#vocal score scan
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[Kalafina / Scan] Far on the water vocal score scan
If you want to share this content on other websites, please link to this post and credit me, thanks :)
I bought this second-hand vocal score book and scanned it by myself, all together 130+ pages really took me a long time to scan them lol
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truth beneath the spell
Pairing — Lyney / Reader
Word count — 5865
Content warning — mild cursing • idiots in love • mean pranks
Summary — For years, you and Lyney have been locked in a fierce rivalry, constantly one-upping each other. But when Lyney’s latest stunt results in the destruction of your cherished garden, revenge is the only thing on your mind.
Driven by a desperate desire to settle the score at the upcoming Fontaine Grand Gala, you devise a cunning plan — you infuse Lyney’s favorite Pate de Fruit with a potent dose of truth powder.
However, what you don’t anticipate is your plan going awry as emotions buried deep within both of you begin to surface.
“Don’t you think this is a tad bit excessive?” Mona muses, casting a lazy glance your way, as she reclines on your plush couch. She idly flips through a weathered spellbook, her once neatly tied hair cascading freely around her shoulders. “I mean, if you keep retaliating to every prank, you’ll forever be stuck in this endless all-out war.”
You huff dramatically from your spot on the floor, attention fixated on the pile of journals chaotically scattered around. “He started it first,” you retort, completely ignoring your friend’s advice.
She arches an elegant eyebrow. “And you just had to get back at him, didn't you?"
“Yes! My reputation is on the line!”
She sighs, a hint of exasperation evident in her voice, as she joins you on the carpet. "Why yes, you're totally not trying to hide—really badly at that, by the way—your extremely obvious crush on Lyney."
“No!” you deny too quickly, shoving the first heavy journal you find against Mona, catching her off guard. "Just — just, shut up and help me, or I swear to the Archons above, I will tell the Old Hag who read and misplaced her precious journal."
Mona gapes, her light blue eyes narrowing as her teasing smirk fades away from her soft face. “This is blackmail,” she declares, gaze fixated on your menacing, yet cheerful expression. “You wouldn’t dare.”
You say nothing in response, and a silence envelops the two of you, lingering in the air, broken only by the rhythmic sound of pages being flipped. Each turn feels like an eternity as you scan through the books.
“Aha!” you exclaim, eyes gleaming with triumph as you point towards a page adorned with scribbles and intricate diagrams.
Mona’s gaze shifts from skepticism to intrigue, and she leans in, studying the page with genuine interest. Her eyes flicker between you and the diagrams, and she shakes her head.
“I think that one is too much, even for your standards,” she remarks, furrowing her brows.
"What do you mean? It's perfectly acceptable!"
She looks at you, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. "You cannot just open an extradimensional portal and send him tumbling into an unknown domain! Are you out of your mind?"
"Fine, fine. I'll look for something else," you grumble, resuming your little quest. You skim over the pages with renewed determination. Each time you eagerly point towards a spell, Mona shoots you a disapproving look, shaking her head.
Finally, you stumble upon the perfect spell — one with easily obtainable ingredients and a straightward diagram and incantation. Your face lights up as Mona nods in approval.
"Mockingbird's Echo," you begin to read, your fingers delicately tracing the frayed page. "Transforms the fauna in proximity to its target into impish mimics, compelling them to emulate every gesture and vocalization in a sarcastic and mocking tone. These enchanted creatures persistently trail the subject."
"I suppose that's an interesting tactic to silence him," Mona comments with a sly smirk. “Will you need my help gathering the ingredients?”
You inspect the list of items mentioned — a generous amount of dried Tongue Grass, a combination of Swine’s Snout and Lion’s Tooth, along with century-old Mayflower bark, three purple candles, and a moon-charged Septarian.
A brief moment of contemplation passes over your features, and your eyes shift to your herb corner comfortably nestled on your windowsill.
“Perhaps you can ask Jean if she’s willing to part with one of her quality blends of Swine's Snout and Lion's Tooth."
A few days later, after Mona had successfully procured a high-quality blend of herbs from Jean — whose only response was the thinning of her lips along with a deadpan expression at the mention of your plan — you’re sitting, legs crossed, in your ritual room.
The moon bathes the room in its ethereal glow, revealing your altar, cluttered with numerous hanging smudge sticks, spell jars, and a multitude of colorful misshapen crystals and stones. The air seems to shimmer with a subtle energy, carrying whispers of ancient magic. All the necessary ingredients are neatly arranged next to you, catching the moonlight that reflects their textures and deep colors.
The silence is interrupted by the soft rustle of pages as you look over the instructions for the spell. Following the guidance, you carefully place each herb in your trusty mortar, grinding them into a fine powder. As you add the century-old Mayflower, you grimace at the memory of haggling for a cheaper price, recalling the heated argument with the pink-haired merchant. You transfer the powder to a small bowl, placing it in the center of the altar.
