#the low angles and wide lenses don’t help but they fucked with it on top of that too
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every shot in this show looks like it’s been stretched vertically by like. ten percent. just enough to be Off
#Sandman for ts#the low angles and wide lenses don’t help but they fucked with it on top of that too
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Best friend y/n taking pictures of H in a field of sunflowers 🧐😇
i made this a theyre in love with each other but no one wants to talk about it/quarantine situation and it kind of spiraled quickly
Harry had signed on to do the cover of GQ long before quarantine started, the cover supposed to coincide with the beginning of the tour and a bit of press. Quite honestly, he was excited to be doing it--the excitement from doing a big magazine cover never quite faded no matter how many he did.
But now that quarantine had happened, he couldn’t go into the studio to do the photos, the original photographer having an immunocompromised family member, so the team had asked if he had someone he was quarantining with who could do them. They’d send out some gear, give some directions, but he’d have more creative control.
Which brought him to you. The two of you were best friends, and so the minute he crossed back onto British soil you had decided to quarantine together. You were tired of being in your cramped London flat all alone and Harry hated being in his big house in Hampstead all alone. So naturally, you ended up at his in the guest bedroom. (Most nights. Sometimes you had sleepovers, all tame of course.)
You had been a photography student in college, and since then you worked at a couple of local London papers and magazines freelance, sometimes covering concerts, other times doing portraits, building a portfolio for when you could get a full-time gig somewhere. You weren’t 100% sure what you wanted to focus on yet, so the breadth of experience was to your liking.
Harry had always been your favorite model, ever since you met him when you had ended up covering his London show. You’d become friends, despite your expectations, and he ended up liking you enough to continually reach out, and other the few years you two had become best friends.
So when he had to get someone to take photos, you were the natural choice. He was comfortable with you and you were insanely talented, something he told you all the time.
The only problem was, he was also head over heels in love with you and every time you took photos of him his crush got deeper and more intense. After spending weeks with you constantly, he didn’t know if he could take the intensity of a photo shoot with you.
But he didn’t really have a choice.
When Harry asked you, you beamed at him, excited to not only be able to add Harry Styles, GQ to your portfolio, but also to have the opportunity to shoot again. You had missed it during quarantine.
Which was how you ended up in a field of sunflowers a little ways out of town, your camera slung around your neck, the one GQ had sent as back up looped across your back. It was dusk, your favorite time to shoot, and you had abandoned all hope of using and additional props to capture the light. It was impossible with just you, and frankly Harry was so gorgeous he didn’t need it.
You’d helped him get dressed, and he was in a simple soft pink button up, unbuttoned low, his chest exposed, and a pair of linen trousers that were tight around his strong thighs stretching down the length of his legs. His necklaces, the cross and his signature pearls, adorned his neck, filling the space the shirt exposed, and his tattoos littered his arms, the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. His hair was tousled and soft, a bit of product you had worked into it before you left the house helping hold the curls. Rings littered his fingers, glinting in the setting sun.
You were trying to work, directing him on how to pose and trying to find the right lighting, but he was staring at you. His gaze trained on your face, eyebrows scrunched as you messed with some settings on your camera. It was moments like these when he nearly burst out his feelings for you, the shreds of self-awareness falling away.
“H, shift your right leg slightly more towards me.” He blinked, refocusing, and followed your direction. He was leaning back on his hands, one leg bent, the other straight, you straight in front of him. “Now don’t more, squirmy.”
He wouldn’t dare. Music was playing from your phone, which was tucked into your back pocket, and he tried to focus on the lyrics. But instead he ended up watching you again. Watching as you shifted, getting different angles, shutter clicking. Usually he felt nervous in front of a camera lens like this, but with you, he was at ease. He could just watch you and his anxiety settled.
“Laugh for me?”
“Didn’t say anything funny.”
You rolled your eyes at him, and he just smirked. “Just pretend?”
He did his best fake laugh, and you gave him a terse glare. “H.”
“‘m tryin’! Hard to laugh when there’s nothing to laugh at.”
You huffed. “Try laughing at me then. How sweaty I am out in this field, laboring away to make you look good, while I look like a mess.”
“You don’t look like a mess,” he mumbled.
“Liar.”
“You look beautiful,” he said, the words falling from his lips with ease. “Always do.”
It was moments like these when being in love with Harry was really fucking frustrating, because he’d say things like that and how could you not fall for him immediately? “Shut up,” you told him, trying to disguise the blush rising to your cheeks. “Now laugh for me, you idiot.”
Harry followed your directions, dropping the act. You shifted closer, coming to your knees so you were at even height with him. “Pretty close, love.”
“I’m trying to get some close-ups. Now shut it and let me do my job.”
You could tell he was getting bored and antsy--he always did. Only took him like fifteen minutes of sitting in one place before he would be itching to move, moaning about his bum going to asleep. His head fell to the side, and you sighed. It was hopeless when he was like this.
“H, please, just a few more and then we’ll take a break.”
He nodded, picking his head back up to resume his former position. You moved a few inches closer, knees landing on either side of his, your body hovering over him. The camera was tilted down, getting an angle from able and he adjusted, eyes following the lens.
He could smell your perfume mixed in with his laundry detergent, the hint of the cantaloupe you had both snacked on before you left on your breath. Sweet. He absentmindedly wondered, and not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss you, to run his tongue across your lip. What your gasps would sound like.
Wrong idea. Fuck. Harry could feel his dick plumping at the thought of kissing you, the prospect making his blood race. He tried to think of anything else, tried to get it to go away, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want his fucking dick up in the photos, for Pete’s sake.
“Y/N,” he mumbled, sitting up. You leaned back, your bum falling to his shins, which didn’t help one bit. “Can we stop for a sec?”
“Why? Just need a few more, H, please. Don’t want to miss this lighting.”
“I--fuck,” he fumbled with his words.
“What is it?” Your voice was soft and gentle with an edge of frustration, a hand reaching up to brush a stray hair from his forehead. The sensation made his eye flutter shut, trying to keep his emotions in check.
“i’vegotahardonandIdon’twantitinthephotos,” he rushed out, his words falling between you two, landing with impact.
You blinked at him. “Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Um...what happened?”
Good lord, you were going to make him die of embarrassment. You two usually danced around conversations like these, both uncomfortable talking about the topic for the same reason but not knowing. The idea of talking about sex with the person you were in love with wasn’t exactly at the top of your list. Did he tell you?
