following the shape of the f-hole and thumbing circles on your chin rest. how were you supposed to be able to pull living, breathing life in the form of emotions from an inanimate object? what sorcery were you supposed to manage to satisfy yourself and the audience?

you thought back to bakugou's words. what was it had he said you were supposed to be playing for? love, the irrational and sentimental flaw of life - somehow expressed from the symbols on a sheet of paper and through strings on hollow wood. what sort of miracle was bakugou creating with his music?

what was violin, if not just a task to do everyday? what was it, out of competitions and tests of skill? what was the sound reverberating within its vacant body, recording every shift of fingers on the fingerboard?

you looked past your violin to the rosin on the floor. friction, your violin teacher had explained to you. you put rosin on your bow so it creates friction with the strings, and thus creates sound. it was strange how friction caused the smooth sound of a violin. too much friction, added by pressure on the bow, made a creaky sound on the strings. without rosin, the bow would be too smooth on the string and make no noise at all. the happy medium of not too much and not too little created the familiar rich tone on the strings.

a happy medium, you mused. in between too much friction and none at all. maybe that was how you were supposed to feel, in between trying too hard and not trying at all. that's what feelings were in the end, right? a natural human instinct, spurred by life. could you breathe life into the music?

the stage seemed almost too big for the two of you, spotlights centering you on the wide, wooden platform. the crowd's eyes were on you and your fellow violinist, some watching with drooping eyelids. they felt far, distant under the shadows. even so, the question still besieged you - would you please them?

you teared your eyes away to bakugou, who started the count. everything was silent until he nodded to you, your cue to start the piece. it felt too fast when you began but it was the same allegro you’d been practicing with. muscle memory took control now, your fingers finding their places easily.

your fingers and bow took all your attention. everything else fell away - the lights, the crowd, the stage - until it was just you, your violin, and the music. you could practically see the score in your head, playing the notes you'd come to know so well.

you heard your music echo and resound off the walls, but that's all it seemed to do. it touched everyone in the room, looking for a place to stay, and diminished in an empty space alone. it frustrated you that it wouldn't resonate - where was the love bakugou had so told you of? this auditorium was no different than your room, where sounds bounced off walls and landed nowhere. you weren't reaching anywhere or anyone, lacking emotion and any true substance.

love - what was love if not a hindrance? how could bakugou expect so much out of you? love - had you ever felt it for the violin? dolce told you to play sweetly, softly, and gently, but what was sweet about the violin? what was so sweet about the imprints of strings on your fingers, fragmented rosin at your feet, and bruises on your neck from long hours of practice? what was gentle about the arduous replaying of the same measure, the ringing in your ears after playing to master a simple phrase? what was soft about the forte that rang in your head, the fortissimo that filled a performance and clouded your senses?

dolce filled you like an epiphany, euphoric in your eyes that finally opened and awakened. dolce was in bakugou's eyes, soft velvet like the crimson curtains onstage, downcast at his violin. dolce was in his sound as his bow skittered near the fingerboard, in his fingers sliding back and forth on his a string. dolce was in his grasp of his bow and violin, in the very essence he played the violin with. dolce contradicted everything you knew, reminding you of bakugou's soft hands over yours, guiding your fingers and bow. dolce was the morning light streaming into the practice room as you argued with bakugou over tempos and notes, the light glinting on shattered shards of rosin as you anxiously rosined your bow. dolce was the curve of your violin scroll, the bend of your fingers over your bow's frog. dolce was the white space in between staff lines on your sheet music and through half and whole notes. dolce was everything in between the rough of your violin experience, the laughter and smiling gone forgotten during sleepless practice sessions and violin evaluations.

what was dolce, if not a rebellion? what was it, if not a rebellion from the years of work and pain you'd endured in the name of musicality? what was it, if not laughing in the face of your violin instructors and the strict score you adhered to?

when you opened your eyes to meet bakugou's, whose carmine eyes dripped with a burning passion and the essence of souls, you finally felt. it was the so-sought over love, scorching every note and stroke of your bow and bursting life in every movement, breath, and echo of your performance. it was exhilarating, living through every slur and chord you played. when you finally met his eyes he understood, a satisfied smile tugging on his lips as his gaze never left yours. this was it - this was dolce, humming sweetly, softly, and gently in your ears and reflecting in the audience's heart. this was dolce, making you realize that you never wanted to play violin alone again.

you picked up a rose that had landed at your feet at the end of your piece, holding it next to bakugou's confused face. in doing so, you reached your second epiphany of the day - perhaps the more important of the two. bakugou's eyes bloomed redder than the rose, deeper than the lowest note on a double bass, and maybe it was he that was the true dolce you were looking for.

notes!!

if you’re reading this, congrats !! this is my longest fic on my account (the record will be broken soon), so i really appreciate you reading this :> (spare a reblog, perhaps?)

first, explaining the playlist:

beethoven’s kreutzer - this was played in the anime, “your lie in april,” and i simply think it fits the “fight” reader and bakugou have. this was played at reader’s first international recital that did not go so well.

kreisler’s liebesfreud (love’s joy) is in the same series as his piece called liebesleid (love’s sorrow), also featured in “your lie in april.” i personally really like the piece. of all of these listed, i think you should listen to this one the most.

beriot’s duo concertante was the other contender for reader and bakugou’s duet piece!

debussy’s clair de lune is simply a favorite of mine. it’s the first piece played at the valentine’s performance (and i like to imagine reader’s listened to bakugou’s recording of the piece)

spohr’s duo for 2 violins is the piece reader and bakugou play! it’s the second part of the duo in allegro, and i once tried to listen to it while following the sheet music. i was so confused every time i did so; i’d get lost and such, and figured my musicality was declining. nope. i was reading the wrong part. so, i started freaking out because oh god the dolce is in the first part, not the second, and thankfully, there’s a bit of dolce in the second part too! however, it did take me a while to decide whether to use the first part instead.

also, spohr invented the chinrest on the violin! crazy :D

paginini’s 24th caprice is considered the hardest out of all 24 caprices. imagine,,, teenage bakugou playing this,,, doing the left hand pizz and all T^T pain

there’s a lot i wish i could cover in this! a lot of reader’s own flaws (ahem, viola jokes) and development were something i couldn’t cover. bakugou’s arc as well! he had an arc a bit before this story takes place :)) tl;dr i’m very tempted to pick my violin up again and start playing

the frog of the bow does not, sadly, go ribbit. it’s the part violinists hold the bow by!

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this :)

#bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou fluff #bnha fluff #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha x gender neutral reader #bakugou angst #bnha angst #luna's writing #violinist bakugou

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frozensriracha · 3 years

Note

Slenderman (and or mansion au) hcs?

Slenderman

a strange combination of angry old man, tyrannical boss, supervillain, and father figure

but he makes it work

keeps all the corny “1# dad” gifts that the pastas have gotten him for father’s day over the years

plays the harpsichord and the clarinet

nobody’s ever seen him play the clarinet, but they hear him every once in a while

he’s really good ^^

about 2-3 times a year, he’ll get together with this group of eldritch beings he’s befriended over the centuries

they like to play chess, go to upscale restaurants, attend operas, watch the underworld symphony orchestra, and talk mad shit about their proxies, but most importantly, they like to reminisce about history.

slender had nearly forgotten about how he’d worn the exact same outfit—wig and all—as that duke to king louis xiv’s ball until his friends reminded him

they probably correct history books too

total wine snob

when nobody’s around, he sometimes refers to his office as his lair

and pretends his fish tank is a shark tank but shhhh we don’t tell anyone about that

wears sock suspenders

an asexual king

you know those people that give out free parent hugs to lgbt+ kids who were rejected by their parents?

he’s one of those

he has two moods: vintage wine in his lair office while ordering around his proxies and lording over humanity or tea in an armchair with a good book and some bach playing, no in between

out of touch thursday is every thursday for this man

one of his favorite parts about running a safe house for stinky and traumatized murderous young adults is being able to “look” them dead in the eye and say “sksksksksksk, that’s so bae, right gucci?”

actually no that’s his favorite part

very avid collector, is hoarding art and artefacts from as far back as the bronze age in his attic

speaks almost 100% in early modern english and uses shakespearean insults as swears

“dost thou bite thine thumb at me, jeffrey?”

but he secretly loves them all even jeff and ben they’re his kiddos

Mansion AU

unsurprisingly, given the cumulative number of murders that have occured at the mansion, it’s haunted beyond belief

the ghosts are usually victims of the residents and tend to stay far away from them, but some of the ghosts, all of the demons, and the other such malign entities were just attracted by the negative energy

generally, the ones attracted to the mansion aren’t too scared of the pastas, and get a lot of enjoyment out of fucking with the residents.

two of my ocs, deerhead and the nightwraith, fall into this category. they don’t come over too often, but some days when they have no other plans, they’ll swing by and terrorize the place.

to avoid fights, slender maintains a strict chore rota

most of the residents are convinced that he’s only letting them stay at the manor so they can do his chores

there’s a pool out back, but since jeff started a rumor about the loch ness monster’s babies living in the pool nobody’s gone in

even after slender said it wasn’t true, everyone refuses to go into it except on dares. 1, nobody knows how deep it is, and 2, it’s absolutely disgusting

surprisingly, nobody has to share a room. all the rooms are on the second and third floors.

whenever anyone acts up really badly, like, set the forest on fire for s’mores kind of bad, slender makes them mow the lawn

what’s so bad about this? he considers the entire forest his lawn.

a pleasant fifteen-minute walk away is laughing jack’s carnival, which is also haunted beyond belief and would definitely not pass an osha inspection

lj, jason, candy pop, and sometimes puppeteer hang out there

slender and zalgo are rivals, but not in a game of thrones sort of way

it’s more like two pta soccer moms bickering over whose kids play more sports and win more awards and whose house looks more like a pinterest board

slender keeps a good noodle chart in his office that’s EXACTLY like mrs. puff’s. the pastas hate it but at the same time they’d kill each other in a heartbeat for gold stars.

the pastas all have a truce of sorts. basically, slender grants them asylum as long as they don’t kill anyone under the same roof. anything goes as long as they don’t knock the other pasta out of commision, damage slender’s property, or make noise after 8:30 pm (“sally has a bedtime, you vexatious asshats!”)

ben is the house’s private wifi router, no i do not take criticism

they all have a family car they travel around in: a white panel van that makes passersby walk a little faster every time they see it

ben once wrote “free candy” on the side for laughs, slender wasn’t pleased

masky does most of the maintenance on the van and probably drives it too, even though he and the other proxies much prefer his pickup truck.

an hour south of the mansion is a portal to hell, which is how zalgo, the nightwraith, and other such demons access slender forest

i could make a map of slender forest if you guys want :eyes:

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta headcanons #slenderman #slenderman headcanons #slenderman headcanon #slender mansion au #mansion au #mansion au headcanon #mansion au headcanons

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kidofthekat · 4 years

Text

Salty Outcasts (part 3)

Part 2:

Part 3:

- Juleka, Luka, Adrien, Alix, Kagami and Chloé went to school the next day with a plan.

- Adrien had finally confessed to how uncomfortable he was with Lila (Chloé immediately apologised for hanging onto him just as much) so Alix was on lie duty, hearing and writing down everything Lie-la said. She also was hoping to plant little seeds of doubt in the rest of he classes minds.

- Juleka stuck by Marinette, both were now social outcasts but we’re able to find a better friendship in each other.

- Adrien and Chloé worked on getting in contact with as many people as they could that the Liar had lied about.

- After school, The couffaine siblings and Kagami went Bach to their houseboat to plot some more, the three were scarily good and coming up with plans to topple kingdoms.

- The blondes went with Marinette to the bakery to keep her company, Adrien also wanted to apologise for his advice.

- Alix, much to her dismay, had to go with the rest of the class on a picnic in the park, it would have been suspicious if she turned it down and this was another chance to find more of Lila’s lies to debunk.

- A week later of the same routine and Juleka and Marinette were better friends than ever. Anarka had claimed Kagami as her child and Adrien and Chloé were on their ways to becoming honorary Dupain-Chengs.

- They tried, they tried so hard to call out the Liar. But their mindless sheep of classmates just blamed Marinette despite that fact that she HAD NO IDEA and there was A PILE OF LAWSUITS on Lila’s desk.

- In the process, Alix and Adrien had outed themselves as on Marinette’s side so were given the same treatment as Juleka and Marinette.

- The whole day Marinette was in pure shock, they had tried to out Lila and failed even though they obviously planned it, her crush on Adrien was actually stopping, she was friends with Chloé! and her class had proven themselves as mindless sheep.

- She soon found herself on the Liberty surrounded by six people who had just explained what had been going on. Marinette, having been used to kindness only from her parents recently, just burst into tears sniffing about friends and outcasts and loyalty.

- Luka immediately jumped to her side to comfort her (much to Juleka’s amusement) and after she had calmed down the teens fell into easy chatter.

- They may be outcasts, but that class were so brainless they were gonna be as salty as they could (I know, cheesy, but I wanted to put it there so it is).

So yeah, the formation of the Salty Outacsts (credit to @flufflepuffle296 for the name). I am going to write this out as a fic and probably expand it but I’m behind on school work so it may take a while. Thank you for reading, there definitely will be more!