With a swat of your wrist, the candles next to you flicker to life, their flames dancing in response to your command. You meticulously draw several runes, ensuring each one is somewhat connected with the burning candles beside them.
Reciting the incantations, you hold the charged Septarian close to your chest. The air around you crackles with energy, the temperature growing hotter with each uttered word.
Moments later, the candles die, their flames extinguished abruptly. The room plunges into sudden darkness, and only the residual warmth and charged energy lingering in the air is left.
You let out a sigh of relief, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, and your limbs feel heavy, as if gravity is pulling your body harder and harder to the ground.
Performing spells has always taken its toll on you, and ever since Lyney's remark about your limited mana levels — sparking the beginning of your little rivalry — you've been dedicated to surpass your own limitations, improving and strengthening your energy, determined to prove him wrong.
With a proud smile, you place the ground herbs in a small sack, expertly wrapping it with cotton twine.
“That’ll teach him,” you mumble to yourself.
Slipping the enchanted sack of herbs into Lyney's coat proves to be amusingly simple; a bribe for his familiar — a fluffy black cat with red eyes and a sly feline smirk — involving a bag of catnip and a few morsels of fatty tuna seals the deal.
"Rosseland, come here, boy," you whisper-yell, propped against the fence that separates your house from Lyney's. The cat glances at you, then at the tempting bag of catnip in your hand.
He lets out a loud meow, and you see his expression shift into one of mischief, perfectly mirroring your own. The cat trots over to you, skillfully climbing the wooden fence.
“Good boy,” you murmur as he purrs, affectionately headbutting you. You scratch behind his ear, earning a satisfied meow.
It's amusing how much Lyney's own familiar adores you; he’s constantly overjoyed to see you, and you are the only other person apart from the trio of siblings allowed to give him belly rubs.
Rosseland climbs onto your shoulders, playfully biting into your hair, anticipating the promised treats. "Yes, yes, my boy." You wave the catnip in front of his face, and his whiskers twitch happily as he takes a whiff. He gracefully jumps off you, landing on the grass. You crouch next to him. "Listen, you'll get all this — maybe even some Pate de Fruit — but on one condition." The cat perks up at the mention of his favorite jelly candy, staring at you expectantly. "I need you to place this in Lyney's coat, yeah?" you say, presenting the enchanted sachet.
Purring once more, the cat headbutts you in agreement, his long bushy tail brushing across your face. You laugh softly as you offer him the promised pieces of fatty tuna. Once he finishes the treats, you let him play with the catnip, observing him as he rolls around the grass, meowing and growling loudly.
You release a sigh. "It's a mystery how such an adorable familiar ended up with such an annoying owner like Lyney..."
The same evening, as you prepare a simple vegetable stew and savor a glass of dandelion wine for dinner, a loud, insistent knock echoes from your front door. Glancing at the oven clock, you realize the only person who would be knocking this late could only be—
"Open the door right now, or else!" Lyney yells, and you smirk at the evident frustration in his voice, his words echoed by several mocking tones.
“As if,” you mutter under your breath dismissively, ignoring his shouts. You carry on stirring the simmering mixture, checking the thickness of the stew and tenderness of the potatoes. Licking the wooden spoon, you release a contented hum, pleased with the spiciness level of your creation.
Just as you're about to turn off the stove, the room grows unbearably hot, the flame of the stove flares for a moment, and a scorching breeze envelops you. Swirling around, you brandish the wooden spoon like a weapon.
“How dare you!” you shout as Lyney materializes in your kitchen. “You just had to come and ruin my dinner, didn’t you?” You point an accusatory finger towards the now-blackened dish.
“And you really had to cast such an annoying spell on me?” he fires back, his voice mirrored by the two ravens swirling around him. You can't help but giggle at the mocking tones of the birds. Lyney only shoots you a glare, his violet eyes narrowed into slits.
"Remove this spell right now," he demands, crossing his arms.
“No,” you answer bluntly. “You trespassed into my home, scorched my floor,” you continue, pointing towards the now-charred floorboards around Lyney, “and ruined the dinner I was looking forward to the whole day.”
"And anyway, shouldn't you be the better one of us, huh? Why not get rid of the spell by yourself?" you smirk, enjoying the flush that colors his face.
Lyney stays silent for a few moments, then releases a grunt and turns around without uttering another word. The birds follow, hovering nearby. One of them pecks at his hat, and he swats the raven away, fists clenched.
You wait for the inevitable sound of your front door slamming shut, and as it does, you sink into a seat at the table. Cheeks ablaze, you hide your face in your palms, and let out a groan. "Of all the people, why did I have to develop a crush on you?"