You were watching him, a. blush on your cheeks. You looked so fucking gorgeous, sitting there with the sunset behind you, your hair blowing softly in the wind, your camera in one hand.
“....you.” He didn’t mean to say it. But then he did.
And he couldn’t take it back.
Your mouth opened, then closed. “Oh,” you said for the second time, the word hushed.
“YN, I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, fuck I’m so sorry--”
“H, it’s fine.”
This time, he was the one blinking at you, eyes wide. “What?”
Your head bent, eyes falling to his dick. He could tell thoughts were swirling in your head, your hand reaching up to brush a hair behind your ear, teeth gnawing on your bottom lip like you did when you were thinking hard. “I--I could help you.”
“What?” He sputtered, brain unable to process the concept.
But you just shrugged, as if it was no big deal. In reality, your blood was racing at the prospect of having him in your mouth, at tasting him finally. And for him, he couldn’t quite keep his thoughts in a coherent string. “If you want,” you said.
“You sure?” You nodded, and Harry cursed under his breath. “Then, um, yeah.”
You placed both the cameras on the ground next to him, clasping the lens caps over the lenses, before looking back up to him. Then, your hands were coming up to his waist and Harry thought he was going to melt into the ground at the feeling of your fingertips on his lower stomach as you brushed over the button of his pants. You were narrowly avoiding his dick and he couldn’t bear it.
Your hands tucked into the fabric once the button was popped, and pulled, the zipper moving down smoothly. You pulled off his pants and underwear at the same time and Harry groaned hotly at the fresh air on his sensitive skin.
As he panted, you studied him. Red, weepy tip, desperate and hard. You had caused this? You chewed on your cheek, the thought crossing into your brain that maybe you had the same effect on him as he had on you.
You decided to give him all you had. You shifted on his body, moving so your knees were pressed to the ground in between his legs. Then, you leaned in and as ladylike as possible, let spit fall from your lips and onto his dick.
Harry moaned wantonly above you, one of his hands moving to your hair and pulling it together, making a tie of sorts to keep it out of your face. Then, your hand moved from his hip to his dick, your fingers wrapping around his wide girth, and tugging softly, the slick of your spit making it smooth.
You watched in rapture as Harry’s head fell back, his hips bucking slightly at your touch. He was more sensitive than you had thought. You pumped a few more times, taking immense joy in the pants and whimpers falling from his lips as you worked him. When you decided you had teased him enough, you shifted your head back down, and wrapped your lips around his tip.
The groan that ripped from Harry’s throat had you moaning onto his skin, the vibrations just making more sounds echo between you. Harry’s voice was low and heavy and you loved the sound as you bobbed your head once, your spit and his pre-cum mixing in your mouth as you moved your lips down the length of him.
It was sin, he thought as he watched you. Having you on him like this, letting himself feel you like this. It was pure, unabashed sin. He was going straight to hell for the thoughts of you that were floating through his head. Of you on your back, of you moaning his name, of your hands on his skin as he pushed in and out of you.
He was definitely going to hell.
Then you pulled off of him and licked a hot stripe up the underside of him and rolled his balls in his hand, the combination making him buck his hips again, unable to control himself. But you didn’t seem to mind. You just smiled softly--he could see your face slightly from the angle--and then took him all the way into your mouth.
When he hit the back of your throat, he thought he might die there and then. Or perhaps he was already dead and this was heaven. Or hell. He didn’t really care, as long as you were there with him.
You loved the feeling of him inside your mouth, the taste of him salty and perfect on your tongue. You loved the sounds you caused him to make, the ripple of his abs, the soft hold he had on your hair. You loved when he pushed into you and then apologized under his breath. You loved him.
You added your hand back to his shaft and in quick motions, moved your hand and head together, meeting in the middle and working his length in perfect rhythm. When Harry moaned your name you knew he was close, his grip in your hair tightening and his fingernails scratching at your scalp.
“’m close,” he mumbled above you.
You kept going, not wanting to let up for a second, and Harry thought he was going to lose it. Were you going to let him come in your mouth? The thought had him nearly letting go immediately, but he wanted to check.
“You can pull off,” he said, voice rough.
But you didn’t move. You just stayed stayed, taking him as deep as you could and tonguing at his tip with soft licks that had his eyes squeezing shut, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
And then he was coming, in long ropes in your mouth, coating your tongue. Your only movement was your hand moving from his base to his thigh, gripping the exposed skin to encourage him.
“Fuck, Y/N, holy shit,” he breathed out, mind whirling at the feeling of you warm and wet around him.
When you pulled off, there was a small smile on your face, and a hint of his cum at the corner of your lips. He let your hair go and swiped at it, taking it and pressing it back to your lips, watching in awe as they parted and accepted his finger.
“You,” he murmured, “are incredible.”
You giggled and Harry couldn’t stop the next three words from falling from his mouth, no matter the fact this wasn’t the time.
“I love you.”
Your eyes widened again, his finger still inside your mouth. Your jaw dropped, releasing it, and he watched your expression absorb his words. “You--what?”
“I love you.” He was more emphatic this time, showing you he was serious.
The words settled in your mind, rolling backwards and forwards in your thoughts. Could it be true? Could he actually feel the same way about you? Maybe so, you realized. Maybe he was telling you the truth. You searched his face for any sign that he was lying, but couldn’t find one. He looked like Harry, the one you knew well, the one you trusted with your whole heart.
So you said the words back. “I love you too.”
The grin that ripped across his face rivalled any other in existence. “Yeah?”
A giggle escaped your lips and you nodded. “Yeah.”
Then his lips were on yours, and you leaned into him, hands moving to the back of his neck. He was delicious--tasted like minty toothpaste and the grass he had been lying in, the edge of a watermelon popsicle he’d eaten on the drive over.
You shifted closer, but something stopped you. You glanced down and chuckled--his dick was pushed between you.
Then he looked and he groaned. “Fuck--lemme--love can you move so I can pull up my pants?”
“Don’t want it in the way?”
He huffed, tugging at his pants once you shifted. “God, it really does have the worst fucking timing.”
Then he pulled you back in, re-claiming your lips. He never wanted to let you go.
~~~
WELL THIS BECAME LONG SUDDENLY! ENJOY!