HERE IT IS WRITTEN OUT: (chapter 1, part1)

#bunnix #adrigami #alya salt #miraculous ladybug #lila salt #lukanette #chloe bourgeois redemption #chloe x juleka #sabine cheng #tom dupain #anarka couffaine

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isolemnlyswearpevensie · 4 years

Text

Lightning in a Bottle | Edmund Pevensie x Reader

Warnings: None :)

Time/Era: Modern AU

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: Music is Edmund’s love language, apparently.

Request: Hey! Could you possibly do a cute high school au with Edmund? Maybe they’re both crushing on each other and everyone knows except themselves, anything you wanna do really haha 😂 thanksss :)

A/N: Thanks for the request!! God, I love Edmund so much. And here, we have indie boi Ed. This oneshot is inspired by Electric Love by Børns. (Specifically, the video linked) This is one of my favorite songs, and I thought it fit the indie-main-character-high-school vibe :) I didn’t really nail the “everyone knows but them” thing, but still crushes! Enjoy ~

masterlist | here is a playlist of the songs in the mixtape mentioned | read on ao3

Edmund Pevensie was obsessed with listening to music, particularly with old musical technology. While it wasn’t uncommon to have a fascination with cassette tapes or vinyl records, it hit a special chord within Edmund’s heart. Something about listening to music, old and new, on the outdated tech made the music sound better, hit harder, and stick in his mind better. He was the type of guy who took the AUX on long car rides to play one of his thousand Spotify playlists.

Another notable thing about Edmund was that he was very intelligent with very high standards for himself. He was a natural at academics, having been in advanced classes since he was young, and he was the guy everyone hated in math class. After dozing off in class, and mouthing off to the teacher every now and again, he still came out as the teacher’s favorite and a straight-A student.

The majority of the time, though, he tended to keep to himself. While he was genuinely liked by his peers and was rather charming, he didn’t really consider anyone his friend. Unlike his older brother, Peter, he liked to remain closer to the shadows with earbuds in his ears. He knew he could never fill his brother’s shoes; Peter had basically come into Cair Paravel High School to be captain of the soccer team. He was so good that even though his grades were subpar at best, he received a full-ride scholarship to Archenland University to study sports medicine and play on their soccer team.

Then there was his older sister, Susan, who won her Student Body President campaign by a landslide. Everyone liked Susan; she was patient, gentle, and got along with pretty much everyone. She too got a pretty large scholarship to Beruna State College and is double majoring in child education and European history.

Finally, there was Edmund’s little sister, Lucy. She was only a freshman at Cair Paravel, and very into student council. Edmund thought she was practically made to be an ASB kid; she was excited, friendly, and much too kind. Lucy made the switch to high school seamlessly and had a big group of friends by the time the final bell rang on the first day.

Edmund was a senior now and he couldn’t wait to get out of high school. The people were unintelligent, he was constantly compared to his siblings and he was ready to start his life. Edmund had high ambitions to become a lawyer, specifically criminal law. He didn’t really have much to leave behind at this school, so he was just trying to get through it as soon as possible.

One thing he would miss was the quiet girl that sat behind him in his music appreciation class. Edmund didn’t really want to take the class, but at the last minute, he discovered he needed to fulfill an arts credit to graduate. He appreciated music and liked easy classes, so he chose this one. Little did he know it was mostly analyzing classical pieces.

Y/N was super cute in Edmund’s eyes. She always mumbled sarcastic comments whenever their easily excitable teacher, Mr. Tumnus, would stretch when over-analyzing a stanza of music. By the time October passed, Edmund had grown quite fond of the girl. She almost always was reading a comic book of some sort instead of paying attention in class. Y/N even ended up lending Edmund a few for his viewing pleasures; he always made sure to return them in the exact condition he received them. Batman seemed to Y/N’s favorite.

Y/N loved watching Edmund write. He held his pencil wrong and always had ink smudged all over his hand. Maybe it was because he was a leftie, or maybe it was because he wrote too fast. Probably a little bit of both. His handwriting was also weirdly slanted to the right, which didn’t make any sense to Y/N. He was left-handed but his letters slanted to the right? Not the mention how half of it was in cursive and half of it was in print. It was definitely messy but, oddly enough, still intelligible.

“What are you listening to?” Y/N asked Edmund. “Better not be Christmas music. Christmas was last month.”

Edmund pulled an earbud out of his left ear and turned so he was sitting horizontally in his chair. He leaned an arm on the top of her desk and grinned. “Currently, I’m listening to Can I Call You Tonight? By Dayglow. What are you reading?”

“Currently, I’m reading Volume 1 of The New Teen Titans,” Y/N copied Edmund. “I’ve never heard of Dayglow, are they good?”

Edmund smiled, offering her his earbuds. “Listen and see for yourself.”

As she listened Edmund searched her face for any clue to what she’s thinking. Her face housed a small smile so he concluded that she enjoyed it. Once the song ended, she took out one of his earbuds and placed it on her desk.

“I like it,” She concluded, listening to the next song.

“Good, so do I. It fits my mood for today.”

“What’s got you so happy today? You have a great way of showing happiness, by the way.” Edmund was dressed in all black with his hood up. Edmund rolled his eyes.

“What I can’t be in a good mood?”

“I never said that, Pevensie. You just look very Edmund-y today.” Y/N pulled the other earbud out of her head and held them out to him.

“No, keep listening. I’ll play some music for you throughout class and maybe you can tell me what you think at the end?” He pulled his hood off of his head and smoothed out his hair. “And what do you mean Edmund-y?”

“I don’t know, all black, hood up, dead look in your eyes.”

“I don’t have a dead look in my eyes!” Y/N giggled at her own joke. “Just for that, I’m going to take this.” He snatched the open comic book that laid open on her desk.

For the remainder of the class, Edmund dictated what Y/N listened to from his phone. He played everything from The Beatles, to The 1975, to COIN, to Duran Duran. Every now and then, Edmund would peek his head back to see her eyes glued to the back of his head. Her body swayed to the music almost lazily, and a smile graced her features. For some reason that made his stomach feel fuzzy.

She returned his earbuds at the end of class, and he returned her comic.

“That was fun,” Y/N complimented, shoving her materials into her bag. “I like the get better song you played.”

“I Wanna Get Better by Bleachers,” Edmund corrected her as they left the classroom. Music Appreciation was the class of the day for them, seeing as they were seniors who left at lunch, so the two started making their way towards the parking lot.

“You have to meet your sister right?” Y/N asks, pulling out her I.D. so she could leave campus. “The really sweet freshman girl? Honestly, you two are so different I wouldn’t have guessed you were siblings.”

“Oh, Lucy, yeah. We grab lunch every Thursday before I drop her back off for the remainder of her classes.” The two showed their I.D.’s to the campus aid and walked into the parking lot.

“That’s sweet. We should grab lunch sometime, or something. It could be fun! We could do our analysis questions about Bach.” Y/N started to walk in the opposite direction and Edmund felt his cheeks warm. Luckily, Y/N’s back was now towards him.

“Yeah, sure. Don Giovanni, right?”

Y/N’s laughter could be heard as she grew further away. “That’s Motzart, Pevensie!”

Edmund shook his head and met Lucy. She was leaning against his car looking bored.

“Who was that? Is that your girlfriend?” Lucy asks, opening the door once Edmund unlocks the car. This made his cheeks flush more.

“No, she’s just the girl that sits behind me in Tumnus,” Edmund puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine.

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not, Lucy. It’s just hot in the car, it’s been sitting out here for ages.”

One day in the middle of March when Y/N walked into Music Appreciation, she noticed a small rectangle box on her desk. Upon opening it, she found a cassette and a note. The note looked as if it was typed using a typewriter.

Y/N,

I’m not very good when it comes to words, but I’m good when it comes to music. Hopefully, this says it all. Enjoy, my love.

Side A //

Electric Love / Børns

I Love You So / The Walters

Fallingforyou / The 1975

Your Song / Elton John

Someone To You / BANNERS

Side B //

Babe, Can I Call? / The Hunna

Tonight (I Wish I Was Your Boy) / The 1975

Luv, Hold Me Down / Drowners

love somebody like you / joan

TV Dream / Larkins

Y/N didn’t recognize most of the songs, but just reading the titles made her blush.

“Mr. Tumnus? Did you happen to see who left this on my desk?” She held up the cassette so he could see. He shook his head.

“No, sorry.”

Other students started to trickle in and soon the bell rang, no trace of Edmund. It wasn’t uncommon for him to skip this class, it was basically pointless, but it made Y/N sad every time he wasn’t there.

The door swings open and a drenched Edmund steps into the classroom. Without even looking up, Mr. Tumnus addresses him.

“You’re late again, Mr. Pevensie.”

“Sorry, I got stuck behind a group of Sophmore girls who wouldn’t move.”

“In the rain?” Mr. Tumnus raised an eyebrow.

“No, if it was in the rain I would be wet right now, sir.”

He plopped into his seat and started raking his hands through his wet hair. His cheeks were slightly rosey, as were his nose. His lips were pinker than usual and they stayed slightly parted. Hair stuck to his forehead as he ran his fingers ran through it and the hair on the nape of his neck dripped down his back. Y/N had to stop herself from staring at him with her jaw unhinged.

“What’s that?” He whispered, noticing the open present on Y/N’s desk. He had taken up sitting horizontal in his chair at all times so he could more easily talk to Y/N.

“It’s a mixtape. It was left on my desk when I got here,” Y/N responded and handed him the note. Edmund took it and began to read; his eyes scanned the paper and his lips moved slightly as he read. Y/N couldn’t help her this time, so she allowed herself to stare. His lips were always so pink and so puffy. She fantasized about how soft they must be.

“Wow, looks like someone really likes you,” He comments, placing the paper back on her desk. “Do you have a cassette player?”

Y/N didn’t even consider that. Who the hell has a cassette player in the year 2020? Apparently, her answer was evident on her face, and Edmund chuckles. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a walkman and a pair of earbuds.

“Here, you can have mine. I got a new one last month and I don’t really use this one as much.”

Oh, Edmund has a cassette player in the year 2020.

Y/N smiled, taking the player from his hand. “Thanks, Ed.”

“Wouldn’t want you to miss out on those songs. Whoever made that has good taste, you’re lucky.”

When Y/N got home tonight, she took out her walkman. It sat easily in her palm, just big enough for the cassette to fit inside. On the bottom, “E.P.” was scratched into the plastic. She smiled and put her mixtape inside.

As she listened, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander to Edmund. They had grown much closer in the past few months, even going lengths to hang out outside of school. Y/N learned that not only was Edmund extremely intelligent, but he was the funniest person Y/N had ever met. He always had a sarcastic comeback or joke to offer her, no matter the subject. He had also let many of his walls down, letting Y/N get to know him better. It all felt so comfortable and natural. No longer was he just the cute guy from Music Appreciation, but he was the pain in the ass that Y/N had fallen for. And Y/N had fallen hard.

Against her first impression of the mixtape, Y/N had actually heard all of these songs. After the first day in January, Edmund had lent her his earbuds near-daily and she would listen to whatever he played for her. Her eyes widened.

Why would Edmund carry around a cassette player he didn’t use? And to school for that matter? And the note; it was typed because Edmund had such distinct handwriting! Y/N rewound the cassette and listened to it again. Why didn’t she realize in the moment?

“Hello, Y/N,” Edmund greeted in the parking lot the morning, he happened to park next to Y/N. He gripped the coffee in his hand and got his backpack in the trunk. “How are you on this fine morning?”

“Tired, I stayed up, like, half the night listening to that cassette I got yesterday.” Y/N slung her own backpack over her shoulder. He closed his trunk and locked his car.

“Yeah? And what did you think?” The two started walking towards the building.

“I thought that the songs all sounded oddly familiar.”

Edmund took a long sip of his coffee. “Like you’ve heard them before?”

“Mmhm,” Y/N hummed and walked onto campus. She held one of the straps of her backpack as she walked. “Almost as if this dumbass guy I know played them for me a while back,” Y/N’s voice was teasing and light.

“Yeah? Who is this guy?” Y/N stopped walking and looked up at Edmund.

“Thanks for the mixtape, Ed.”

“Whaaaat...just because this guy has great taste in love songs doesn’t mean it was me. I’m flattered though, really,” Edmund took another long sip of his coffee.

“Oh, what a pity. I actually got excited when I figured out it was you. Considering normal people don’t just carry cassette players in their backpacks. Especially not ones they don’t use anymore.” Y/N’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Excited?”

“Yeah. I’ve kinda liked that Edmund guy for a while, but he doesn’t like me back so…”

“You like me back?” Edmund was grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, babe, I like you back. I have since October since I started letting you borrow my comics,”

Edmund placed his coffee on a bench and pulled Y/N closer to him by the hips.

“October, huh?” Y/N smiled bashfully at Edmund’s tone but nodded.

“What? You’re cute, I couldn’t help myself. Plus, now you make me cute mixtapes.”

Edmund leans down and places his lips against hers. They were just as soft as she had imagined. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers quickly finding the hairs at the nape of his neck. He pulls away and leans his forehead against hers.