“Barghest, Mama’s home!” you holler, your familiar dashing towards you, tail wagging. The large wolf-dog leaps into your arms, and you both tumble onto the grass, laughter bubbling out as he showers you with slobbery kisses. “Bargest, enough — enough,” you giggle through his affectionate onslaught, running a hand through his short, silky fur. “I missed you too, baby.”
"He was very obedient while you were away," Clorinde remarks, leaning against her front door. "How was your trip to Mondstadt?"
"Tiring as usual," you sigh, rubbing your temples. "Fischl roped me and Mona into yet another commission. This time, we ended up getting lost in a labyrinth-like domain… and chased off by wind spirits.”
Clorinde's laughter fills the air as she gives you a thorough once-over. Her gaze lingers on the eye bags beneath your tired eyes and the fading bruises scattered over your body.
"Go home and rest; you'll need it if you want to be at least partly presentable for the meeting this Wednesday."
Your eyes widen for a split second, and your stomach plummets—the meeting, oh shit, Fontaine Grand Gala.
In the midst of the ongoing prank war and the recent commission in Mondstadt, you had entirely forgotten about the bi-yearly gathering between the Fontaine magical society members. The last one had been absolute chaos — arguments had erupted between different factions, and neither Lady Furina’s authoritative commands nor Monsieur Neuvillette's diplomatic skills could calm anyone down.
As the cherry on top, you and Lyney ended up in an elemental brawl that echoed through the grand hall. The sizzling magic and the crackling flames did not only set a few ancient artifacts on fire but also managed to engulf a couple of innocent coats and dresses in the process.
"Maybe this time it'll be less eventful," Clorinde offers optimistically, though the subtle raise of her eyebrow suggests she's not entirely convinced. "But seriously, take care of yourself before Wednesday."
As you traverse the familiar forest path leading towards your home, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of your familiar’s heavy paws, your mind is haunted by the vivid memories of the fiasco. And you can’t help but cringe at the thought of how your fiery clash with Lyney had quickly become part of the gossip fodder of the community.
"Barghest, I am so utterly screwed.” Your companion’s ears perk up at the mention of his name as you lament. “This stupid rivalry is only fueling my crush. Am I some sort of masochist?" Barghest, of course, remains silent, but responds with a look — his red eyes slightly narrowed, as if silently calling you out on your own stupidity.
The evening air is cool, and the dimming sunlight is hidden behind the canopy of tall trees, casting a gentle shadow over the path leading to your home. As you approach, a sudden shiver runs down your spine, and goosebumps prickle your skin. Beside you, Barghest snarls, revealing his sharp fangs, his eyes aglow in an ominous red.
In the distance, you notice several small creatures circling your garden, an unsettling dark aura barely cloaking their presence.
"He wouldn't have," you whisper, unable to comprehend the scene unfolding before your eyes.
Barghest doesn't wait for your command, already leaping towards the boggards. The creatures, sensing the imminent danger, emit squeaks of terror. In panic, they release their grip on the plants they were holding, fleeing into the distance. You command your familiar to stay put as you take cautious steps towards the now disturbed spot.
The soil beneath your feet is upturned, and the once vibrant plants lie trampled and torn. There is a lingering malevolence tainting the air, intermingling with the putrid smell of sulfur.
As you lower yourself to the ground, a wave of emotion washes over you, and a few tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. Gently, your fingers trace the once vibrant, now crumpled petals of a bluebell.
Amidst the disarray, a lone tansy stands tall, slender stem unwavering against the chaos. The petite yellow blooms stand out against the aftermath.
You narrow your eyes, a simmering anger bubbling within you. The significance of the plant isn't lost on you — after all, herbology is your strongest subject. Could Lyney have intentionally left this flower as a declaration of war, knowing full well its meaning? You shake your head, dismissing the notion, but the uncertainty lingers on within you.
Barghest moves closer, his furry form leaning in, and with a gentle nudge, his wet snout presses against your cheek.
"Don't worry, we'll get back at him," you murmur soothingly into his fur.
"Try this on," Mona suggests, gently fastening a choker around your neck. The piece is adorned with a large amber gemstone, encapsulating the fossilized remains of a spider.
You run your fingers along the delicate lace of the choker, observing your reflection in the mirror. You’re elegantly dressed for the grand gala, light makeup accentuating your features. Mona had offered to help you get ready, preaching how the best revenge is appearing uncaring and looking your best.
And while you agree with Mona’s sentiment, you’ve kept your true intentions hidden from her — how you intend to make Lyney confess all his wrongdoings and embarrass him before the community.
Your friend had seemed wary upon spotting the assortment of desserts in your bag — pate de fruits, conch madeleines, and colorful macarons. But you had swiftly explained it as an apology for the previous incident. Mona had raised an eyebrow in suspicion but chose not to press further, and you had sighed internally, relieved.