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and you’ll never feel left all alone // 1 // charlotte&lola (penny&jupiter)
Summary: Jupiter (Lola & Tommy’s kid) and Penny (Charlotte & Razzle’s kid) find some old home movies, and watch some old interviews on YouTube. This should be fine, right? Definitely not going to be a sad trip down memory lane.
A/N: I write for 3 people apparently; me, @missleenmilliet, and that one anon who was invested in Gabs’ blog abt these gals. But also fuck i love writing this, it’s so angsty and i love family dynamics and also insights into Lola and Tommy’s relationship post-kid but when they’re not together..... idk im a mess abt this.
----
The label on the video tape reads 'Christmas 1991' in Tommy's messy handwriting, and Jupiter doesn't quite know what possess them, but they put the tape in and press play.
"What'd you find?" Penny asks, looking up from a box of old notebooks that she'd been poring over, intrigued to hear the television start up.
"Home movies, I think."
“Hi Lily-pad,” the woman in the video looks and sounds like their mother, but so bright and young, and Jupiter is frozen, eyes glued to the screen.
They watch the recording, as a young child with dark hair and dark eyes runs into frame, almost barreling Lola over. The kid couldn’t be more than three or four, waddling, with hair so long it had to be put in braids, or it would be an untamable nightmare. Lola drops the duffle bag she'd been holding in favour of scooping up the kid, the young Jupiter, grinning so wide, so bright, kissing all over their face as they giggle, “I’ve missed you so much!” Lola exclaimed, and hugs the kid close, and the kid hugs her back.
“Momma!” The kid snuggles against Lola, smiling, “daddy, you were right!” They turn to look at whoever's behind the camera, and Lola's expression turns fond, her gaze focused on the child.
“Of course, Lily-pad, wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Lola assured them, holding their daughter in one arm, refusing to put them down, she bends to pick up her bag before finally turning her gaze to the camera, and her already bright smile widens.
"Where'd you find that old thing?" Lola asks, and young Jupiter's looking at the person behind the camera with a smile.
"Garage," comes Tommy's reply, and he steps forward when Jupiter makes insistent grabby-hands at the lense, and Tommy lets her take a hold on the camera, though his gentle 'careful, Liss' could still be heard, and full of curiosity, the toddler presses her face against the camera lense, much to Lola and Tommy's amusement.
"I forgot how cute you were back then," Penny nudges Jupiter in the ribs, the two of them side-by-side on the floor of Tommy's garage, having dusted off the old VCR and home movies.
"I don't remember this," Jupiter’s voice is quiet and they can't seem to look away.
The video follows as the trio walk through the halls of Tommy's mansion, the very building they were staying in now.
"How are Nikki and Mick?" Tommy asks, quick to add, "and Alice, of course."
"They're good, Nikki's doing really well, Alice especially has been super supportive, and Mick…" she trails off for a moment, "Mick is Mick." Is all she can offer, but Tommy seems to get it, enough to at least laugh.
"What are they doing today? We could have invited them."
"Nikki's fine, he sends his love by the way, he's hanging out with Slash and his missus, and a couple of other guys from the band; their kid's almost Penny's age, how wild is that?" Lola asks, and Tommy makes a noise in the back of his throat. "No, Duff won't be there," Lola knows without even having to hear his complaint, what's set him off on a mood. "He's holidaying in Australia this year."
"Hope he gets sunburnt," Tommy grumbles, "or eaten by a shark."
"Tommy…"
"Whatever, doesn't matter anyways, how are you? What have you been up to?" He asks, and they're in the living room now, and the camera catches it as Jupiter scampers from Lola's arms and heads into the bustling kitchen, announcing her arrival.
"I've been busy, of course, with the Alice collaboration, and I've been looking at renting a bigger office, hiring some interns," she sounds a little proud, and Tommy sets the camera down; neither are in frame.
"Really moving up in the world," Tommy's smile is clear in his voice.
"And, uh," Lola hesitates, and there's rustling like she's digging in her pockets, "ninety days." She says quietly, finally, and a silence follows.
"I'm so proud of you, dude, that's awesome." Tommy's voice is muffled, like he's speaking into her hair, and then there's movement from the camera as he's picking it up, focusing it on a mildly embarrassed Lola.
"I'm commemorating this moment;" Tommy told her, and Lola can't help her little, embarrassed smile as she holds up the little 90 Days Sober chip, "Merry Christmas, Lols, I'm so damn proud."
The video roughly cuts to a shot of Tommy in front of the Christmas tree, frowning at the camera, before double checking it was stable. When he moves away, the rest of the room is revealed. Tommy's parents sit on the sofa, watching young Jupiter, and what can only be a young Penny diligently shaking presents with their names on it.
Penny is almost six, strikingly blonde, and looks like a young woman on a mission, methodically going through all of her presents and trying to hear what was inside. Jupiter, however, watches Penny pick up a present, and follows suit, too young to read, to know if their name's on it, and when Penny shakes her present, Jupiter copies her tenuously, not quite grasping what they were doing. Penny catches the way Jupiter's watching her, and then looks at the present.
"That's not yours," Penny tells Jupiter, and gently takes the small box from her, "that's for Nana." And she puts it back beneath the tree, scouring the pile of presents, before she finds a small, soft, strangely shaped one and hands it to Jupiter. "This is for you." And she says it so matter-of-factly. Jupiter shakes it, confused, watching Penny for approval. "Can you hear what's inside?" Penny asks, and Jupiter shakes her head, looking a little concerned, as if she'd done something wrong.
"Well then why don't you open it up and see what's inside?" Lola offers, stepping into frame and sitting by the Christmas tree. Jupiter tears into the paper like a wild animal, and for a moment they're turned away, before they go still.
"He's got sticks like daddy," and they sound overjoyed, turning to excitedly show their grandparents the teddy bear wearing a black t-shirt with the Theatre of Pain mask on it, holding two plush drumsticks.
"And Penny, I know you're a bit old for bears," Lola started tentatively, reaching for a similarly shaped package near the base of the tree, handing it over to the blonde girl, "but your dad was a drummer too, just like your uncle." And Penny's far more subdued than Jupiter, who's climbed into her Grandfather's lap and started to air drum with the bear, already seemingly forgetting the rest of the room.
Penny's bear has a little, black tophat, and a black shirt with the cover of Hanoi Rocks' first album, 'Bangkok Shocks, Saigon Shakes, Hanoi Rocks' printed on it, and two little drumsticks. The bear is smiling.