“Be my girlfriend, then?”

“You nerd,” Y/N took a small step forwards and pecked his lips again. “I would love to.”

#edmund pevensie #edmund pevensie x reader #edmund x reader #edmund pevensie fanfic #edmund pevensie fanfiction #king edmund the just #king edmund #narnia #the chronicles of narnia #the chronicles of narnia fanfic #the chronicles of narnia fanfiction #modern au #fluff #c.s. lewis #c. s. lewis #skandar keynes #narnia fanfic #narnia fanfiction

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cotncandyboifics · 3 years

Text

1989 [High School AU]: Chapter 6

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 7 ~ Chapter 8 ~ Chapter 9 ~

Pairings: slight Logince, eventual Prinxiety & Logicality

Word count: 1,987

Story summary: Roman Prince is your stereotypical Jock, with everyone swooning after him. Every day a crowd of people follow him around, only to disperse at his personal whim. In reality, he's lucky to have such good acting skills that help him cover up the disdain he has for his life. He only wishes he could use his skills properly.

Patton Whitelock's always there to lend a helping hand, no matter who you are. If you need a favor or just need someone to talk to, go to him. In reality, he's been taught from a young age that kindness should be held above all else. No one suspects that he took it the wrong way.

Logan Montgomery is the smartest boy in the Senior class. He's stern, and most people are too intimidated to speak to him. In reality, he despises most all of his fellow students. He sticks to his studies and doesn't stray, for fear of being stuck in his father's shadow his whole life.

Virgil Black is the most emo kid in school, let alone 12th grade; everyone knows to leave him be. In reality, he's very fortunate. He has two parents who love him dearly. But everything beyond his life, everything within his mind, is utter chaos and turmoil.

what will happen when they're assigned a biology project together?

General CW: food, swearing, implied s-lf h-rm, non-graphic descriptions of s-lf h-rm scars, graphic and non-graphic descriptions of anxiety attacks and panic attacks, drug abuse, minor character intoxicated on heroin, non-graphic drug overdose description, sickness/description of sickness, blood, non-graphic descriptions of needles, (will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: food, (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: I hated writing this chapter because I love Logince and I'm intentionally writing this story so that Logince doesn't work and I just- my heart and my creativity have a conflict of interests here :')

...

Roman was left alone in his room, staring at the door where Virgil had slipped out silently a few minutes ago. He'd turned off his music, and was sitting up, staring, thinking.

What was even the point of asking Logan out? I didn't have any interest in him before, he was just a nerd who i never bothered, and he never bothered me... perhaps for the challenge? when I saw him in class today something just sparked, and i felt the need to pursue him. I didn't think he'd entertain it, especially so quickly. And what of Virgil?

What of Virgil?

Roman shook his head and stood, leaving his room to see what his parents were doing, and if he could help with dinner. He needed a distraction, and he knew homework wasn't going to do it.

...

The next few days at school were strange, to say the least.

Patton was the same, as far as the others could see. He tried figuring out some of the routes Logan took to different classes, just a few so as not to seem suspicious, but Roman was more often than not already there and bombarding Logan with his charms. Patton still caught him alone sometimes though, and did his best to make conversation about little things, just wanting to get to know Logan. They had an engaging conversation about Logan's surprisingly extensive knowledge about drug abuse, and Patton was thankful for the bits of advice he could get. They'd also run through proper methods for caring for various species of turtles.

Logan continued to hound himself about why he had accepted Roman's courting after such a short time knowing him, let alone that they were very... different people, to say the least. He'd told his father that one of his friends had requested an outing to a cafe to study for an upcoming calculus quiz. His father was reluctant but upon Logan's presentation of evidence of such atmospheres increasing the effectiveness of studying and concentration, his father granted him permission to go. Logan knew his father would never permit any,, frivolous activities, when Logan had so much academic potential. And Logan made himself feel the same way, acquiring knowledge and more importantly incredible accolades was all that mattered until he was out of school. And yet, here he was, about to go on a date behind his parents' back with a jock, very stereotypical of a teen and yet very atypical for him. He couldn't explain to himself why he'd allowed himself to get into this situation, but it wasn't causing any immediate problems, so he decided to try and let the topic rest.

Virgil was acting stranger than ever, at least from Roman's perspective. He seemed even more cold and distant, except on occasion he'd strike up a conversation. Sometimes they got rather lively, debating about which were the best Disney movies, even if they had very... differing perspectives on what messages they portrayed. Roman was baffled, Because he didn't think someone who was previously unconcerned with Roman for the most part could become so black-and-white, switching between completely ignoring and/or glaring at him, and coming into a room and immediately proposing a topic of conversation.

Roman had his hands full with courting his new love interest, and trying to figure out what was going on with Virgil. Virgil himself was very conflicted. Any time he saw Roman, his feelings became intense and he never knew how to act.

The group's dynamic had shifted accordingly whenever they were in class together. In Biology, Logan was usually hard at work on their report, Patton doing his best to help. Roman often attempting to fluster Logan in any possible way he could, and Virgil, ever unpredictable.

...

Finally Thursday came, and Roman got into his mustang to pick up his date. He drove quietly up to a large white house, with a very systematic garden laid out in the front. He got out and leaned against the closed passenger door, and messaged Logan, letting him know he was there to pick him up.

Logan had hoped Roman would have the sense to pick him up around the block, but upon exiting his house and seeing him directly in front of the house leaning against his red mustang with a single red rose in his hand, Logan brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and massaged it, trying to keep from getting aggravated before their date even began. He walked over slowly, trying to keep an open mind instead of letting his logical self shut everything about Roman's love language down.

Roman had to keep himself from staring. Logan was dressed... well, typically his own style, but... he had gelled his hair back so it became one big dark tuft instead of it's usual gentle messiness, and he had on a silk navy button up and a black bowtie instead of his trademark necktie. He had on Black corduroy pants that accentuated his slender legs, and white and blue converse that complemented his shirt and pale skin. Roman was impressed at the attention to detail yet the simplicity of his date's outfit, and was indeed that much more attracted to him.

"Well hello there," Roman said as Logan neared, looking him up and down, "don't you look ravishing."

Logan's cheeks glazed a bit. "As do you," was all he could think to reply. Roman had on a dark red v neck and a black and gold baseball jacket, dark grey ripped skinny jeans with a silver chain, and red checkered vans. Logan realized he'd let his eyes linger on Roman's exposed collarbone a moment too long. God, why am i acting like this?

Roman just smirked and stood aside, opening the passenger door he'd been leaning on and making way for Logan. Logan sat, his knees nearly touching the dash. Roman got on one knee and dramatically presented Logan with the flower. Logan smiled gently and took it, examining it. Roman shut the door and made his way around to the driver's side and got in.

"Will you relay the whereabouts of our destination or will it remain a mystery to me?" Logan asked as Roman opened his door, not looking up from the flower.

Roman smiled with a glint in his eyes. "Well it would be no fun if i were to spoil the surprise, now would it?" He put the key in the ignition and started the car, and the engine hummed smoothly to life. "Completely unrelated to said surprise, but have you had dinner?" Roman rolled down his window and rested his forearm on it.

"Yes, unfortunately I follow a strict meal plan." He adjusted his glasses.

"Well, i wont question that, but that works for me." Roman left it at that and pulled out his phone.

"Would you happen to have a music preference?" Roman asked as Logan smelled the rose, and finally set it down in his lap.

After a moment of thought, Logan replied, "Well I suppose not. I don't listen to much music other than classical on occasion, and at this point i find it rather..."

"Boring?" Roman mused.

"Insufferable," Logan smiled.

"Alright, I'll enlighten you to something other than Beethoven and Bach," Roman reached for the aux chord, plugged his phone into it, and picked a particular song he felt was... fitting for the moment. The song intro began, and Roman pulled the e-break down and shifted into first gear, pulling out onto the road.

he said "let's get out of this town,

Drive out of the city, away from the crowds..."

I thought "heaven can't help me now,"

Nothing lasts forever...

Logan watched things pass on the road, absentmindedly tapping his ankle to the beat. He didn't recognize the area of town they were heading to, but he didn't expect Roman to kidnap him or anything, so he just observed.

But this is gonna take me down

He's so tall, and handsome as hell

He's so bad, but he does it so well.

I can see the end as it begins

My one condition is

Logan looked straight ahead at the road now, wondering if Roman had selected this specific song for any reason.

Say youll remember me,

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your

Wildest dreams, ah, hah...

They were driving up a hill now, and the road was getting steeper. Logan was beginning to wonder if he should have just rejected Roman from the beginning.

Roman sensed his unease, and turned the music down so that it was just background noise. "I promise I'm not about to murder you in the woods," he said with a small laugh, "There's just a nice spot up here to... observe," he assured vaguely, glancing at Logan.

He nodded with a small smile from the passenger seat, returning to looking around as they passed sloping driveways and mossy-trunked trees.

Just moments later, they emerged into something of a clearing, with a cul-de-sac and a large meadow. There were clusters of small flowers and clovers all over, and the trees cleared perfectly to display the sun was crawling toward the horizon.

They parked and Logan got out, and turned to realize Roman was still in the car, seemingly reaching behind his seat awkwardly and rummaging around. He emerged with a plastic bag and a rolled up plaid blanket. Roman locked the car and led them to the meadow, where he dramatically unrolled the blanket and laid it out, after ruffling it in the wind. Logan sat cross-legged facing what would soon become the sunset, the bottom of the sun's visible sphere nearly dipping itself below the horizon.

Roman sat as well, beginning to dig through the mystery bag, Logan now paying him attention. Roman pulled out two large paper cups, with plastic tops and straws in them. He handed Logan one of the cups, and Logan began inspecting it. It appeared to be a milkshake, likely chocolate flavored due to the brown hue... It looked rather delightful. Logan took a sip and was not disappointed; he'd never actually had a milkshake, at least not since he was very young, so he had to attempt to hide his enjoyment.

"That is quite tasteful," He looked back to Roman, who was tasting his own milkshake.

"Yeah, you struck me as a chocolate type," he leaned back on one hand. "Hope you like the view. I thought it would be nice as a first date to watch the sunset and talk."

Logan gazed out at the sky that faded from blue to purple to red to orange and a bit of yellow, clouds peppered around and absorbing the hues. He certainly did appreciate the view.

"Alright, let's talk then."

...

A few hours later, it had gotten dark and stars were spattered across the sky. Logan was laying with his hands behind his head, watching the sky, and Roman was laid next to him, leaning up on his side and watching Logan's eyes. They'd talked about anything, from childhood memories to opinions and briefly about their home lives. Roman felt very... usual. Everything was going perfectly, and he could feel that fact slamming against his chest. Do I actually like him or is this all just a game to me? Am i being fake, or completely real?

Soon Logan checked his wristwatch and informed Roman it was time he be heading home. They stood, and Logan shivered as Roman collected the blanket. He sighed upon seeing Logan's arms loosely held around himself, trying to keep warm.

Roman rustled his baseball jacket off and draped it over Logan's shoulders.

They made their way back to the car, and as Roman drove them, all Logan could do was lean his head on the window and stare up at the hazy white moon.

Roman dropped him off, walking him up to his door. Logan thanked him for the evening, and tried to return Roman's jacket, but Roman insisted he hold onto it. They shared a small kiss on the doorstep, and bid each other goodnight. Roman drove off into the night, pondering heavily.

#ts logan #logan sanders #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts roman #roman sanders #patton sanders #ts patton #sanders sides #thomas sanders #sanders sides fanfiction #high school au #slow burn #prinxiety #logicality #patton x logan #roman x virgil

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shou-jpeg · 1 year

Text

-Back on the Beat -

Part 1. 01

Kim doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

< Title - Next >

#kimchay #i want you bach au #kpdoodles #doodles #updates weekly #i want you bach au part 1

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the-other-art-blog · 3 years

Text

What I loved about the 2019 movie (part 1: “technical” points)

I ranted a lot about Greta’s Little Women, so I wanted to share what I did love from it. I’m taking into account that there is not a better version... some versions have good scenes, but none of them is incredible. Let’s consider it an AU and enjoy.

The cast (well, their acting)

I like Saoirse’s Jo, she’s a bit too angry with the world, but she's alright. I have never liked Jo, not even when they try to make her a hero. So, me not liking the character is normal.

Florence Pugh as a 12 year-old is implausible. I guess Greta thought that if Flo didn’t do both versions, she wouldn’t get nominated. I don’t know. But she did act childish and make up helped her to look younger, not twelve but younger maybe 16. I’ll defend her low voice. Her physical appearance is not very accurate, aside from the blonde hair and blue eyes. I mean she does have exactly the nose Amy would want, so it was a bit strange hearing her lamenting when the nose is perfect. It would have been better if she wailed about her cousin’s ugly hand-me-downs. But the artist mindset is Amy’s. I’ll allow it because of Florence. I think that out of all the actors, she’s the one who understood her character the best.

I loved Mr. Laurence! And Meryl Streep was also great (she was also a bit too angry and bitter in the wedding, but I’ll allow this too). Emma’s attitude was anti-feminist, but her face is Meg’s. Timmy was okay too, even if he didn’t knew who his character was (see part 4 of my rant).