There was no way in Celestia you’d disclose the fact that the fruit jelly slices — one of Lyney’s favorite snacks — were discreetly laced with a potent dose of truth powder, cleverly mixed with the sugar.
"Promise me, no arguments, no fights, and especially no more pyro brawls with Lyney.”
You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping a bit. "Yes, I know," you mumble, pouting. “Chiori still shoots me icy stares whenever she passes by. The coat was apparently a family heirloom or something.”
Mona gives you a pointed look. "I know you're plotting something to avenge your garden, but promise me you'll hold off until after the gala."
Rolling your eyes, you assure her, "I'll behave, alright?” Raising your right hand dramatically, you declare, "cross my heart, Mona. I'll be the picture of perfect behavior."
A soft, monotone voice calls your name, and you turn around to find Lynette approaching. “This bow looks really cute on you,” you comment, eyes flickering to the teal accessory adorning her hair.
She responds with a quiet thanks, a delicate blush dusting her cheeks. "I should go look for Freminet. He's probably feeling overwhelmed from the party by now," she states, glancing around the bustling gala. You nod in understanding.
"Also, I would recommend not going near the punch table. A feral cat is on the loose there," she warns and you cannot help but laugh, knowing full well who she is referring to. She's been aware of her older brother’s antics since the beginning of your prank war, maintaining a neutral stance despite Lyney’s persistent attempts to enlist her help on multiple occasions.
As Lynette makes her way through the crowd, you take a moment to admire the lively atmosphere of the gala.
The grand hall, with its soaring ceiling and arched doorways, exudes an air of timeless elegance. Elaborate tapestries hang from the walls, and the polished marble floors reflect the shimmering lights above. As you walk around the room, you pass by tall columns, embellished with sophisticated carvings, depicting scenes that capture the rich history of Fontaine.
Ignoring Lynette’s warning, you decide to make your way towards the punch table, where the “feral cat” supposedly roams. As you approach, you spot the magician engaged in an animated conversation with Aether, their laughter filling the air.
Lyney, as if possessing the hearing of a wild cat, detects the sound of your approaching footsteps and swiftly turns around. He offers you a cheerful smile that doesn’t fully mask the challenge lurking in his eyes.
Aether, the embodiment of warmth and light, greets you in a friendly manner, his eyes a rich glowing amber hue.
"I brought some desserts," you announce with a hesitant smile, presenting the carefully arranged selection of sweets. “As an apology for last time.” Your gaze flickers away in an attempt to appear shy and humble.
Aether’s eyes light up at the sight of the intricately crafted macarons. You generously offer him a few, suggesting he shares them with his gluttonous fairy familiar. Grateful, he thanks you and departs, leaving you alone with your rival.
The atmosphere between the two of you thickens, the tension palpable.
"You're not going to share some with me?" Lyney teases, a mock pout on his face.
"After you ruined my garden, no, not really."
"Then would you like a glass of punch as an apology?" he suggests, pointing to the fruity mixture.
Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "A drink from you? No thanks, I don't trust you."
Lyney's playful demeanor doesn't falter; instead, he takes a deliberate step closer, his gaze holding a challenge. "Come on, don't be so uptight. It's just punch."
"And why would I take anything from you?" you question, suspicion lacing your words. "How can I be sure that you wouldn't have poured something in it?"
"Because why would I drink it myself, too? And look," he points casually to a few figures engaged in lively conversation near you. "They’re also drinking from the punch. Why would I risk angering the rest, especially today?"
You pause, considering his argument.
If you're going to endure this gala until Mona decides it's time to leave, a little liquid courage would not hurt. You look away from Lyney's captivating violet eyes, snatching the glass he is holding. With a sly grin, you pour yourself a generous amount of the sparkling liquid.
“Well, it was unpleasant meeting you, as always,” you say with a smirk, your hair swaying as you turn to leave. Unbeknownst to you, Lyney’s eyes follow your every move, a faint pink hue dusting his cheeks.
His lively façade noticeably deflates as he witnesses you greet a dark-haired man whose muscles strain against his clothes. Lyney clicks his tongue disapprovingly, downing his drink in one swift gulp — he doesn’t care that you’re talking to Wriothesley, and he is absolutely indifferent about your little crush on the older warlock.
The magician refuses to acknowledge the subtle shifts in his emotions, trying his best to avoid the implications they carry.
He pours himself another glass of the punch, scanning the various tables. His eyes lock onto a plate of jellied fruits, sitting there untouched, the tempting delicacy calling out to him.
Wriothesley casually leans against a column, sipping tea from a delicate cup.
"Has Barghest been giving you any trouble?" he inquires, his voice smooth.
"Um…" you start, feeling your tongue dry up, the words unable to leave your mouth. "Actually, yes," you stammer, and you gape, not believing your own words.
"Oh? What's wrong?"