"We match!" Jupiter exclaims, upon seeing Penny's bear, but Penny herself doesn't seem to notice, just gives Lola a tight hug.
“Oh,” it was Penny’s turn to go soft, in the present, watching the surprisingly high-quality recording of something she hadn’t even realise she would remember, “I’ve still got that bear somewhere.”
“I don’t.” Jupiter sounds like they regret that, “when I was twenty-something, you remember I burnt all the shit that Lola ever gave me.”
“Yeah, I remember your Y2k party.”
“I miss that bear,” Jupiter admits, almost inaudibly.
They watch as the family opens Christmas presents together, the girls getting a range of toys and clothes, all in pinks, purples, and blacks. Penny gets a set of glow in the dark stars for the ceiling of her room, and Jupiter gets a plush planet in tie-dyed neon purple.
And then there’s another cut, a strange angle, like the camera’s set on a coffee table, catching the side-profile of the piano and stool beside it. Lola’s sitting on said stool, watching Tommy as he makes sure the camera’s recording. She looks at Tommy with a quiet happiness, almost like she was content; with ankles crossed, wearing a thick, knitted sweater, she looks, for lack of a better word, domesticated.
Tommy looks back at her, and for just a moment, he pauses.
“What?” Lola half laughs, sounding more gentle than she’d usually ever let herself sound on camera.
“You just look really good,” Tommy grins, “healthy and shit; you look like you’re doing good.” After a moment, there comes a quiet giggle from off camera, and both Tommy and Lola turn, grinning.
It’s Penny and Jupiter, and Jupiter sits in Lola’s lap, and Tommy scoops up Penny and sits her in his lap when he joins Lola by the piano. The two dutifully inform the pair by the piano that Grandma and Grandpa Bass have gone upstairs to take a nap, and that they had been very well tucked in and kissed goodnight. It’s almost painfully adorable.
And Lola’s hands come up to the keys, and Jupiter uses her arms like armrests, and asks what’s happening.
“It’s tradition,” Penny tells her matter-of-factly, and Tommy presses a kiss to the top of his niece's head before agreeing.
“It’s a Christmas present I gave your mommy a long time ago,” Tommy told Jupiter, who was watching as Lola carefully played a few scales.
“A piano?” Jupiter asked, and Lola laughed gently, her fingers stilling for a moment.
“No, Lily-pad, he gave me the chance to get back to doing something I loved,” she said gently, before her fingers found the opening chords for Home Sweet Home. When Lola sings it, it sounds like a lullaby, and Tommy holds little Penny, watching in quiet awe.
“You know I'm a dreamer, but my heart's of gold, I had to run away high, so I wouldn’t come home low,” her voice catches, and Tommy fills in, matches her tone, her gentle singing, and Jupiter looks up at him, eyes bright and full of wonder as the song turns to a quiet duet between their parents.
And in the present, Jupiter doesn’t realise they’re crying until they feel the tear tracks beginning to dry on their cheeks.
“She always played that one,” Jupiter scrubs almost angrily at their cheeks, as if trying to erase the proof of their emotions before anyone could accuse them of having any of them. When all they hear is a choked noise beside them, they turn and Penny’s silently sobbing, not even trying to hide her tears.
“I- I forgot, f... fuck.” And then she’s fumbling, pulling out her phone, clicking and typing before pulling up a YouTube video.
HANOI ROCKS Razzle Dingley & Charlotte Lee Cutest Moments the title reads, and Penny flicks through to about the two minute mark. It’s an interview, the footage grainy, but Charlotte and Razzle are side by side on a sofa, his hand on her knee, and the pair look so elated.
“So do you, what do you put on for your daughter to go to sleep to? Is she nodding off to like, Motley Crue’s Kick Start My Heart? or Razzle, is she more of a Boulevard of Broken Dreams girl?” The reporter asks, tone light and a little teasing, and Penny’s parents laugh in the recording, and they catch how Razzle tips his head to lean against Charlotte just a little more.
“Pennylope’s gonna grow up to be a real rock an’ roller, I can tell you that, she’ll know all the words to my songs before she knows mam or dad, I’ll bet,” Razzle grins and it’s all teeth, but Charlotte doesn’t seem inclined to disagree.
“I tried to change her while listening to a demo of their new album, and she just wouldn’t stop dancing,” Charlotte adds, before her grin turns a little mischevious, “don’t tell Tommy I said this, but Motley’s stuff scares her half to death; I put on Shout at the Devil the other day and she started bawling her eyes out.” Which sets Razzle off laughing, nodding, and Charlotte tucks her arm in his; they’re almost sickeningly cute. Sitting like this, the studio lights catch the glint of their respective wedding rings.
“No, no, tell ‘em about that cute thing, though,” Razzle urges, nudging Charlotte’s knee, “tell ‘em about the Motley song she likes.”
“The one,” Charlotte emphasizes with a laugh, but obliges, “so yeah, there’s this one song she does like, and it’s one I’m quite fond of -”
“You’re biased,” Razzle goads her fondly, and Charlotte rolls her eyes.
“Am not -”
“Your cousin wrote it!”
“Co-wrote it! And that doesn’t make it less cute.”
“It is pretty fuckin’ cute.” Razzle agrees, and shuts up enough for Charlotte to actually finish the story, though he’s got this starry-eyed gaze the whole time.
“So Tommy and Nikki wrote this, actually partially for me and for, uh, not exactly sure what to call her, Lola, their assistant manager, I guess? Who they were sort of dating? It’s a whole things, but we’d all just been having an atrocious time on tour in like, eighty-two, all ready to go home, and I remember one night just seeing Lola and Nikki curled up at the back of the tour bus, Lola was almost asleep, and Nikki was being like,” she laughs, “uncharacteristically cute, saying stuff like, ‘not long now ‘till we’re home sweet home’ and I just remember Tommy absolutely just taking that phrase and running with it.” She takes a breath now, seeming much more gentle and honest, fidgeting a little, “and we just, it just sort of became an anthem between the four of us, a signal, like a little thing we’d start to hum if we were feeling homesick or needed some comfort, it wasn’t a romantic thing, it was just a need for human contact and connection, you know, a bat-signal for ‘I’m having a shit time please come hug me’.” Though she laughs, it’s far more honest than she’d probably intended, and it seems to occur to her as she takes a deep, shaking breath, just how honest she’s allowed herself to be. After a beat, she swallows heavy, tentatively humming the opening notes of the song, before looking to the camera, and then to Razzle. Her humming goes quiet. He drops a kiss to her shoulder in silent solidarity.