The back and forth

I don’t think it’s hard to understand the time jumps. But it is a movie made for people who already know the story. Greta said anyone could watch it, but she also took for granted that everyone knows the story.

It served to contrast the girls’ dreams with the reality. As someone who is finishing college, it had a tremendous impact.

Sometimes it didn’t have to be a parallel about the plot, like the transition from Beth’s funeral to Meg’s wedding. That parallel was about Jo watching Beth. The last shot of the funeral is Jo looking down at her dead sister. And it’s followed by the same position, just in the past Jo is looking at Beth arranging the flowers. It’s sadness vs joy.

The look of the film

This movie is gorgeous to watch and full of little details. I love how you could see Amy’s drawing all over and Beth playing Bach. Orchard house was beautiful, but the Europe scenes are breathtaking. It’s like they were posing for an impressionist painting. I could live in that painting room!

I actually like the costumes. I went over the 1868-69 La Mode Illustrée and Amy’s gowns are okay. The silhouette should have been more pushed to the back, start showing a bustle, but the hats were nice. And I can forgive Jo’s not wearing a corset as an artistic choice to show Jo’s rebel personality through her clothes. Beth is fine. The hair is another story. I get the choices for Beth and Jo, except in the wedding. Meg is a disaster but this is not what this post is about.

If you’re wondering why Amy’s clothes look so good even in the childhood scenes, it’s because they are her cousin’s hand-me-downs. Amy doesn’t wear her sisters’ old clothes. This is exactly what I’m talking about taking for granted that people know the story, especially this little details. Did you noticed Amy wearing the pinky ring during the letter scene? That should have been the ring Aunt March offered her. But at least, the detail is there.

The filters work... sometimes. Not everything in childhood is happy, and not everything in adulthood is sucks. But it does have an impact when they are adequate, like in that transition scene I talked before.

Somebody described this movie as if it was about Jo writing her Little Women. Like what we’re seeing is Jo’s memories as she writes. That’s why everything in childhood is so happy, and adulthood seems sad. I found that interpretation possible. It also explains why she included Friedrich and introduced their romantic story (I also read someone question that). I can live with that.

What do you think, does this interpretation works for you??

#little women #little women 2019 #greta gerwig #see i didn't hate all of it #i just think it had potential to be wonderful and it disappointed #amy march #florence pugh #timothee chalamet #saoirse ronan #jo march #meryl streep #aunt march

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yslkook · 3 years

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hi!! i was wondering what projects ur planning on working on after u finish mom?? and how is the last ch of mom going ;)

hello! after mom, im going to work on red card (a soccer captain jk college au) that i wrote 1 part of in march and lost inspo for...but ive had more inspo lately bc of euro 2020 and copa america LOL and then im gonna start writing a vampire jin x witch reader x vampire jk story. and THEN i want to write a namjoon story where it's a wedding au and they both hate each other- It’s jin’s wedding, he’s a groomsman and you’re a bridesmaid. Both parties somehow end up at the same place for bach/bach parties. You think namjoon’s stuck up and he thinks you’re a bitch

the last ch of mom is currently 6.5k words with a lot more to go it looks like lmao i hope u enjoy

#asks

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joachimnapoleon · 4 years

Text

The Flutist

This latest addition to my and @histoireettralala‘s ever-growing Trifecta AU was partially inspired by our love of the fact that Michel Ney played the flute, and partially by a scenario we randomly came up with one day regarding baby Louise Murat being fascinated with Ney’s red hair.

... Also, partially by my constant need for Marshalate fluff these days.

Enjoy! :)

***

[Age: 1]

Michel Ney can't remember the last time he's been stared down this hard by a baby. But he is prepared to give as good as he gets; blue eyes lock on to blue eyes. The contest commences.

He hasn't spent much time around this one-year-old who bears such a striking resemblance to her father. In addition to sharing his eyes (both in color and mischief), little Louise Murat has also inherited Joachim's dark, curly hair, rounded chin, and thickset lips.

His attention span, too, apparently, Ney thinks, as the baby quickly grows bored with the stare-down; the wide blue eyes shift upwards. Settling on Ney's hair, they widen yet further.

Murat, holding the squirming child, grins at Ney.

"You're the first redhead she's ever seen."

Ney can't help but smile.

A plump little arm stretches towards him. A stream of incomprehensible baby gibberish babbles forth.

"I think she wants to touch your hair," Murat interprets without missing a beat. "Is that okay?"

Ney chuckles. "Sure, why not."

Murat gently lowers baby Louise, guiding her wobbly steps--she has only recently started walking--across the narrow gap on the sofa between the two men. A moment later she latches onto Ney's shoulder, mouth agape in wonder as she continues studying the red hair intently.

"Bababababa," Louise says, staring Ney in the face.

"My, aren't you a talkative one," Ney replies. "Just like your Papa." He gives her a wink.

"She is indeed," Murat says proudly.

A tiny hand reaches towards Ney's hair.

"Gently, sweetheart," says Murat.

"It's okay," Ney reassures him.

Her face full of wonder, baby Louise pets and pats the strange red hair, narrating the exploration with a series of random coos and gurgles. Murat is smiling in delight; he pulls out his cellphone to take a picture--no, a video! Caroline and Aglaé will both love this!

Ney is beaming too--until Louise suddenly grabs a fistful of his hair and gives it a much sharper yank than he would expect from a one-year-old.

"AHHH-D-D-D-D-D" Ney grits his teeth, bending down slightly towards the baby to alleviate the pulling. He sees Louise opening her mouth wide and--Wait, is she trying to--

Yes. Louise is trying to eat his hair.

"JOAC--"

But Murat has already dropped the phone and is hastily reaching over to gently extract Louise's hand from Ney's hair, scooping the baby up into his arms. The little girl looks, for a moment, as if she is about to cry--she flails towards Ney, whining--but Murat is an expert at this sort of thing, and has her distracted and laughing again in no time.

Twenty minutes later, Murat has to take a phone call.

"Go on," Ney says. "I can keep an eye on her."

"Thanks."

By the time he returns, the reconciliation is complete: Louise is sound asleep, snuggling against (and drooling on) Ney's shoulder. She hadn't even tried to eat his hair again.

Murat reaches out tentatively. "Here, I can--"

--Ney shoots him an indignant look, unconsciously pulling the slumbering baby away from her father.

"Um. Okay then," Murat says, chuckling as he runs a hand through his hair. "Just, you know, make sure to give her back to me eventually."

"Do I have to?"

"Yeah. I've gotten pretty attached to her."

That makes two of us. He and Aglaé have four sons, but no daughters. He'd always hoped a girl would come along for them eventually, but it didn't seem to be in the cards. Now all of a sudden, tiny Louise Murat, with her wild curls and curious blue eyes and grabby little hands, has stolen his heart.

Either Ney's face is betraying his thoughts far more than he means for it to, or Murat is a mind-reader.

"Tell you what," Murat says with a knowing smile. "How 'bout if we share?"

"Deal."

***

[Age: 6]

Ney has been invited to a tea party.

Although he isn't entirely sure whether "invited" is the right word.

Actual invitations can be declined. But Louise has no sooner "invited" Ney to the tea party than she takes him by the wrist and begins dragging him up the stairs. He looks down at BunBun, being likewise dragged along by Louise's other hand. The giant, floppy stuffed rabbit has been Louise's favorite toy since Murat brought him home from a recent trip to an amusement park with Ney and Lannes. Apparently BunBun has been "invited" to the tea party too.

"Is there going to be room for both me and BunBun?" Ney asks.

"Yes," Louise says. "It's a big table. And you're my special guest!"

"I thought BunBun was your special guest?"

"BunBun lives here," Louise says dismissively. "You're my special, SPECIAL guest."

"Well then," Ney says, "I consider myself honored."

They finally reach the top of the stairs and Louise opens the door to Letitia's room, where all the tea parties are hosted.

Already seated at the table are Letitia, Mr. Bear, and Murat, the latter scrunched precariously into a pink plastic chair that is clearly much too small for him.

"Greetings!" Murat says with a broad grin. "I take it Louise invited you?"

"Indeed," Ney confirms with a nod. "I'm a special, special guest."

***

[Age: 10]

Ney's fingers flutter expertly over the keys of his flute; the cheerful notes of Bach's Partita in A Minor peal through the air. It is a difficult piece, but also a long-time favorite, and after playing it for so many years, he has little need to reference the sheet music in front of him anymore.

He had fallen in love with the instrument at twelve years old. The only boy in his school band to choose the flute, Ney had endured some teasing from his peers for picking what they considered a "girl's instrument," but it had never fazed him. In his eyes, it was their loss for not being able to appreciate the flute's beauty and versatility.

By high school he was the best flutist in his class, and his talents ended up earning him a college scholarship. In college, they helped him charm Aglaé, who played the clarinet in the college orchestra. And the rest was history; as far as he was concerned, Ney could trace all of his current happiness to learning to play the flute during his childhood.

He had hoped one of his sons would develop a liking for it as well, but so far they were all gravitating to--Ney grimaces inwardly--the brass section. Where did I go wrong?

Ney concludes the final notes of the piece, and is startled to hear applause. He turns to see Murat and little Louise, clapping happily from the doorway.

"That was so pretty Uncle Michel!" Louise exclaims.

"Incredible!" says Murat. "Why have I never heard you play before?"

Ney blushes. "I rarely play in public anymore. Thanks though, I'm glad you liked it."

"Well you absolutely should play in public more! Our friends would love to hear it! Isn't that right, darling?" he asks Louise.

"Papa is right! You play so good!" the ten-year-old says.

"Thank you, my dear."

"May I hold the flute? I've never held a flute before."

"Yes, of course!" Ney hands Louise the flute. The child studies the instrument in rapt fascination, running her littlefingers over the intricate keys and tubes.

"Next year she'll be old enough to play in the school band," Murat says.

"Oh yeah? Has she chosen an instrument yet?"

Murat looks down at his daughter, who is still captivated by the flute. He smiles.

"Possibly." ***

[Age 11]

The following year when Murat informed Ney that Louise had, indeed, decided she wanted to learn to play the flute for the school band, Ney had scarcely been able to contain his joy.

"Also," Murat began, "she's wondering if you'd be willing to teach her some of the basics, before her formal lessons begin next month?"

"Tell her I would be delighted to."

Sitting in the Murats' beautiful garden now, he has, so far, taught Louise how to put the flute together, what all the various parts are called, how to clean the instrument, how to hold it, and proper posture. Now, for the most important part: how to make the sound come out.

He shows her how to form the necessary embouchure--the positioning of the lips in relation to the blowhole of the flute--and demonstrates with his own flute: a clear, sonorous B-flat emanates through the garden.

Louise tries to copy his face, and blows into her flute.

PPHHHHHTHTHHTHTHTHHHHH.

She tries again.

PPHHHHHTHTHHTHTHTHHHHH.

And again.

PPHHHHHTHTHHTHTHTHHHHH.

Louise is dismayed. It isn't working! Is her flute broken?

She hands the instrument to Ney; he holds it up, arranges his embouchure, and plays another B-flat.

"Your flute works perfectly," he says reassuringly.

Louise tries again and again, over and over, but still fails to get any sound to come out of the flute. Ney can see that she is getting frustrated.

"Don't be discouraged," he tells her. "This is usually the hardest part for every beginner."

"Was it hard for you too?"

"Oh yes. It took me hours to do it right the first time. And multiple lessons. I was in total despair after a while, but then I just... did it. Somehow. And once I made that first note, I didn't have any problems doing it again. It was like something had just clicked, and now I could play the flute. So, don't worry. You'll get it eventually, I promise. We're not going to give up. Okay?"

"Okay."

A little over an hour later, the PPHHHHHTHTHHTHTHTHHHHH suddenly morphs into a resounding OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Louise lowers the flute, staring at Ney with wide eyes.

"Uncle Michel!! I did it!!! I'm playing the flute!!!!" she raises the flute again and, making the same embouchure as before, plays a full, crystal-clear note.

Ney turns away just for a brief instant, to wipe away a sudden, unexpected tear.

***

Ney makes his way towards the front row, his eyes finding Murat's curly hair in the dim light of the school auditorium.

"Glad you could make it!" Murat greets him. "Caroline and I saved you a seat."

"Thank you," Ney says, sitting down beside his friend. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Louise has been working very hard for the past six months, and tonight is her first concert with the school band. Additionally--and Murat had barely able to contain his excitement when he'd told Ney--she was going to be performing a duet with another student. The band instructor had been so delighted with the progress of both girls so far, that he wanted to give them a moment in the spotlight to showcase their developing talents.

"Is she nervous?" Ney asks.

"Honestly, I think she's more nervous about playing in front of you than anything," Murat chuckles.

Ney grins. "I can't imagine why. We practice together all the time!"

"Yes, exactly. She's worried she's going to mess up and disappoint you."

"No, that won't happen," Ney says firmly.

The concert begins. While the band of eleven- and twelve-year-olds performs its ensemble, Caroline dutifully records it on her phone, Murat sniffles and wipes his teary eyes with a handkerchief throughout, and Ney wallows in nostalgia, vividly remembering his own days playing with the school band. He smiles at the sight of Louise, so poised for her age, playing every song without missing a beat, as if she'd been in the band for years.