“To start off, anytime we're at the dog park, attempting to blend in with normal people and play fetch with a stick, he insists on bringing me enchanted — and by that I mean cursed — artifacts. Not only does he refuse to let go, but he hoards all his little finds and won't even let me touch them!" You rant, voice rising. "And don't get me started on his behavior during the full moon. It would've been fine if the only problem was his howling — I could easily cast a spell and soundproof the room. But no! He gets the zoomies and has to run around for hours!"
Wriothesley arches an eyebrow, motioning for you to continue. His expression is of mild curiosity, partly entertained by your unusual behavior.
You gasp, hands instinctively flying to cover your mouth. The words had spilled out unintentionally, and it takes you a moment to grasp the bizarre nature of the situation.
“Ask me what’s two plus two,” you implore in an attempt to make sense of the situation, eyes pleading.
With a bemused expression, the Duke obliges.
Summoning all your willpower, you try to say “five”. However, each attempt feels like dragging your tongue through sand, rendering your voice mute before the incorrect word can escape. After a brief struggle, you give up with a reluctant "four."
"Congratulations, you can do basic math," Wriothesley deadpans.
"Lyney, you little shit!”
Your eyes sweep across the hall, searching for his unmistakable figure amidst the crowd. His figure seems to grow more prominent as he gets closer and closer. The room seems to narrow down to just the two of you, the distant chatter and laughter fading away.
Lyney is now just a few paces away, his eyes fixed on yours.
"You!" The accusation erupts simultaneously from both of you,
"You think you can just ruin my night and get away with it?"
"You ruined my garden, and now you're trying to ruin my reputation at the gala!”
The onlookers, previously engaged in light-hearted conversations, now turn their attention towards the spectacle unfolding before them. The entire grand hall holds its breath, sensing the growing hostility, awaiting the next move.
Lyney smirks, seemingly unfazed by the attention. "Well, if you're looking for a fight, you've got one."
Before you can formulate a response, a voice echoes through the hall, cutting through the tension. "Enough!" The commanding presence of Monsieur Neuvillette silences the murmurs in an instant. "The two of you, out now."
Attempting to explain yourself ends up being futile, as Chevreuse firmly grasps your shoulders, propelling you towards the exit. You find yourself unceremoniously dropped on the grass outside, protests lost in the scuffle. Clorinde follows suit, pushing Lyney out with a force that sends him stumbling besides you.
"You are not allowed to re-enter until you've resolved this petty drama between you," Clorinde declares, tone unyielding, as she forcefully closes the door behind you, the latch clicking shut.
"You drugged me with a truth serum!" you shout as you nurse your aching tailbone. Lyney ignores you, nonchalantly standing up and brushing off his clothes.
"And you didn't do the same?" he retorts with a sharp edge to his words, his nostrils flaring.
"It was payback for my garden! An answer to your little declaration of war!" you snap.
The male in front of you appears taken aback for a split second. "Declaration of what? What are you even talking about?”
"The tansy, you asshole!"
"Tansy? What even is a tansy? Have you gone mad?" he responds, a furrow forming on his brow as he struggles to comprehend your accusations.
"The only flower the stupid boggards you summoned left alone in my whole garden. Do you even know what it means?" Your voice echoes in the stillness, punctuated by the distant sounds of crickets and the passing night breeze.
"I really don't know what a tansy is," he admits, his confessions handing in the air, the admission catching you off guard. Despite your initial reluctance to believe him, the truth serum’s influence prevents him from lying — and you’re left grappling with the realization that perhaps he is genuinely unaware of its significance.
You groan, the weight of the chaotic evening bearing down on you. "Seriously, why did it have to be you?" you mumble into your hands, your words muffled by your palms.
"Me what?" Lyney asks, leaning in slightly.
Your eyes widen, and panic courses through you. You quickly press your hands against your lips in a desperate attempt to keep them closed. The truth serum is still affecting you, and you’re acutely aware you’ve almost revealed more than you intended.
Lyney narrows his eyes, sensing that there's more to your words than meets the eye. "Come on, spill it," he prods, leaning in even closer, his lips brushing past your ear.
You gulp, squeezing your eyes shut. "It's unfair that I had to like you of all people," you confess quickly through gritted teeth, your fists clenching the grass beneath you. "What idiot falls in love with someone who clearly hates them and sees them as weak and useless?"
Lyney is stunned, not expecting your answer. He stumbles back, and you feel a few tears pricking in your eyes at his obvious rejection.
"You love me?" he slowly asks, confused. You take a look at him — the moonlight accentuates the contours of his face, revealing a vulnerability you've never witnessed before.
"Yes, how many times do you want me to repeat it and embarrass myself? I think this was more than enough."
"An infinite amount of times," he states softly. You meet his gaze with damp eyelashes, taken aback by the sudden flush of his cheeks. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, drawing a shaky breath, he murmurs, "I want to hear you say it again and again."