“Just, you know, just take this song and you’ll never feel left all alone,” she quotes the song, looking back at the camera as she smiles softly, and her hand moves to hold Razzle’s, “and when I hear that, it’s my family, like my real family with Tommy, and my band family, giving me support, and it reminds me every time Nic’s on tour that he’ll be back soon, and it’s the support I wanna give my daughter, my little Pennylope. That I’ll never be too far away.” She says with such heartfelt sincerity, before she laughs a little, and the interview cuts to a new clip in a jarring fashion, but Penny turns off her phone. Her hands are shaking, and she’s crying. Jupiter wraps her up in a hug.
“I just f- forgot about... we haven’t had family Christmas in so long and I just- it was their song, Jup, and now it’s our song, and I just... I miss it.” She tucks her face into the crook of Jupiter’s neck, and Jupiter has absolutely no idea what to say, knowing only that they’ve started crying again. For the longest time, they stay like that, the two of them holding each other in the dusty garage, with the home video paused in front of them.
Neither of them have seen Lola in person for a very long time, not properly, and the premiere of The Dirt doesn’t exactly count.
Silently, Penny moves away, moves to rewind the tape, to listen to the exchange, the song again. Jupiter is frozen, doesn’t even know what they feel, or how to process what is happening.
“It’s tradition.” Young Penny tells them both from the recording again, and she sounds so earnest it almost hurts.
“It’s a Christmas present I gave your mommy a long time ago,” Tommy, so young, so gentle and caring, smiles in the video.
“A piano?” Jupiter asked, voice high and young and curious, which makes Lola laugh, gentle and fond, a sound that makes present-day Jupiter’s heart ache.
“No, Lily-pad, he gave me the chance to get back to doing something I loved.”
#Tommy Lee#tommy lee imagine#lola x tommy#razzle dingley#razzle dingley x oc#razzle dingley imagine#the dirt#oc#motley crue#hanoi rocks#the angry lizard writes#lola & charlotte
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May I request a Photographer Jughead and a Modeling to pay her way through college Betty fic pretty please? With Betty becoming Jug's muse?
Girls On Film: Part 1
Summary: After insulting every major supermodel in the business, world renowned fashion photographer, Jughead Jones, is paired with up-and-coming model, Betty Cooper.
Words: 2,966
Warnings: Swearing and drinking.
A/N: I know nothing about the modelling/photography world. Most of my knowledge comes from America’s Next Top Model. I’m really sorry this is so long. Also, I have nothing against any of the models mentioned in this story.
Part 2 is here. This is also on AO3.
I also edited this myself so prepare for errors.
“Cara cancelled.” Veronica Lodge informed her boss Jughead Jones.
“Why?” He asked, a hint of annoyance in his tone. He looked at a variety of different lenses with his assistant photographer, Sabrina Spellmen, a tiny, blonde wannabe photographer.
“She found out you were the one shooting and pulled out.” Veronica gathered her dark brown hair into a ponytail, faking nonchalance as she waited for more questions from the world most sought after fashion photographer.
“Why would she do that?” He questioned, handing Sabrina suitcases full of equipment. “We took such beautiful pictures together.” He lied.
“She doesn’t really remember it that way.” Veronica crossed her jean clad legs, letting her foot bounce. “She remembers a large argument where you called her ‘a fucking brain dead meat sack with a pretty face’ and she told you to go fuck yourself and then you called her a cunt.” Veronica raised her eyebrows. “Do you remember that, Jug? Cause I do and apparently so does Cara and she didn’t take so kindly to it.”
He placed his clenched fists on the table. “I asked her to look wistful and I asked her if she knew what that meant and she nodded.” He turned to look at Veronica. “And instead of wistful, I got constipated. Thank god she’s beautiful and I could salvage the shoot.” He pulled on his suspenders as he walked around his bright living room. “How about instead of giving the models free clothes at the end of each shoot we hand them a fucking dictionary.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Its bullshit, they go on about my temper but does anyone say anything about their mediocrity? Just because they are hot doesn’t mean they are models. We aren’t just selling clothes, we are selling a lifestyle and if I can’t get girls who can take direction then I can’t do my job.” He untied his flannel button down from around his waist, discarding it on the bed. “I need girls with fire in their eyes.”
“Well, I’m not sure what you are getting today but I’ve heard good things.” Veronica stood up and pulled out a portfolio. She placed it on the coffee table and pushed it over to him. “She walked the runway for Dolce and Gabanna, Elie Saab and Dior last season.”
“I don’t give a shit about runway.” He snapped approaching her.
“She’s a former ballerina but she quit because she was too tall.”
“How tall?”
“Six feet and because she used to dance she’s very flexible and good with her body.” Veronica informed. “She’s done editorial in Vogue, Elle, W and Paper Magazine.”
“Let me see her face.”
Veronica moved out of the way and let him browse the portfolio. The first thing Jughead noticed was her body, you could tell how tall she was without scale and Veronica was right, she knew how to move and pose it. The only problem was the photographers didn’t know to photograph her properly. They made her look awkward and gangly.
He turned the page to see a shot of just her face. Her blonde hair was slicked back and she had honey running down her face, dripping off her eyelashes and mouth. She had a strong jaw line, cheekbones that most models would die for, pouty lips, and green-blue eyes that looked like that were churning in the still image.
That is what he wanted. That was fire.
“What’s her name?” He asked.
“Elizabeth Cooper,” Veronica said looking at her nails.
“And we have her?” Jughead moved away from the table and grabbed his bag.
“She is on site right now in hair and make-up, waiting for you.” Veronica packed everything up realizing they were about to leave. Sabrina was piling bags and boxes up near the door.
“This is what I’m talking about.” He pointed at the portfolio. “Finally a model I can actually work with.” He grabbed his sunglasses and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I should start calling people cunts more often, this really worked out for me.” He grinned.
“I really wish you wouldn’t.” Veronica muttered, as the three of them left his house and headed to the site.