"My little princess," Murat wibbles during the break between pieces, falling apart into the handkerchief again. Caroline smiles and runs her fingers through his hair, but Ney can't help but notice her own eyes are glistening in the darkness of the auditorium.

"You should've seen him when Letitia played the Butterfly Queen in her first school play," Caroline tells Ney.

Murat gives a shuddering sob into the handkerchief at the memory; Ney, shoulders shaking, conceals his laughter behind a hand.

Now it is time for Louise's duet. She is introduced to the audience. Only the firm hand of Caroline on his forearm keeps Murat from springing up out of his chair to cheer for his daughter.

"Don't embarrass her, dearest," Caroline whispers reprovingly.

"Right. Sorry," Murat says sheepishly.

Louise and her companion begin playing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," with the band instructor accompanying them on thepiano.

Ney smiles. The Ninth Symphony has always held a special place in his heart, and now it is going to be even morespecial.

Louise hits every note perfectly.

The audience applauds after the girls finish their performance. Louise curtseys, lighting up at the sight of her parents and Uncle Michel in the front row. She gives them a wave before returning to her seat with the rest of the band.

Murat is a mess. But Ney is surprised to find his own face suddenly wet too. He fumbles through his pockets for a tissue. Damn it all. Probably should've anticipated this.

Murat hands him a handkerchief.

"I always bring a spare," he explains.

"Thanks." Maybe I should too. What is happening to him? He's slowly turning into Murat--a big, blubbery, walking catastrophe. Oh God.

After the concert, he stoops to give Louise a hug.

"Did I do good, Uncle Michel?"

"You were brilliant, my dear. I'm more proud of you than I can possibly put into words."

Louise is beaming. She hopes he'll come with Papa and Mama to all her concerts from now on.

"As your special guest?" Ney asks.

"My special, SPECIAL guest."

Murat claps him on the shoulder cheerfully.

"In that case," he says, "you might want to order some handkerchiefs."

***End***

#Trifecta AU #Papa!Murat AU #The Flutist #the second fluffiest fluff I've ever written #@histoireettralala

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chimmycharmed · 4 years

Text

nevermind (one-shot)

Title: NEVERMIND (alt: I love you, hyung) Words: 5,619 Ships: Yoonmin, slight Yoonjin, implied Vmin. Synopsis: Jimin thought love meant staying, so when Yoongi left he thought love meant coming back. But love is more complicated than that. Genre: Rapper!Suga x ContemporaryDancer!Jimin, exes au, angst, implied smut. Warnings: Heartbreak, cheating, abandonment. Author’s note: Listen to Mean It (stripped) - Lauv ft. LANY while reading.

PART I: I DON’T MIND

Love never meant staying. Park Jimin never knew what that meant until he met Min Yoongi.

It was summer at the time. He was a contemporary dancer that was just dragged by his best friend to an underground rap scene because he was a fan of it, Jimin on the other hand, couldn’t care less.

“Taehyung-ah, you really go to these events?” A whine Taehyung knows all too well.

“Events.” Taehyung scoffed, dragging Jimin by the arm in the middle of the crowd so they have a perfect view of the next challenger. “It’s a rap battle, Jimin-ah. It’s not that formal, aish.”

Jimin never understood his best friend’s fascination with rap and hip-hop. For one, Taehyung was a classical musician. He plays Bach and Beethoven on the violin, piano, and sax. That’s even how they met, he was part of the orchestra to one of his ballet pieces.

They found themselves near the front row, the MC known to the fans as RM called the next challenger and that was the first time he saw him.

Bleached blonde, pale but not sick, sporting a smug look on his face. He looked like he could walk the talk judging by the way he dressed: shirt, jersey, a snapback, and a couple of piercings on both ears.

“Ayo Suga!” RM exclaimed as the rapper made his way to the stage. “What’s your motivation for challenging j-hope today?”

“We have a score to settle.” For a small guy, he was intimidating Jimin thought. J-hope on the other hand just laughed at his contender. Not the kind of laugh where he thought this Suga guy was pathetic. Just laughed like he was making a joke. He seemed like the guy to laugh at everything.

“Okay, and the rap battle begins in 1... 2... 3!” The MC started the countdown.

It was j-hope’s turn first, he rapped like he was mocking his competition. “Ya, j-hope’s really good at this type of rap, and his flow change? Don’t get me started.” Taehyung explained with his boxy smile, his eyes glued to the stage.

Then it was his turn. Suga rapped so many syllables so fast Jimin really stood there shocked. It’s as if he gave j-hope no time to rebut, he ended him right then and there. Everyone could feel the tension, j-hope was walking towards Suga looking pissed off.

“Wait, are they going to fight?” Jimin was both scared and concerned. He was just looking at Suga. Tae just had a smug look on his face, and then Jimin saw why. RM looked like he was stopping j-hope from going too close to Suga but instead, he too rapped. The two competitors began laughing, and it dawned on him: it was just a ploy.

All three rappers were now facing each other in a circle, spitting fire, and Jimin didn’t realize it now, nor will he admit in the future: they were good, scratch that, they were amazing. “Ddaeng! I fucking love this track so much!” Taehyung squealed like the fanboy he is.

“Wait, so they were just playing the audience?” Jimin asked, confused.

“Dude literally everyone here except you knows they’re the best of friends. The best rapline in Seoul if not in South Korea.” Taehyung explained, suddenly dragging Jimin by the arm to take him to the side of the stage. “Come on, I’m introducing you to them.”

“You know them?” As much as Jimin was surprised, he immediately shut up when he was face to face with the trio.

“Hyungs! I want you to meet my best friend and soulmate, Jimin.” Jimin rolled his eyes mentally, he always asked Taehyung not to call him soulmate in front of new people because it more often than not gives the wrong impression.

“Hi! I’m Namjoon.” RM said, Jimin was surprised on how formal he got all of a sudden, was this the same rapper on stage a while ago? He extended his hand and he shook it.

“I’m your hope, but you already knew that by now.” J-hope smiled. “I’m Hoseok.” It was his turn to shake Jimin’s hands.

“What’s the use of having a stage name when we just give out our real ones?” Suga whined from the side. “Well, I’m Yoongi. I guess.” He still looked so cool while shaking his hand. They all did, Jimin thought but Yoongi... There's just something about his presence.

“Nice to meet all of you, hyungs.” Jimin even did a slight bow as a sign of respect which made Yoongi smile.

“Are you staying for drinks, Taehyung-ah?” Yoongi asked.

Namjoon and Hoseok looked at each other in surprise, Jimin didn’t know what that meant. “Hyung, you know I don’t drink.” Taehyung laughed. “But Jimin is quite the drinker so he can drink for the both of us.”

“Ya, Taehyung.” Jimin scolded.

“What? Let’s stay a bit longer. You don’t have any practice tomorrow right?” Tae pleaded to his soulmate. Jimin knows he couldn't say no to that.

“Yea, stay a bit longer.” Jimin felt Yoongi’s gaze on him, it felt alluring, it felt right.

“Okay.” How could he possibly say no now?

There was a bar area in the scene, Namjoon, Hoseok and Tae were looking for a table while Jimin was with Yoongi since he asked to accompany him in getting drinks.

“You drink soju?” Jimin nodded to answer. “I’ll order 5 but between you and me, I think they’ll just share one bottle.” Yoongi laughed as he gave Jimin 2 bottles then proceeded to carry the other 3 on his own.

“Why is that?” Jimin raised a brow.

“The 94 liners aren’t that much of a drinker.” Yoongi answered. “How old are you?”

“I’m a 95 liner, like Tae.”

“Ah, your soulmate.” Yoongi nodded, sounding dry.

“It’s not like that, we’re just eternal platonic friends,” Jimin explained getting flustered not knowing why. “It’s an inside joke.”

“So you’re available then?” Yoongi cocked his brow.

“Huh?” Jimin was surprised by his straightforwardness. But he couldn’t continue to answer as they made their way to their table.

“So Jimin, what do you do?” Namjoon asked, now fixing the table for the bottles to be placed.

“Oh, I’m a contemporary dancer.” Jimin said, sitting beside Tae while Yoongi sat beside Hoseok.

“Okay, Namjoon pay up. I told you he was a fancy dude like this one.” Hoseok nudged Tae, teasing.

“Okay, I thought you were an underground street dancer.” Namjoon reached for a bill and gave it to Hoseok.

“How come?” Jimin was surprised at the observation.

Yoongi replied instead, “You stand like a dancer, we just didn’t know what kind.”

“I told Namjoon that if you were an underground street dancer I would’ve heard of you by now.”

“Unless you’re not good.” Yoongi scoffed. “But I don’t think that’s possible.” Did he just wink at me? Jimin thought.

The night went on filled with shots and laughter. Yoongi was right, they ended up drinking 2 bottles each because Namjoon and Hoseok tapped out early. Tae had to go home earlier because he forgot he was going to an art gallery out of town the next day. Jimin insisted on staying, he was having so much fun.

Jimin never liked going home, it just wasn’t a place he’d like to stay. He was always at practice or out on a bar trying to have fun with his friends. This wasn’t like the regular stuck up dancer crowd he’s used too. They were fun. They were unpredictable, it made him loosen up. That must be the reason he stayed tonight. It was that.

Or the fact that Yoongi’s hand suddenly rested on his knees after sitting beside him after Tae left. Good thing he was intoxicated, he could use that as an excuse for blushing profusely.

“Shall we call it a night?” Namjoon asked his hyung. Jimin found out quickly that he was the leader of the trio despite not being the eldest, during their stories over drinks.

“Let’s.” Yoongi said, standing up. “I’ll drop Jimin at his place.”

Everyone in the table knew where this was headed, if Tae was here he would’ve known it too. Jimin had his fair share of one night stands. He was a looker after all. He knew the drill. The guy will offer to give him a ride home, he’ll ask if he wants a drink. They go up to his place and things happen.

And that’s what exactly happened with him and Yoongi. Except that, it wasn’t just all physical sex. They shared laughs while figuring out who’s bottoming, and Jimin knew Yoongi wanted to top, so he let him.

He was good at it, Jimin never knew he could cum that hard. Twice for that matter. The first by Jimin discovering what tongue technology actually meant and the other by him topping.

After that Jimin knew that the guy will probably say goodbye and will never show up again. But Yoongi was the exact opposite. He asked if he could stay the night. And in the morning, Jimin woke up to him cooking breakfast.

“You’re still here?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“I was thinking you’re hungry.” Yoongi smiled, putting the eggs on Jimin’s plate. “Do you think I’d just leave like that?”

“Yes.” Jimin answered quite honestly.

“If I just left, it would be awkward wanting to see you again would it?” Yoongi said, sitting beside Jimin. “Unless I overstepped and you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“I never had a fuck buddy before.” Jimin’s innocence made Yoongi chuckle, he forgot he was younger than him after all.

“Then I guess I’ll have to date you then.” He flashed his teeth towards the younger lad. “Is that okay?”

A smile crept on Jimin’s face. “I don’t mind.”

PART II: CHANGE YOUR MIND

Jimin never meant to find a home in Min Yoongi, but when autumn came he found himself moving Yoongi’s stuff in his place. Not everything, but small things: his toothbrush, his favorite pair of sweats, his noise-canceling headphones.

Small things that meant Yoongi will stay in his life. Things were going well. Whenever Jimin had a performance, Yoongi always bought him roses. After practice, Jimin always went to Yoongi’s underground performances even without Taehyung.

Sex was great, but their companionship grew stronger. This must be what home felt like. This must be what love means.

“Are you sure about this?” Yoongi asked Jimin who was sitting on a chair of a tattoo parlor. He looked nervous but sure.

“I really like your song, and I want it tattooed on me as a birthday gift to myself.” Jimin had a wide smile on his face.

“You like me too, why not have a tattoo of my name?” Yoongi joked.

“Only if you tattoo mine on you.” Jimin teased.

“I’m good with piercings, tattoos aren't just for me Jiminie. You already talked me into dying my hair this shade of green.” Yoongi will never let Jimin down for it, but Jimin thought mint suited him well.

“You’re just chicken, hyung.” Jimin rolled his eyes to which Yoongi snickered.

“Ya, you’re disrespecting your hyung now eh.”

“No. I love you, hyung.”

It was an unconventional first ‘I love you’ from Jimin, he never expected it to be in a tattoo shop waiting for his turn. But Yoongi was there. And he just needed to say it. And he thought he needed to hear it by now. And that was all that mattered.

“I love you too, Jiminie.” He said before kissing him fully on the lips.

“Ehem.” The tattoo artist finally arrived with the needle and ink, if Yoongi remembered it correctly his name was Jungkook – the youngest tattoo artist in the area that got acclaim in some TV show.

“Sorry.” Jimin was embarrassed, but Yoongi sat beside him.

“Let’s start?” Jungkook received a nod from a shaking Jimin.

“Hyung, hold my hand?” Yoongi entwined his fingers with Jimin’s. And he didn’t let go until it was done.

Just like that, Yoongi’s song was a permanent fixture on Jimin’s body and life. They went home that night happy.