“Why?”
"Because—because I love you too.”
His confession hangs in the air, every vulnerable emotion laid bare before you.
“You must be lying,” you mumble, shaking your head.
Lyney crouches down to meet your averted gaze. “Look at me,” he murmurs gently as he reaches out to brush away the lone tear tracking down your cheek. “You know I cannot lie.”
As his thumb wipes away the dampness from your skin, you find yourself leaning into his touch. “Then why do and say all these hurtful things?”
A tense silence hangs between you as Lyney seems to search for the right words. He takes a steadying breath before meeting your eyes. “Fear… Fear made me lash out in stupid ways. When I first saw you, it stirred memories of my own immaturity and overconfidence, back before I realized I could depend on other people, too.” His shoulders slump. “I didn't mean to hurl those hurtful remarks towards you — I really didn't — but I wanted to shield myself from caring for you.”
His eyes plead for understanding, hand reaching for you, but he lets it fall limply to his side when he sees the turbulent swirl of hurt and anger in your eyes.
"You are so stupid, Lyney!" you cry, hot tears coursing freely down your cheeks now. "Instead of facing your true feelings, you chose to lash out and say cruel things, just to drive me away! Clearly that didn't work out, did it?”
Your ragged breaths echo in the tense silence between you both. Lyney offers no defense, unable to justify his actions.
"I should've been honest from the beginning. I wanted you to become stronger... and while doing so, I hurt you," he says, eyes downcast, and you notice how the fight he had in him has left him. “I saw my own weakness reflected in you…”
"Wow, thanks for noticing," you bite back, the hurt in your words hidden by your simmering anger, veiling the vulnerability underneath. "So, all those times you cast spells on me, all those attempts to humiliate me in front of friends and superiors—what was it all for? To help me grow? Get over yourself, Lyney."
He looks down, unable to meet your eyes. "I truly am sorry," he murmurs, “and I wish I could take it all back.”
You stand up, your body surging with conflicting emotions as you close the distance between you and Lyney. As you draw near, your face is mere inches away from his; nostrils flaring, you grit your teeth, and without breaking eye contact, you grab him by his shirt.
"Sorry won't fix it." Your fingers dig into the fabric. "And yet, I still love you."
With those words left hanging in the air, you press your lips to his.
Your mouths collide in a frenzied dance, all the bottled up emotions pouring out. Your hand moves from his collar to the back of his neck, gripping him tightly, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer to you.
Lyney responds with a fervor that matches your own — his lips move against your with a hunger that mirrors your desires, his pent up feelings coming undone. His hands find their way to your sides, holding you tightly as if afraid to let go. The pressure of his touch sends shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that burns hotter with each passing second.
The kiss is not gentle; its rawness — a proof of the unspoken tension that has defined your relationship.
You feel the wetness of tears streaming down Lyney’s cheeks, and his grip on your sides tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he deepens the kiss. His teeth graze your lower lip, and a breathy moan escapes your lips.
"I love you so, so much," he whispers as he moves his lips away from yours, leaning his forehead against yours. "I will do my best to repent for my actions until the day I die."
The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, and you can't help but let out a choked sob, heart feeling both heavy and light. You reach for his face, your trembling hands gently cradling his cheeks.
"I know you will," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion, "and I know I will forgive you."
You press your lips against his once again, this time tenderly. Your bodies draw closer, molding together as if they were made to fit each other perfectly. The heat between you intensifies, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours.
The world around you fades into insignificance, and time becomes irrelevant as you lose yourselves in the intoxicating passion.
“—rinde, Clorinde, wait” a distant voice calls out.
"They’ve been out there for a while. I must make sure no property is destroyed, again."
Clorinde flings the heavy door open, eyes narrowed, body crackling with purple electricity that dances around her. Seconds later, Navia follows suit, appearing slightly out of breath with her intricate dress billowing behind her.
Caught in the act, you and Lyney spring apart at their entrance. The two women's eyes scan your disheveled appearances — your lipstick smudged around your mouth, with marks matching its shade plainly visible on Lyney's collar and neck, both your clothing rumpled, and his hairdo now a tangled mess.
"Damn it," Clorinde's groans, her hand pressing against her forehead in apparent frustration. "You couldn't wait — I don't know — a few more weeks until Mabon. Now I'm down 72,000 mora."
"What?" you ask, puzzled by your friend’s outburst.
Navia sighs, offering a sympathetic pat on Clorinde's shoulder. "A few people had a betting pool running."
"A betting pool? About what?"
Clorinde crosses her arms, her expression softening. "How long it would take you and Lyney to finally confess your feelings," she reveals. Lyney's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and realization. "I bet that it would happen after Mabon. A few others had different predictions, and of course, there was Wriothesley who bet on tonight. That smug asshole was so sure."