When they finally arrived Jughead spent some time looking at the site, a large field full of purple flowers an hour drive outside L.A. He made suggestions on where to place silks and screens and the order they were going to photograph the dresses. He was shooting a spread for next months Vogue featuring the clothing of Jake Meridian. He was familiar with the designer and knew he was about to deal with a lot of sparkly, sheer dresses with epic trains.
After that he went to her trailer. When he entered she was being fitted. She was wearing a long sleeved red lace dress that covered her from clavicle to toe. The lace was see through and she was nude underneath. On the back of the dress was a large red silk bow with a twelve foot long train.
“Elizabeth Cooper?” He made it sound like a question but knew it was her.
She turned to look at him. Her lips were as red as the dress she was wearing and her eye make-up was black, covering the area around her eyes like a mask. Her hair was smoothed into shiny voluminous blonde waves. “Jughead Jones.” She stated leaning back to shake his hand.
“I’ll be shooting you today.” He informed.
“I look forward to working with you.” She gave him a tight lipped smile and straightened so she could finish being sewed into the dress.
“Five more minutes.” The dresser promised and Jughead left, taking it as a dismissal.
Sabrina handed him his camera, already calibrated, having done light meter tests. He took a few more shots before Elizabeth was beside him. “Do you have any instruction?” She asked seriously.
She was nearly as tall as his 6’3 and had a presence he hadn’t felt in a long time. “You are going to stand on that ladder and we are going to place fans everywhere to get the train flowing. I need you to do what comes naturally. Sabrina will be shouting direction at you as well.” He motioned towards his assistant. “Is that okay, Elizabeth?” He asked.
She looked at him, she had the fire in her eyes he saw in the picture. “You can call me, Betty.” She smiled. She turned and headed towards the ladder, three people behind her keeping the delicate silk from snagging on the ground.
The fans were put in place so the train was shooting straight up behind her.
“You ready, Betty?” He asked as he knelt in front of her to take the photo from a low perspective, getting most of her body in the shot.
She nodded, raising her arms to fan out the train and frame her within the shot. He hands were natural but not claw like as she fingered the silk. Her body arched slightly to line up perfectly with the edge of the train and her neck was long, following the same arch as the rest of her. The lace showcased her body further as the sun shone through it making it even more sheer. As amazing as her form was it was her face that made the shot incredible.
Her eyes looked off into the horizon and they weren’t squinted even though she was looking towards the sun. She had an intensity that he hadn’t seen before, a powerful woman wearing a beautiful dress and not a pretty face being swallowed by a couture gown. Her lips were pouty but not sexual and her cheekbones cut like a knife casting mesmerizing shadows across her face.
She changed her angle from time to time and moved her hands away from the train, placing them on her hips and leaning forward. She never lost her lines, she knew her angles and none of her body was muddled in any shot.
He called for a new set up after twenty-five minutes.
“What’s going on?” Veronica asked, after Betty had gone to change into the second dress.
“What do you mean?” He asked changing his lens.
“You always take forty-five minutes minimum per shot. You are not known for speed.”
“She’s easy to photograph. I don’t have to pull anything from her.” He looked over at his personal assistant. “Are you mad that I’m working too quickly?”
“No, I’m just shocked. I’ve never seen you work this well before.” Veronica observed.
“Keep getting me real models and this will be the result every time.” He took the camera and walked over to where they would be taking the next set of photos leaving Veronica alone.
Betty had six different dresses to wear and every set up resulted in more of the same. Perfect lines, perfect poses and a perfect face.
For the last photograph of the day she was back on the ladder in a flowing black dress with a train just as long as the first one. Jughead angled her towards the setting sun wanting to get a wide shot to capture the whole train.
She ascended the ladder and placed one foot on a higher step than the other. She began to lean back as if she was arching herself against an imaginary counter. The long black train was perfectly parallel to the ground and he hair was being blown slightly through the silk. Her arms were up over her head against the train like she was lying against it. Her makeup was still dark but softer than the black mask they had started with. Her eyes were directed up towards the sky as if god was parting the clouds and was looking at her and she was looking right back. The ladder was being hidden by the grass and dress and it looked like she was defying gravity.
It was by far the most beautiful photo he had ever taken.
He took a few more photos as she moved in different positions but he knew he had it. “We’re done.” He announced passing his camera off to Sabrina.
He watched her be helped down and escorted back to the trailer.
Veronica approached him. “You liked working with her.” She stated.
“Can you get a ride back with Sabrina.” He asked, ignoring her previous comment.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “For sure and good luck with her but I don’t think this is going to go the way you want.” She winked and sauntered over to Sabrina, helping her pack up the equipment.
Jughead headed over to Betty’s trailer and knocked.
“Come in!” She shouted.
She was sitting in front off the mirror slathering lotion all over her face. All the makeup was gone and her hair was in a messy bun at the top of her head. She was wrapped in a lilac silk robe, far too short for a girl of her height. The model he had spent the entire day with was gone and the girl next door sat before him.
“Can I help you with something?” She asked rubbing the cream into her face.
“Would you like to ride back to the city with me? Maybe get a drink?” He was nervous which was unusual for him. Jughead Jones didn’t get nervous when it came to asking out beautiful women.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Are you asking me out?” A small smirk tugged at her lips.
“If your answer is going to be yes, then yeah, I’m asking you out.” He tugged on his hair and gave her his signature cocky grin.
She turned to face him. “Yeah, you can take me out for a drink. Give me ten minutes.”
He nodded. “I’ll be outside.” He turned and left the trailer so she could dress.
Five minutes later she emerged wearing tight black jeans, a black tank top with balcony cups to extenuate her breasts and black velvet high heeled boots. Her hair was slicked into a ponytail and she had slipped a pair of sunglasses onto her face. She looked how a model should look, showcasing the product. She didn’t have the smugness half of the reality TV star models he always had to work with had. Betty was a girl that could turn that something special on and off. To go from the only girl in the room to just another face in the crowd. She knew the difference between her job and her life.
“Is there anywhere you want to go?” He asked.
She was his height with the boots on. “I know a place.” She grinned.
An hour later they were sitting in a dimly lit hole in the wall. It could fit close to fifteen people seated and forty if people stood. A jazz trio played quietly on the cramped stage at the back of the bar. He had a scotch on the rocks while she sipped the dirtiest martini he had ever seen.
“How long have you been modelling?” He asked.
“Since I was eighteen.”
“And how old are you now?”