“Aish, Jimin stay still so I can put on some ointment.” Yoongi holding up a shirtless Jimin in bed. He acts his age sometimes.

“It’s so itchy.” He whined.

“Well, that’s part of the healing process. You wanted this right?” Yoongi smirked.

“You’re so mean to me, hyung!” Jimin was silenced by a more passionate kiss compared to the one in the tattoo shop.

“If I could kiss it better, I would.” Yoongi rested his forehead on Jimin’s.

“Just kiss me instead.”

That night, they made love while reminding each other how much they meant to each other. Jimin knew that he could live like this his whole life.

But winter came one year, and Yoongi left. Like he disappeared into thin air. Jimin was just coming home from practice. Yoongi wasn’t texting. Jimin was calling and he couldn’t reach him. He came home and Yoongi wasn’t there. But everything he owns was still in place.

Little reminders that Yoongi stayed, little reminders that Yoongi left.

Jimin went to Yoongi’s apartment, and his landlady doesn’t know where he is. He went to the underground rap bar where they first met, Hoseok was just shocked. They too couldn’t contact him.

Jimin was going to have a panic attack, he knew that. He couldn’t just leave, he can’t. They loved each other. Right? Namjoon pulled Jimin to talk to him at the parking lot.

“Jimin.” Jimin was already crying, panicking. Namjoon had to put his arms on his shoulders to calm him down and have him stay still. “It’s Jin-hyung.”

This was the exact time you could hear Jimin’s heart shatter into pieces. Namjoon didn’t need to say anything else. He knew who Jin was to Yoongi.

He was the first person Yoongi gave his heart to. Yoongi was never clear why they broke up, but Jimin knew that there was a hole in Yoongi’s heart when Jin left, and now his looked the same with Yoongi gone.

Jimin went home that night breaking down to an empty bed filled with Yoongi’s stuff. In the next few weeks, Jimin couldn’t eat, he couldn’t get up, he couldn’t go to practice, let alone perform.

Taehyung had to physically manhandle him to take one bath after a week.

“Taehyung-ah, what did I do wrong?” Jimin sulked in the bathtub while Tae just sat on the toilet seat cover, hurting for his friend.

“Jimin, you didn’t do anything.” He tried to comfort him, his heart was just as hurt as his soulmate.

“Then why am I the one left alone?” He cried again, Tae just hugged him. Tight.

After a few months, Jimin got back to work. But he was downgraded to a backup dancer again, he knew it was coming after not showing up for months. He should be thankful the company gave him another chance.

Months went on like he did before meeting Yoongi. He went to work, he went shopping with Taehyung, he went home, and repeat. Yoongi’s stuff was placed in a drawer he never dared to look into again.

Then Jimin’s birthday came, and Taehyung threw him a small party with his dance troop. Taehyung wanted to rid Jimin of memories of Yoongi, it was his birthday after all. It was all about him. Tae wanted Jimin to stay at his place so he won’t be alone, but Jimin wanted to go home to his apartment.

He was tipsy and tired, until he found Yoongi sitting in the middle of his living room. His hair now dyed black.

“Hi.” He said, softly already looking apologetic. “Happy birthday.”

Jimin’s mind must be playing tricks on him. Memories played back in his head. The first birthday spent with him, getting a tattoo of his song. The next birthday where Yoongi cooked for him and threw him a party, the third one where they took a trip to Busan.

This was supposed to be his first birthday without him, but here he was on the living room sofa looking like the love of his life. “I’m sorry.” Yoongi began to tear up. “I need to explain a lot to you, I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jimin walked towards him and Yoongi was prepared for the worse, for a good hearing, for a fist on his cheek, but Jimin’s arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck, his face buried in his chest. “You’re here. You’re real.”

“Jimin, I’m sorry.” Yoongi finally broke down, and Jimin did too.

“If I forgive you, will you promise not to leave me again?” Jimin was shaking as Yoongi pulled back to look at him in the eye.

“I won’t make the same mistake.” And Jimin felt his lips on his once more.

He thought about the last time they kissed and how he was so devastated that it didn’t last longer. But Yoongi came back, and he knew the feelings never really went away. It was just buried beneath all the effort to make him seem okay again.

That night they made love for the first time in a long time and Jimin didn’t want to fall asleep until Yoongi reassured him that he wasn’t going anywhere. He woke up with Yoongi making breakfast for him again. Like he never left.

“We need to talk.” Jimin said as he sat down at the dining table, he was happy he came back but that meant he left the first place.

“We do.” Yoongi sighed, placing some fried eggs on Jimin's plate like he did the first time they spent the night together.

And so the tale began, on how one night Jin came back and asked for another chance and how Yoongi wasn’t sure all of a sudden what to do. How Jin asked him to let him prove it to him, how he asked Yoongi to come with him to Busan for a film fest he was a part of since he was an actor, how they stayed there for a while to see how things go.

How Yoongi realized he couldn’t do this to Jimin, how everywhere he went in Busan reminded him of their trip on Jimin’s birthday. How he only realized that he just missed Jin, but didn’t really love him anymore. Not in the way he loved Jimin. How he called it off and mustered the courage to go back to Jimin, not knowing if he’ll accept him.

“How do you plan on making it up to me?” Jimin said with his eyes closed, thinking hard.

“I don’t know, but if I have to make it up to you my whole life I will.” Yoongi placed his hand on top of his, before entwining their fingers together like he did when he comforts him.

“Did you expect I’ll just be waiting here for you until you came back?”

“I was hoping you would, but I would understand if you didn’t.” If honesty can be heard, this must be what it sounds like.

“But I did.” Jimin finally opened his eyes to look at Yoongi, gripping his hand a bit tighter – a signal to return back the comfort he was given. “I don’t know how you’ll make it up to me, but I know that includes not leaving me again.”

“I love you, Jimin.” Yoongi assured him with a soft voice. “I’m sorry this had to happen for me to realize that. I never stopped loving you.”

“I love you, hyung.” The gap between their faces was growing smaller and Yoongi looked at Jimin to seemingly asking for a silent permission. When Jimin closed his eyes, he knew the answer.

They shared a kiss, another first of many kisses since they got back together. Jimin finally thought he could be happy again. But they had a long way to go, not everything fell back to place. Taehyung was frustrated that Jimin just let him back into his life. They had a bit of a falling out, and Jimin didn’t have the energy to work on that, he was already working hard to fix things with Yoongi.

Jimin suggested they finally move in together, but Yoongi was still hesitant. He was always vocal about wanting to have his own space. Fights about Yoongi leaving him still ensued. There were pockets of happiness during these years but Jimin began to think if these small moments were enough to be defined as happiness.

He knew he couldn’t control Yoongi, love shouldn’t do that. But he could control what he felt, what he did. He chose to look at their lives in rose-colored glasses. And he decided to take matters into his own hands.

That meant he bought a ring. Placed it in his drawers he knew Yoongi wouldn’t look into and waited for the right moment. Jimin wasn’t sure of the timing, but he was sure about Yoongi and that was enough. He thought if it was time, he would know.

But days went on and they both got extremely busy with work but Jimin was fine with that as long as he went home to him. But even when they were together, he felt like Yoongi just wasn’t there. He knew something was wrong, but he chose to trust Yoongi.

Until one winter, Yoongi came by again with a bag, sporting a serious look on his face. He plopped down on the sofa, sighing. “We need to talk.”

Jimin knew where this was going, he couldn’t say he was surprised but he just really hoped for the best, he really hoped this wasn’t an option. “Did you change your mind?” He asked.

PART III: OUT OF MIND

Jimin imagined 2 scenarios of the cause of their impending breakup. First, is that Yoongi found someone else, I mean, that’s what happened the first time right? The second was Jimin himself finding someone else, but knowing how much he loved Yoongi, that was highly unlikely. But here they were, spending a few minutes here during the calm before the storm.

It was a vague question, Jimin knew that when he asked. However, the fact that Yoongi did not answer and just waited for Jimin to sit beside him, he knew the worst is about to come.

And so Jimin sat beside him and Yoongi moved slightly to face him. “You didn’t answer, so I guess that means yes.” Jimin continued.

“Are you still happy?” Yoongi shook his head while asking.

“You’re not.” This time, it was more of a statement than a question.

“We haven’t been okay since I came back.” He admitted. “And I think you know that.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have left in the first place.” Jimin glared, Yoongi looked away uncomfortably. “And now you’re leaving again, huh?”

“You told me if I forgive you, will you promise to not leave me again?” Yoongi said calmly. “Did you? Forgive me?” He was met with silence. “So, don’t put this all on me.”

“Are you fucking serious, Min Yoongi?” Jimin spat, his body began to tremble. “You left, without a warning. To try again with your ex. And you expect me to be okay with it?”

“I don't, but if you’re not okay with it then why accept me back?”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing that I accepted you back?!” Jimin’s voice began to rise.

“Jimin, it’s been 4 years and I know you still haven’t forgiven me.” Yoongi pointed out. “I’m doing my best here too, you know. Yes, I left. It was wrong, I hurt you but in these 4 years didn’t I ever make it up to you? Not even for a bit?”

Jimin couldn’t answer that. He was so stuck in his own hurt that he never thought he was hurting Yoongi. “Yoongi. When you left, all I could think about is what did I do wrong? Why was I not enough? Not even enough for you to say goodbye?” His voice began to shake.

“That was on me, Jimin.” Yoongi held his hand, but Jimin didn’t want to feel his comfort knowing he was going to leave again. “We’ve been through this narrative time and time again. Aren’t you tired?”

“Of course I am, but I choose to look at the times when we were happy.” Jimin began to break down in tears. “That kept me going even when I wasn't."

“You’ve always been the stronger one in this relationship.” A tear began to fall on Yoongi’s cheek. “You’ll be okay.”

“I wasn’t okay when you left, why do you think I’ll be okay now?” This must be the Anger part in the 5 stages of grief, Jimin thought.

“Because I’m leaving you so we can both be happy!” Yoongi’s voice rose, trying to talk sense into Jimin. “I don’t want us to end up hating each other. I love you so much-.”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU LEAVING?”

“BECAUSE I’M NOT HAPPY!” The screamfest ended as quickly as it began. “Don’t you see how frustrating it is? To love you so much but not feel happy?” Yoongi let go of him to run his finger through his hair in frustration.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Jimin coughed a laugh, he knew he was fucked – laughing and crying at the same time.

“I know it doesn’t. But I know it’s selfish for me to stay in a relationship unhappy.” Yoongi looked at Jimin once more, letting him know how genuine he felt. “I know this is selfish too but we tried to make it work right? But nothing happened and it’s been years.”

Jimin began to speak slowly, carefully choosing the words he was about to say. “How long?” He stated, “How long have you’ve been feeling this way?”

“I don’t know, but one day I realized I was just dragging myself to see you. How I needed you because I was used to you because I love you.” Yoongi didn’t know if these were the right words to not hurt Jimin, but he knew he would hurt him whatever he’ll say. “You don’t deserve someone who just forces themselves to be with you.”

“Is Jin back?” Jimin wanted a logical explanation for this. So this must be the reason, right?

“No.” Yoongi answered straight, and Jimin knew in his heart that it was the truth.

“You know I always thought that if we were going to break up, it’s because one of us cheated.” Jimin was just throwing his thoughts unfiltered. “I never thought we would end like this.”

“Then let’s be thankful we didn’t end up like that.” Yoongi tried to suggest.

“You know the funny thing about this?” Jimin snickered. “It’s the fact that I have an engagement ring tucked in one of my drawers waiting for the right time.”

“I know about it,” Yoongi admitted slowly to Jimin’s surprise. “I was looking for my hoodie one time, and I saw it.”

“When did you see it?” Jimin didn’t know whether he wanted to know the answer.

“Last month.” Yoongi breathed.

“So.” Jimin was crying again. “You really thought this through.” He was breaking up knowing that Jimin was planning on proposing.

“I did.” Yoongi broke down this time. “I’m sorry, Jimin. But I can’t be the one you need. I can only love you, but I think we both know that’s not enough.”

“You have to choose me to. But you chose yourself.”

“Then choose yourself too,” Yoongi suggested. “You’ve worked so hard on us, it’s time we think of ourselves.”

Jimin wanted to stop him. He really did.

He thought about all the times they were together. All the rap scenes he went to support Yoongi, all the recitals Yoongi gave him flowers, all the times they explored different hair dyes - the orange one, the pink, the grey.

All the meals Yoongi cooked for him, all the music equipment he bought to surprise Yoongi, all the arguments about him leaving or them not having enough time for each other.

That one argument when Jimin blamed Yoongi for him being downgraded to a backup dancer again because he skipped practice due to his depression when he left.

All the birthdays they spent, especially the one where Yoongi came back. How could Jimin forget that?

How could Jimin forget Yoongi in general?

The way he never wanted anyone else to know he cared, but he really did. The way he would take care of him when he was sick. The way he would scold him if he practiced too hard to the point of exhaustion.

The way he shared his secret love for piano, a secret Jimin was proud that only he knew. The way Jimin shared his abandonment issues with his family and how relieved he was that Yoongi was his home now.

The way his hand engulfed his. The way he would slightly open his mouth when they kiss so his tongue can enter. The way he would feel above or beneath him. The way he would feel content whenever he says I love you.