“Well, then, we will leave you two lovebirds alone," Navia teases, giving you a playful wink.
"Wait," you yell out, feeling a sudden surge of curiosity. "What did — what did Mona bet on?"
Clorinde's laughter fills the air. "Oh, Mona? She bet that you'll always be at each other's necks," she reveals, unable to contain her amusement.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mona," you mutter under your breath, exasperation evident in your voice.
Clorinde waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't take it too seriously. Just remember, I expect an invitation to the wedding."
"We're not even officially together yet, and you're already planning our wedding?" you exclaim.
"Let's take it one step at a time, shall we?” Lyney teases, his voice filled with warmth as he presses his lips against your cheek. “But I must admit, a wedding would be quite the celebration." Lyney teases, pressing his lips against your cheek.
"Anyway, I will leave you two alone now, just try to keep it PG in here," Clorinde teases once again before shutting the door behind her, leaving you and Lyney alone.
Your whole body flushes. On one hand, you feel a tinge of embarrassment and anger at the thought of your friends betting on your love life — particularly your best friend betting against you. But on the other hand, you can’t deny the contentment swirling within you, knowing that you’ve finally broken down Lyney's walls and glimpsed at the raw emotions behind his eyes.
"I think before we go in, we should have a proper talk about us," you murmur, meeting Lyney’s gaze with a determined expression. "Just so you know, I'm not toning down on the pranks even if we are together. I have a score to settle."
"Oh, I wouldn't expect anything less," he replies, a hint of challenge in his voice. "But remember, love, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve as well."
Author's note: My brain is completly fried from the amount of RedBulls and painkillers, so sorry for any mistakes. This was meant to be around 2k words, but yea... 💀
Some extra information for the curious 😋
English folk names for the herbs used — Chickweed (Tongue Grass), Dandelion seeds and roots (Swine’s Snout and Lion’s Tooth, respectively), Hawthorn (Mayflower)
Dragon's Egg — another name for Septarian, a brownish-red stone that "enhances communication abilities", a healing stone
Rosseland — in-game name for Lyney's cat
Barghest — a monstrous black dog from English Folklore; I like to imagine Barghest was from the same litter as Wriothesley's familiar (Cerberus), which is why the two of you are close friends
The Fontaine Grand Gala being hosted on a Wednesday — supposedly this day of the week is associated with "communication"
Lyney did not spike the punch, but the empty glass he was holding (which was rudely snatched) was coated in the truth-serum powder
Tansy (Tanacetum vulgare) — a perennial flowering plant; "I declare war on you"
#genshin x reader#lyney x reader#genshin x you#lyney x you#genshin x y/n#lyney x y/n#reader insert#lyney#x reader#genshin imagines#genshin impact#lyney brainrot#i love him too much
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hi ada! its ver2 anon, i had a request <3
imagine rin being shocked to seeing reader being so foul-mouthed during the game but is usually nice and, like, quiet??
also!! imagine rin spectating a game with reader and her new team and they win it due to reader being able to score 2 goals with 3 assists? and reacting to her being MVP?? he's just mesmerised to her run through the field with such grace and controlling the ball with ease. and also, reader is surprised to see rin out of blue lock bc yk, basically football prison? so she hugs him and asks him?
stop i literally just saw this. im so sorry for not completing it sooner (・Д・) i love this idea and im so disappointed i didn’t see it earlier.
also, ver2 anon, i know who you are :) i forgot to respond to your ask, so i thought i’d say it here ♡ and not in like a “i know who you are.” type of way, if you get what i mean!
foul mouth! pt 2 Itoshi Rin x female reader
Rin was feeling a bit lonely when you left blue lock. yeah, he was happy for you - but he didn’t want you to be away from him.
so, he came up with the perfect solution to fix his loneliness. watching your games!
he will never ever admit it, but he’s a bit excited to see you play again. even if it’s just through a screen.
he shakily pressed the play button on the live-streaming app, eyes widening as the camera was already focused on your figure.
“what the fuck do you think you’re doing, whore?!” your voice loudly boomed, reaching even the bleachers and camera.
Rin couldn’t help but chuckle at your words. it brand back a few memories…
“get away from me, you ugly coward!” you shouted towards another player, running away with the ball at your feet.
Rin was on the other side of the field, watching you with wide eyed and a jaw dropped. you’re a new player on the team, and he certainly didn’t expect for you to be so… vocal during games.
“get your greasy fucking hair out of my face!” you shrieked, voice louder than before.
Rin sighed dreamily, sharp teal eyes gazing down at your smaller form through the screen of his phone. he raised it a little closer to his face, eyes scanning the field for you. damn, he looked away for a second and you’re already off the screen! the lukewarm cameraman can’t even follow you - you’re obviously the best player. you were just about to score a goal!
y/n scores! 1 - 1!