“24.” She took one of the olives between her teeth and pulled it off the cheap plastic sword they were skewered on.
“You look younger.” Jughead told her.
“Lucky me.” She quipped.
Jughead took a deep breath and tried another approach. “How come you’ve never modelled for me before?” He inquired. “A girl like you, your face, your body. You’re a photographers wet dream.”
“I have modelled for you.”
Jughead stilled for a moment and wondered if he slept with this girl years ago and had completely forgotten. He wondered if he was about to get a dirty martini thrown in his face.
She continued. “Well, I would have if you didn’t look me straight in the eye and tell me I looked too midwestern.” She spat. “You looked at me like I was garbage.”
“When was this?” He sat straight up.
“Two years ago.” She finished her drink and motioned for another.
“Did you grow? Loose weight? Change your face?” He questioned.
She shook her head. “Nope, I looked just as I do now. I was a dancer since I was four so I developed strict eating habits young and when I was thirteen I shot up to the height I am now.” She accepted her drink and handed the waitress her empty glass.
“There’s no way I would have passed over you. You’re the most interesting model I’ve ever worked with.” He shook his head still not believing her.
“Maybe you just didn’t have any vision.” She raised her eyebrows in a challenging way.
He glared at her. “I’m a renowned fashion photographer. I didn’t get here by just pointing a camera and clicking.”
“Didn’t you? It’s not hard to make beautiful girls look beautiful. The sets are already set up for you and if any of the photos today were gorgeous that’s me knowing how to move my body. You just picked a lens and pressed a button.” Her eyes widened and she ate her olives. “I fucking hate L.A. It’s too muggy here.”
He stared at her. No one, especially not an aspiring model, had spoken to him like that. His heart was racing as he looked at her, completely indifferent to his presence. By this time in the evening most of the girls were begging for him to take them home.
He finished his drink and asked for another while she continued.
“I also live with seven models, four of which have been photographed by you. I know your reputation.” She cocked an eyebrow.
Along with his temper Jughead was known for bedding nearly every girl he worked with.
“I’m sorry I was rude to you before, I can be an asshole. I can also admit when I was wrong and I was wrong about you. As for your friends…” He trailed off.
Betty shook her head.“Look, I have always been a big fan of your work,” she continued, “but when I started hearing stories about who you were as a person and I hoped they weren’t true. I’ve witnessed your cruelty first hand and I’ve seen more than one girl cry her eyes out over you.” Betty took a sip of her drink. “I have no interest in being just another girl in a photo you keep as a trophy.”
He squinted at her. “You wanna come home with me?”
A chuckle escaped her lips and she shook her head. “Are you fucking serious?” She scoffed. “Are you not listening to me?”
“No, not for that, you bruised my ego. I want to show you some of my work.” He said honestly.
“I’m sure you do.” She sighed. “It was really nice meeting you but I have no interest in you like that. Maybe one day we’ll work together again.” She downed her drink. “I have a 5am flight back to New York in the morning so I really have to go.” She revealed as she got up and walked out of the bar.
Jughead threw down a few twenties and chased after her. “Betty!” He shouted.
She turned and looked at him. Even in the harsh florescent light of store front signs she looked incredible. Her movements flowed like water, her eyes focused and direct, her imperfections making her more interesting to look at. “What?” She said as she hailed a cab.
“I need to photograph you again.” He confessed. “The people who are shooting you don’t know how to handle you. They are boxing you in.”
She looked downward. “If it’s meant to be we’ll meet again. Maybe your next shoot will be mid-west themed.” She looked up at him. “Good night, Mr. Jones.” She turned and got into the taxi.
He stood there, watching the car drive down the street until it got lost in LA traffic and he couldn’t see it anymore.
#riverdale#Bughead#bughead fanfiction#fan fiction#jughead x betty#betty cooper#jughead jones#malmo722
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( YOON DANBI, 27 )
Name: Yoon Danbi
Date of Birth: 1990/11/06
Occupation: Model
SPARKNOTES:
only child of a retired fashion photographer and retired model; loathes her mother, but loves her father
selfish, narcissistic, vain, superficial; a daddy’s girl; very lonely, and is totally aware that all she has going for her is her looks
biggest fear is not being pretty and/or popular anymore, and being forgotten; acts out partly for the attention, and partly as defence to avoid being hurt first
mother is the worst influence on her, and constantly pushed/pushes her own ideals onto her daughter; very stage mom-y, and likes to control her daughter’s every move
starts modelling towards the end of high school, just like her mother; doesn’t even consider college an option
fell in love towards the end of high school with a boy who was probably the epitome of ordinary; had nothing to do with the industry and cared very little for danbi’s tactics; her romance with said boy was the only slice of normalcy she’s ever gotten in her life
mother forced her to leave him, under the guise that the boy was unsuited for the kind of life she was living
results in major heartbreak, and the development of apathy and detachment from the world around her as her career starts to pick up
chain smokes, spends her money frivolously, sleeps around, fears hates commitment; gets a nose job because she hates that it’s the same as her mother’s
gains popularity and fame as the years progress; she’s aware that most of it stems from her parents’ already existing statuses, and strives to step out of her mother’s shadow to create a name for herself
FREEFORM:
PRIDE.
“she’s beautiful. what’s her name?”
“danbi.”
her face makes it to page seven of the tabloids, even before she’s learned how to talk. it’s only right that the first born daughter of the national icon, kim shinhye, is shown to the world. surely she’ll be following in her mother’s footsteps, what with those eyes and lips she’s inherited.
her father has albums full of her photos before she’s even able to stand on her own two feet. eyes wide with childish curiosity stare up at camera lenses. mirrors are the most fascinating objects on the planet. a tube of mother’s red lipstick is held tight in a chubby fist.
GLUTTONY.
“danbi, don’t eat that.”
she doesn’t understand why taking the cookie the maid’s daughter just offered her is such a crime, but it’s pulled from her fingers before the crumbs have even hit the kitchen counter. her mother clicks her tongue. disapproval. danbi hangs her head low with shame.
“you’ll ruin your appetite, sweetheart.”
she doesn’t tell anyone about how she hasn’t eaten a thing since eleven.
dinner is clothed in embarrassment, food almost completely untouched. she picks at a loose thread on the napkin draped across her lap, listens wordlessly as her mother talks about sumin from ballet.