He wanted to ask Yoongi if he thought of all of these?

What he was saying goodbye to?

Their past? 7 years of being together. Jimin literally grew up with him.

Their future? What about the plans of Jimin singing for one of his tracks because Yoongi discovered he had a talent for it too? And he just loved his voice.

Jimin wanted to ask all of these. But he realized like Yoongi, he was also tired.

The only thing that escaped from Jimin’s lips was. “Okay.”

Besides, he knew he couldn’t handle Yoongi’s answer. May it be a yes or a no. At least this time, he has the guts to say goodbye. What a morbid consolation prize, right?

“You know what sucks?” Jimin continued. “I still believe you when you tell me you love me.”

“Because I do.” Yoongi had a slight smile. “I really do.”

“I do too.” A vow without rings, a truth without commitments. “I love you, and I have done everything to make this work except for letting you go. So this is me, letting you go.”

“I’m really sorry. I wish I could be more for you but I can’t right now.” Yoongi pulled Jimin to hold him tight. “Maybe in the future, when we’re both okay...” Yoongi’s mind began to wander but Jimin pulled him back to the present.

“Maybe. But you’re right. Right now we have to be okay on our own. This is why we’re breaking up, right?”

“I love you, Jimin.” Yoongi was proud that Jimin understood him, but still devastated that it had to come to this.

“I love you, hyung.” Jimin repeated throughout the night, unknowingly making it a keepsake for Yoongi even if they’re not together anymore.

They shared their last kiss, their last moments in bed. Yoongi packed the remainder of his belongings in his bag, and they hugged until it was time for Yoongi to leave. Out of sight, out of mind, Jimin thought.

EPILOGUE

Love never meant staying, that was what his mom always explained ever since his dad left them to work abroad and never came back. His mom always assured him that his dad loved him dearly, that he worked hard for Jimin to go to university.

He never understood how people who leave can still love. He never understood why, until the day Yoongi went away.

He also realized he can’t find a home in a person, so he will build his own.

Jimin didn’t know what was harder, being left the first time or the second time. But all he knew was he needed to be better. He owed that to himself. He strived harder until he got the lead dancer position again.

He rekindled with Taehyung and it was as if nothing happened, maybe that’s what soulmates are supposed to be. A place you can always go back to, home or not.

“You’re not as devastated as the first time.” Taehyung pointed out while they were playing Mario Kart at Jimin's place.

“I listed all the things that reminded me of him,” Jimin explained. “I planned to steer clear of them but some things I realized he can’t take away from me."

“Like what?” Taehyung asked.

“Like winter.” Jimin paused the game. “Winter is my favorite season, but that was when he left me. Both times. But I can’t unlove winter because I was hurt right?”

“I’m proud of you, Jiminie.” Taehyung nudged his long-missed best friend.

“And you too.” Jimin pointed out. “You introduced us to each other. I can’t unlove you.”

Taehyung smiled at him. “I can’t unlove you too.” He rolled his eyes. “Even if you’re stupid sometimes.”

“I often wondered when would looking at my tattoo stop hurting, but now I sometimes forget it’s there. It didn’t remind me of him anymore, it just reminded me of me - a guy who wears his heart on his sleeves, or in my case, on my rib.” Jimin admitted before continuing “It’s been a year now, and he actually texted me if we can meet again.”

“Oh?” Taehyung raised a brow.

“But he said that I should be ready when we meet.” Jimin continued.

“Are you?” Jimin shook his head. “What did he say then?” Jimin knew he was okay in a way, but a big part of him wasn’t ready to meet Yoongi again. He pulled his phone from his pocket to retrieve the last text Yoongi sent.

He handed it over to Taehyung, and it just read “Nevermind, then.”

#bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #fanfic #yoonmin #park jimin #min yoongi #bts

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komorebirei · 4 years

Text

Fantaisie (Music AU Drabble) - Umbrella

(Read on AO3)

In which Gabriel is a jerk and Adrien tries to make up for it. Featuring an umbrella, and bad jokes.

This happens a few days after the previous chapter, It’s Official.

—

“I still don’t hear any emotion. You're just running through the notes, but there's no movement. Try again.”

That makes the fifth false start. Marinette grits her teeth, setting her bow to the strings, and tries again.

Before the end of the second phrase, Gabriel holds out a hand, gesturing for Marinette to stop playing. The thin line of his mouth is pulled down at the corners in a grimace of distaste.

“Sit down, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

The words feel like ice dropping into her belly. This is it—the opportunity is over.

Marinette takes her seat in the first row of the intimate performance hall where the master class is taking place. She tries to keep her dignity—posture straight, face neutral—but she can feel the prickle of eyes following her, and minds judging her.

“I can’t fault you on your technique, but I wouldn’t pay a cent to hear you play when you don’t have a story to tell.”

Gabriel’s words strike home. Expressing through her music is a battle she fights every day, but hearing it from him, her role model, hurts more than her self-flagellation. She wants to scream with frustration, but she forces herself to smile demurely and nod in acceptance of his critique.

She wishes he could have heard her play more, at least. But if she can’t capture the audience within the first measure, what’s the point? What is technique for, what is all the hard work for, if she can’t make music?

She’s still not good enough… a harsh fact that sinks in when Gabriel lets the other selected students finish their pieces, at least, and gives them decent advice instead of a slapdown. Hardening her resolve, Marinette mentally prepares for longer hours in the practice room.

—

When the master class ends, Marinette shoulders her case and trudges out of the performance hall, only to be greeted by the encouraging sight of rain streaking down the exterior windows. Great. She didn’t check the weather that morning, as usual, and is without an umbrella.

As the other students open their umbrellas one by one, exiting the building, Marinette pauses at the door, bracing herself to be soaked. At least she knows from past experience that her white hard-shell violin case is watertight, though she’d prefer not to test her luck with such precious cargo at stake.

No choice, though, unless she wants to be holed up in this building for an indefinite amount of time instead of using her time to whip her Bach Sonata No. 1 into shape.

Time for the NASA countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two…

“Oh! Fancy meeting you here, Macaron Girl.”

Marinette instantly recognizes the student in front of her, who’s caught sight of her while pausing to open his umbrella. What a coincidence to run into him again so soon.

“Hey, Adrien,” Marinette replies glumly, not in the mood to talk to anyone. Nonetheless, she feels obligated to be nice to him. He’s been generous enough with his time to run pieces with her before chamber orchestra rehearsal, and he’s even given her his number along with free advice. He’s been nothing but pleasant, and he doesn’t deserve her cranky treatment.

He must sense her mood, because he asks, “What happened?”

Marinette shrugs noncommittally, giving him a half-smile. “Not happy to see that it’s raining, but that’s the least of my problems.”

“Come on.” He motions for Marinette to join him under the umbrella. “I’ll walk you to wherever you need to go. If you want, you can tell me about it on the way.”

Marinette hesitates before accepting his invitation and stepping out under the umbrella. “Thanks… if you really don’t mind.”

“Why would I offer if I minded?” Adrien gives her a gentle smile accompanied by a wink. “So, where are you going?”

“The practice wing,” Marinette answers. “Is it on your way?”

“It wouldn’t matter, but yeah.”

“You’re way too nice… what’s the catch?” Marinette teases, a bit of snark seeping in due to her mood.

“No catch. Anything for a friend.”

Marinette does a double-take. She shouldn’t be surprised at his choice of words—he did announce their friend status when they exchanged numbers. But from what she’s seen, he seems popular. When he’s not at a piano, he’s always talking to someone. She’s spotted him at the cafeteria with different girls. She figures he’s generous with his kind words and they should be taken with a grain of salt… but is she special enough to count as a real friend, or… ?

“What? Did I say something wrong?” Adrien runs his free hand through his hair self-consciously.

“Nothing, just—yeah. We’re friends.” … Real smooth, Marinette.

“Of course we are,” Adrien confirms, like it’s an unshakeable truth.

Marinette starts to understand why people seem to gravitate to Adrien. Sometimes, making friends can feel like a game of give and take, but with Adrien, it doesn’t feel like she has to work for his favor. He gives it easily, freely. She relaxes a bit, finding comfort in the walk under the umbrella with him.

“So, what happened to get you so upset?” he ventures to ask.

“I had a master class with Gabriel Agreste,” Marinette sighs bitterly. She misses the way Adrien tenses and his eyes spark with surprise. “And I got to play four measures, tops? He made me start over five times. He said I didn’t have a story to tell… that there was no emotion.” The words haven’t lost their potency yet. Tears prick her eyes.

“What did you play?”

“Bach’s Sonata No. 1 in G Minor.”

Adrien blows out a puff of air dismissively, knowing exactly how Gabriel expects the piece to be played. “Baroque isn’t meant to be emotional and heavy. He’s judging based on his own preferred interpretation… it’s probably not even what Bach wanted.”

“Still, I don’t want to sound boring.” This time, the dam breaks, and angry tears start streaming down Marinette’s cheeks. She isn’t angry with Gabriel Agreste—she’s frustrated and disgusted with herself. She feels dry and utterly unremarkable. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Sometimes I feel like I should just give up. Why make all the effort if what I play isn’t… inspiring, or touching, or… anything special? It’s always the same feedback. I’m sick of feeling like a robot.”

“Hey, hey.” Adrien stops walking and turns to face her squarely, looking deep into her eyes. “Don’t say that. I know how you play. You have a clean, pure sound that most violinists would envy. It’s a beautiful sound, and I’m one hundred percent sure Gabriel was just being a condescending prick when he said all that. I’m sure there was nothing wrong with the way you played the piece.”

“It could’ve been better,” Marinette acknowledges.

“Well, okay, so you’re still growing as a musician. But that’s totally fine! I already know your technique is great, but learning how to speak through your instrument? That’s the hard part. That’s a process, and you’re still in the middle of it. Don’t be so hard on yourself!”

Marinette nods. She knows this already, she just doesn’t know how to go about that process. It feels like she’s treading water and getting nowhere. Stagnant.

Almost as if he’s reading her thoughts, Adrien continues, “There’s no set formula to master expression. It’s not like there’s a set of études you can practice and magically be able to do it. You already know the language, now it’s all about letting loose and figuring out what you want to say. The how will come naturally.”

“Okay… I guess you’re right,” Marinette mumbles, swiping at her eyes, embarrassed about letting her defenses down. She’s usually not one to cry so easily, but something about Adrien being so sincerely focused on making her feel better has unlocked the side of her she normally wouldn’t show. “I know I just need to work harder. I don’t intend to give up—I’m just frustrated. Sorry for being a baby.”

Adrien’s face softens into a smile, and he moves the umbrella to his other hand to give Marinette’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Her shoulder keeps tingling even after he lets go. “Hey, you know why your violin has a chin rest?”

“Why?” Marinette asks tentatively, feeling a bad joke coming around the corner.

“So you can keep your chin up.”

Marinette smashes her face into her palm. “You’re lucky your piano playing is better than your sense of humor.”

Adrien snickers and shoots again. “You know, I respect you violinists. Piano is easy keysey in comparison. You know why?”

This, too, is clearly a setup for a lame punchline. Marinette gives him a deadpan look and a flat, “Why?”

“You guys have to deal with intonation… but for us, the pitches are all black and white.” Adrien grins, basking in Marinette’s exasperation.

“..... I misjudged you,” Marinette finally utters. “I thought you were a cool guy, but turns out you’re a huge dork with a lame sense of humor.” She flashes him a cheeky smile to show she‘s only teasing.

“Well, thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Adrien nudges her shoulder with his. She feels warm despite the chilly weather.

He puts the banter behind them, continuing in a serious tone, “Anyway, Gabriel’s just a man who likes to intimidate people, okay? Prove him wrong. You do have a story to tell, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some time to find it first.”

“Thanks, Adrien,” Marinette answers, suddenly aware of her heart beating faster than usual. They’ve stopped in front of the building that houses the practice wing. “And thank you for walking with me. I’d be soaked otherwise.”

“Anything for a friend, Marinette,” Adrien repeats with a wink, bringing a full-blown flush to Marinette’s cheeks.

“See you around.” With a wave, she spins on her heel and walks into the building, feeling significantly lighter than she did when she first left the performance hall.

By the time she finds an empty practice room and gets settled in, there are two text messages waiting for her.

Adrien: hey new friend, just realized i could’ve been texting you all along. add “slow” to my list of shortcomings.

The second message is a gif of a cartoon cat playing the violin, with the words “CHIN UP! YOU’RE AWESOME!” inserted meme-style across the bottom.

Marinette giggles and texts him back.

Marinette: You really are a sweetie pie-anist.

It’s the worst pun she’s ever made, but she bets it’ll make him smile.

Adrien: XD see, i knew you loved my jokes, admit it. your sense of humor is just as lame as mine.

Marinette: Maybe I’m just lowering myself to your level to get a laugh out of you. ;)

Adrien: well, it worked. ^_^ i’m glad we’re friends.

Marinette grins a goofy grin at her phone. It’s fun talking to him, teasing him. And he has made her feel loads better.

Marinette: The fact that you found that funny just goes to show how much of a dork you are.

She hesitates before sending a follow-up text.

Marinette : Me too, by the way. Marinette: … I’m glad we’re friends, that is.

#Broken Fugue #Miraculous Music AU #ML AU #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Adrienette #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Fantaisie #Reveries Passions

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yoon-kooks · 6 years

Text

Signed in Black- Part 3

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU, BadBoy!AU, FLUFF [potential smut in future chapters]

Summary: Min Yoongi. That was the name magically tattooed to your skin. You were told he was your lover by fate. And as cute as it would be to have a soulmate, Yoongi was the last person you ever wanted to be bound to. But thankfully, there was a way to remove the tattoo. All you had to do was convince six Bulletproof Fairies that the two of you were in love.

Word Count: 2.6k

Parts: ONE // TWO // THREE // FOUR // FIVE // SIX // FINAL

A/N: day1 of my min yoongi fluff week! sorry for not updating this in like half a year????? part 4 should be coming very soon~ 🍯⭐️

“You pick the date this time,” Yoongi took a sip of his Americano as he watched you close the shop for the night. As annoying as your “boyfriend” and the whole tattoo situation were, it was at least safer to have someone with you after the sun went down when your shift ended. “Anything you want.”

You’d thought about it a lot after Yoongi had taken you to one of his college classes, and there were two things you wanted to do with the boy: 1) you wanted him to show you his musical talent, and 2) you wanted to show him the stars. Maybe stargazing would be a little too romantic for now, but certainly, you were curious of what instruments Yoongi played, or if he wrote his own songs. After all, you still felt like you knew nothing about him, despite his name being written across your skin. This could be an opportunity to learn more about him beyond his bad boy self. “Prove to me that you’re a musical genius.”

“I can do that,” he nodded as the two of you got into his car. He never said exactly where he would be taking you, but you assumed it either had to be at his school if it was still open, or his home. The latter gave you butterflies that fluttered wildly in the depths of your stomach.

Thankfully, however, Yoongi pulled up to a location you had seen once before. But rather than walking towards the huge lecture hall, he took your hand and led you up several flights of stairs to a much smaller classroom with a whole bunch of different instruments hanging on racks. As you made a circle around the room, you glanced at each and every instrument, from cello to trombone to the snare drum. “Which do you play?” you asked, curious as a kitten.

“Which do you think?” Yoongi challenged you.

“Guitar?” Because that was clearly the secret weapon every playboy used to capture hearts. Yoongi was probably no different.

“Nope. Guess again.”

“I’m tired of guessing.”

“You only made one guess,” the boy narrowed his eyes at you.

“Just tell me.”

Yoongi pulled you over to the largest instrument tucked in the corner of the room and sat you down on the bench in front of its black and white keys.

“You play the piano?” you asked, not really knowing how to feel. The piano produced such a pretty and elegant sound, and you had a hard time believing a bad boy could play one. Though, at a second glance, Yoongi would look awfully handsome as a pianist in a suit and tie. “Do you do recitals and stuff?”

“I compose,” he said.

“Oh, like Gustav Holst,” you made a duck face, proud of yourself for being able to name a composer that wasn’t Mozart or Bach.

“Yeah, him,” he chuckled at you for utilizing the knowledge you had acquired from the one music history lecture he had brought you to. If possible, you wanted to tag along for more classes in the future.

“Can I hear one of your compositions?” As curious as you were about the kind of music Yoongi wrote, you were also a little afraid that you weren’t worth sharing something so personal with just yet. You fidgeted around with the white keys and played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with two wrong notes before the boy gave a response to your request.

He played a slow yet intricate piece with a melody and harmony that crossed fluidly between the left and right hands. His foot eased onto the pedal while his light fingers graced each note, giving the sound more style and flavor. It had an old-school feel to it, but you liked it. And all you could do was sit and listen. It amazed you that not only was he an amazing pianist, but he also had crafted such a beautiful piece.

“I don’t usually play my own compositions for other people,” he said as his fingers slowed and remained pressed against the final notes. “But you’re the exception, Sweetheart.”

“Do you really mean that?” you asked shyly, lowkey reminding yourself that you were dealing with a boy who’d played with your heart once before. “Or is that something you tell to everyone you bring here? Just like how you probably call them all your Sweetheart…”

“You’re the first one I’ve brought here. I don’t let hook-ups leave the bedroom, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Yoongi examined your face, as if to see if you were perhaps a little jealous. “And if you don’t like ‘Sweetheart’, then what pet name should I use? You seem too innocent for something like ‘Kitten’.”

Your face heated up at the way Yoongi said “Kitten” in that raspy voice of his. And he definitely took note of it.

“Ah, so you like ‘Kitten’?” he teased with a smirk.

“Just call me Y/N…!” you puffed your blushing cheeks. “I don’t want you to call me anything you’ve moaned in the middle of one of your filthy hook-ups.”

“Fine, Y/N,” he rolled his eyes. “But I want you to call me ‘Honey’.” Honey. That wasn’t the first pet name you’d expected him to want. Wasn’t that a little too endearing for a bad boy?

“Why?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Because it’s cute,” he began to speak in pout.

“But you’re not cute,” you lied, which earned you an irritated tsk from the boy.

“He is kind of cute,” a third voice echoed through the suddenly silent music room. By instinct, you clung to the closest thing in your vicinity, which happened to be the sleeve of Yoongi’s red flannel. You would’ve been prompt in distancing yourself from the boy as soon as you saw that the coast was clear, but with a pair of dimples to accompany the piercing fairy gaze staring you down, you decided against it. It was the leader of the Bulletproof Fairy Council, Namjoon, sitting at one of the other pianos in the room. How long had he been sitting there?

You gulped as the fairy began to play that scary Beethoven piece that Yoongi the “musical genius” probably knew the name of. Namjoon definitely wouldn’t be an easy fairy to deceive. It’d be all over if he caught you and Yoongi in the midst of your fake love. So you couldn't do anything stupid.

“Mmm, Beethoven’s 5th…” Yoongi left your side and instead slid his ass right onto the other bench next to the fairy to shake his hand rather tenderly. “Shall I play the Moonlight Sonata for you, Namjoon?” he hummed, gazing at the fairy with eyes that reflected both confidence and charm. Their fingers were now interlaced. You would’ve been all flustered with your heart beating out of your chest, but Namjoon remained completely unfazed by the other boy’s flirting bullshit.

“No thanks, I think I’ve heard quite enough,” Namjoon said as he pulled his hand back from Yoongi’s failed attempt and got up from the piano bench. How much of your conversation with Yoongi had he overheard? “And FYI, kissing up to us fairies isn’t going to give you better marks on your love evaluation.” And with that, the fairy vanished.

Yoongi stared at the spot next to him where specks of fairy dust still remained. Hiding beneath the sparkles was an evaluation card with a failing score of 24/100 signed off by Namjoon. You didn’t even want to read the comments—if he even cared enough to leave any.

“Wow, what an asshole move,” the boy shook his head at the pathetic score. “All because you had to say I wasn’t cute.” He was putting the blame on you.

“Excuse me? Last time I checked, you were the one trying to flirt with the fairy.”

“Don’t act like you’ve never flirted with that one fairy with the charming eyesmile.”

“Y/N’s only tried to flirt with me three times,” another voice appeared out of nowhere, only this time, it was from a much sweeter and gentler fairy. Jimin suddenly popped into the center of the room and chose to sit with you rather than Yoongi down at the other piano—an excellent decision in your opinion. Although, it did frighten you to know the fairy had been keeping score on your terrible flirting game.

“Why are you here?” Yoongi got up from his bench and walked towards you and Jimin. He crossed his arms, refusing to look at the cute fairy. It was the exact opposite of how he had acted around Namjoon, and that made you wonder: was he jealous of Jimin?

“Namjoon told me he didn’t grant you his approval,”’ Jimin lowered his head. “He said at this rate, your relationship won’t work out…”

“We’re trying…” You felt bad. As a soul-linked pair under Jimin’s name, if you and Yoongi couldn’t figure things out, the fairy would be at risk of losing his position in the Bulletproof Fairy Council. And the last thing you wanted was for someone as sweet as him to suffer for your stubbornness. “But it’s difficult.”

“Hmm, I think you guys just need to be more open.”

“How?”

“1) Y/N, don’t let it bother you that Yoongi’s a fuck boy,” Jimin spoke to you before turning to the fuck boy, “and 2) Yoongi, don’t treat the Soul Link like it’s a game.”

You snickered at Jimin’s lowkey shade towards Yoongi. But he was right. If you and Yoongi ever wanted to make things work, you’d have to at least try to get along and learn more about one another. And it certainly didn’t help that you could only ever see the bad boy side of Min Yoongi.

“Yeah, yeah. We get it. We’ll try harder,” Yoongi picked the small fairy up off the bench next to you and began escorting him out of the music room. “Now good bye.”

“Good luck, Y/N~!” Jimin called from outside of the room.

You didn’t even get to say bye to the fairy before Yoongi closed the door, as if that would stop another pesky fairy from magically popping inside the classroom. But now that the two of you were presumably alone, you needed to digest all the feedback you had received from the fairies.

“Did Namjoon leave any comments on the evaluation card?” You walked up to Yoongi so you could get a look at the card yourself, but he quickly pulled it out of your reach. “Let me see it!”

“You don’t wanna see it,” he teased as he swatted away your grabby little hands.

“Yoongi!” you whined, half-annoyed, half-amused at his sudden playfulness.

“Call me ‘Honey’ and I’ll give it to you.”

“Honey,” you hissed.

Yoongi gave you a look of dissatisfaction at your lack of enthusiasm, but still dropped the evaluation into your palms. He waited as you read Namjoon’s comments. First you read the ones about Yoongi:

“As far as I can see, Yoongi is making an effort, which says a lot considering he’s a fucking fuck boy. Though, flirting with me was not the smartest move on his part.”

You were genuinely shocked. Yoongi was making an effort? What did Namjoon see in Yoongi that you had failed to ever take note of? And when you couldn't come up with an answer, you just continued on to read the short comment about you:

“Y/N wants to fall in love, but just not with Yoongi.”

You reread the words over and over, your heart sinking a little more each time. Something ached in the pit of your stomach. That was why Yoongi didn’t want you read the comments. That was why he had been so bitter around Jimin.

And you wished you could deny it and say that wasn’t how you truly felt. But somehow, with his fairy brain and powers, Namjoon couldn’t have been more spot-on with your feelings—which also meant, he was probably right about Yoongi making an effort as well. And that only made you feel shittier.

The evaluation card slipped out of your grasp, and a second later you heard it being torn up and saw a pile of confetti accumulating on the floor. “Don’t spend too much time dwelling on it,” Yoongi said, handing you the last piece of confetti from the score card. “All we can do is take their criticism and make adjustments.” You nodded in agreement. That was probably the best solution.

As you walked the tiny confetti over to the recycling bin like a good person, you stopped in your tracks when your eye was caught by the words on the card that Yoongi had ripped off for you: “Y/N wants to find love”. In that moment, that might’ve been a truer statement than Namjoon’s original comment. With a tiny smile, you let the confetti flutter into the recycling bin before walking over to the boy and taking his hand. “Can we go somewhere?”

“But why the roof?” Yoongi let out a groan, although you were sure he had to be at least a little curious to see what you had planned. After all, his fingers were still comfortably intertwined with yours as the two of you climbed up the final set of stairs.

The moment you stepped outside onto the roof of the school building, the chilly winds blew your body closer to the boy until your arms were snaked around his. You stared up at the starry sky, trying to figure out what to say. Half of you wanted to apologize, and the other half wasn’t sure what you wanted to apologize for. It wasn’t your fault for wanting to fall in love with someone besides Yoongi, nor was it your fault that you refused to call him cute.

It was, however, your fault for closing yourself off from him, simply because you believed he was a troublesome bad boy. Even when he had shared one of his personal piano compositions with you, you refused to believe he did it with good intentions.

“Yoongi,” you spoke softly, still looking up at the stars. “I really liked your composition, and the way you play the piano so beautifully.”

“And we had to come all the way up to the roof just for you to tell me that?” He studied the sky reflecting in your eyes before glancing up to find the same stars you were watching.

“We came up here because I wanted to share something with you—just like how you had shared your music with me,” you turned to the boy and waited for him to look back at you. “Maybe stargazing doesn’t take as much talent as piano, but I always thought it’d be a romantic thing to do with a lover.”

“Ew, you’re such a romantic,” he teased, earning himself a nudge from your elbow.

“I don’t know if I’m necessarily a romantic, but I’ve given love a lot of thought. And not once did I expect things to turn out like this.” You tugged on the boy’s arm. “So I’m sorry if I seemed too guarded or uninterested.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, Y/N,” he patted your head. “Just admit that I am in fact cute and I’ll forgive you.”

You gave him a dirty look, and it wasn’t until you saw his little pout illuminating under the starry sky that your expression finally softened. “Okay, fine. You’re cute, Honey Boy.”

“Honey Boy?” he laughed at the cute nickname, even though it wasn’t the exact one he had asked for.

“I think it suits you more than Honey,” you leaned your head against his shoulder. “At least for right now.”

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts smut #yoongi fanfic #badboy au #soulmate au #bts imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi #suga #bts #bangtan #signed in black #min yoongi fluff week

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