“she had the most beautiful form, darling. perfectly toned legs and arms. her mother tells me her diet is almost completely meat free now. amazing, honestly. and she’s a year younger than our danbi.”
“now, now. let’s not forget that our danbi is top of the class. our daughter is probably the most beautiful student at the academy.”
“well, yes. of course she is, darling.”
danbi tries to ignore the way her mother’s words seem like nothing but an afterthought.
SLOTH.
“sangmin-ah. grab that book for me, will you?”
she’s mastered her smile by the time her senior year of high school has come around, somewhere between flirtatious and cheeky. she hears words whispered in the halls, but barely hears them over the sound of shoes hitting the linoleum floor, frantic, as admirers strive to catch up to her, to catch a glimpse of the way her hips swing with every step.
her desk is surrounded by a ring of eighteen year old boys with acne-scarred cheeks and crooked teeth. none of them take her fancy, but she’s long learned how to pretend they do.
“taejoonie… this is too hard. can you help me? pretty please?”
how could the guy resist when she swivelled around to look at the boy behind her, lower lip jutted out, the hem of her skirt sitting too high up her thigh to comply to standard uniform regulations?
(the girls in her class sneer in her direction, roll their eyes, and scoff. they’re just jealous.)
high school teaches you a lot; that much is true. but she’s not concerned about long division and photosynthesis, not when she knows that what’s important is knowing how high to hike up her skirt, and how much gloss should be applied to her lips to have heads turning and eyes doing double takes. there are some brief twinges of satisfaction, knowing some of her teachers are part of her crew of admirers.
her classmates do all her work for her, leaving nothing but the task of writing her name at the top of page to claim it as her own. grades don’t matter. social status matters.
LUST.
danbi falls in love once, and only once.
it’s every bit as intense as she’d anticipated it to be. he sees right through her bullshit, is completely unfazed by her sharp tongue and flirty eyes. in fact, he’s really not phased by anything, and it’s disgusting cliché, the way she pines for the one boy who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything she does.
it’s a wonder why he even reciprocated in the first place.
they’re young, they’re messy, and the entire nine months is a culmination of more emotion than she’s ever experienced thus far. it’s tangled sheets, amusement parks, greasy fast food, and dancing in the rain. it’s linked fingers, chapped lips, half-lidded eyes, and quiet whispers in dark rooms.
she’s never felt more free and alive.
ENVY.
“more, danbi. tilt your head more.”
her mother shows her the ropes, and directs every single move of hers in front of the camera. college applications are a distant thought, barely even considered, but no one bats an eye. it would be more surprising, really, for her to not follow in her mother’s footsteps the way the country expects her to.
she’s barely made it out of high school before she’s being whisked away from one set to the other. she’s no stranger to all the clothes and jewellery, but everything is happening so fast. people are running past her from every direction, pulling her hair, tugging at her arms and legs, angling her head, and calling out directions like drill sergeants.
a stylist almost pokes her eye out, fixing her eyeliner, when she’s sat down for an interview, her mother hovering off to the side to monitor.
what’s it like, being the daughter of a world-renowned photographer and a top class model?
she tries to smile, biting back a wince, because whoever is brushing her hair is pulling too hard.
“it’s the best thing ever. i love it. couldn’t have asked for a better family,” she says; she casts a glance over to her mother, waiting for approval on her answer. she already knows what she’ll say on the ride back home: don’t sound so juvenile next time, please. try to sound like an adult. no one wants to talk to a model who sounds like a fifteen year old. next question.
were pushed to be a model? did you want to be one yourself?
she knows this question, expects this question, and she knows how to answer this.
“no, of course not. i’ve always admired my mother — and my father. even if they weren’t my parents, their work ethic would’ve been enough to make me strive to be just like them. i don’t know if i can be half as successful as my mother wa— is, because i’m not as beautiful and talented as she is, but i’ll definitely try my best to live up to everyone’s expectations.”
her stomach churns with contempt at the way the lies just spill from her lips as easy as her breaths.
“my daughter is too humble,” she hears her mother cut in, laughter ringing throughout the room, sending a chill down her spine. she knows that laugh. an assistant is about to walk their way with a tray of snacks. he turns on his heels immediately at the look her mother gives him. “danbi is beautiful. she is my daughter, after all.”
she’s quick to zone out when the interview shifts from herself to her mother. she really shouldn’t be jealous of the way she easily roll answers off her tongue, but she can’t help but feel that stab of envy at the way her mother is so at ease during the talk. it comes with years of experience, of course, but it’s still frustrating to know that she can’t even lie comfortably.
WRATH.
“danbi. get rid of him.”
“what?”
“you heard me. get rid of him. he’s worthless, and plain. a little pathetic, actually, if you ask me. certainly not fit to be dating my daughter.”
“what the fuck? no way!”
“don’t speak to me like that. i’m your mother. and you will do as i say. i let you do as you please before, but you’re growing up now. you’re making a name for yourself, a reputation. you are the daughter of the best fashion photographer in the nation and the greatest model to ever walk the runway in this country. you will not be running around galavanting with some boring boy who is ill-suited for a life of fame and fortune. your face is plastered all over magazines; your face will not be plastered all over the covers of tabloids because of some boy. not if i can help it.”
her favourite colour is purple, but all she sees now is red.
“i hate you. you��� you witch. i don’t have to listen to you.”
“it doesn’t matter what you think of me. but you are getting rid of him. or would you rather i do something about him, hmm?”
it’s scary, the way her mother barely flinches when she throws a glass vase at the wall, rips the covers of magazines strewn across the coffee table off, watches both their faces be torn in half.
“ihateyouihateyouihateyouihateyou!”
“tell the maids to clean this up when you’re done.”
GREED.
sunglasses that cover half her face shield her from the bright flashing lights. everyone wants her to look their way, but… whatever. she’s great from every angle.
danbi! danbi! how was paris fashion week?
“spectacular.”
danbi! danbi! those photos of you with those italian models…
red lips part to expose pearly white teeth.
danbi! have you heard abou—
“nope.” the clicking of stiletto heels on the airport floor almost drown out the sound of multiple camera shutters going off, guards roughly shoving away eager camera men.
danbi! would you say you’re doing better than your mother did when she was your age?
her laughter is sharp, loud, almost mocking. it sounds eerily like her mother’s, but she won’t comment on that.
“definitely.”
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