Rin huffed angrily as the camera quickly shipped to your form. he’s slightly annoyed that nobody watching could even see the way you ran across the field so prettily. if he ever sees that cameraman he’s gonna teach the imbecile a lesson.
you were gliding across the field again, spewing insults from your plump lips. if the volume was off, some might even think you were an angel - however, Rin wanted to hear everything you said. he wanted to hear your sweet voice scream at each passing player.
you’re just so cute.
Rin watched as you ran after a teammate, foot slamming down on the ball as you passed to her.
score! player scores! 2 - 1!
you’re so sweet, letting your lukewarm teammate score. you could’ve scored from that distance, but you, as the charitable girl you are, gave them the privilege.
it irked him a little to watch you do that 2 more times, though.
so when you finally had the ball, and your stupid teammates were busy, he was shivering with anticipation as you got ready to score.
but just as you were about to, someone came up from behind you.
Rin could practically feel the malice oozing off of you in waves.
“get away from me, peasant.” your voice was low, eyes shaded with pure ego as you spat each word out at the girl behind you. she stopped in her tracks, watching in fear as your foot slammed roughly onto the ball and you…
y/n scores! 5 - 1! __ team wins!
Rin was surprised when he found himself fist bumping the air, smiling slightly as he watched you celebrate.
oh, of course you’re the mvp. he watched intently as you smiled sweetly, eyes locking with the camera.
it was a little like when you both were at blue lock.
soon, he found himself wandering the streets on his day off of blue lock.
what was he doing exactly? he couldn’t tell you. but part of him was saying that he was looking for something. or, someone, to be exact.
he knows you like this area, because he had heard you talk about the shops many times.
he wasn’t trying to be creepy, or anything!
it would just be nice to see you again… Rin sighs.
“Rin?!” your sweet voice calls out from behind him.
he turned around at the call of his name, only to be met with a girl hugging him. what?
“Rin! it’s me! did you see me game?!” you giggle, pulling away slightly to look the man in the eyes.
“y/n.” he says, eyes widening slightly as a faint blush dusted the tips of his ears, cheeks, and even his nose. it was almost like he was wearing makeup.
“congratulations on winning your match, you did great.” his slim hand reached out to pat your head, a little smile gracing his lips as he felt you lean into his touch.
“thank you, Rin!” you smile. “but how are you out of blue lock? i wasn’t allowed to go out.” you ask, your lower lip sticking out in a pout.
“i got a day out of blue lock.” was all he said, before pulling you into a hug.
“i missed you, y/n.”
“it’s only been a few weeks, Rin!” ( ◠‿◠ )
#bllk x reader#blue lock#bllk x you#bllk#bllk x y/n#itoshi rin#itoshi rin x you#rin itoshi x reader#blue lock rin itoshi#rin x you#rin itoshi#rin x reader
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Of Sorrows & Morals
// an old piece for @666calistaxx and her OCs Catherine and Jack, those two took over my brain for this to come to life.
// You can read the original formatted piece here
A hazy red mist washed over the curtain call, within the jazz club laid the pizazz of New York’s finest. The stage, held together by the wooden floor, flooded with the lights that stood overhead in lamps and chandeliers that stood a testament for the amount of wealth this place holds.
One such guest took himself into an uproar, soon followed en masse as the jazz band’s instrumentals brought themselves out one by one. Of course, the tradition follows that this is one of the most revered bands of the 1920s, with drums and saxophone work seen nowhere else within a 40 mile radius of New York.
The drummer, an ear or rhythm, was a top student at a notorious music school. The saxophonist, a student from the greats that are above his league, was an up and coming protégé amongst his peers.
The pianist, rumored to be ‘Joplin’s next in line’, with his ragtime infused genre, had clear influence from his namesake.
The trumpet player, a newcomer on the scene, had some of the best runs in terms of bar hopping recently, befriending more and more bandmates and scoring shows left and right.
And finally, the singer.
Known locally as “Catherine” or colloquially “Cash Candy Catherine”, she’s made a name for herself traveling through both speakeasies and jazz clubs alike to build a reputation for herself. Now she’s shooting her way to stardom, with all of the connections that span across the area like a widow’s web.
She slowly dazzled her way to the microphone stand, her elegance matched only by her soothing greeting.
“Ladies, gentlemen. Welcome to New York’s Rendezvous.”
The crowd erupted into a fit of laughter and applause, as Catherine stood back and closed her eyes. She’d hoped for this much of an audience for so long, and she’s here. Her hands rested towards her middle, clasping her midsection as she thought back to her first show…
Her first one with Jack, who was the only one who showed up for her rehearsal, and the only person who applauded after it was over. Despite everything, he had found a way again and again to support her. At the start, until now, he had been her supporter.
However, tonight, as she opened her eyes to scan the audience that slowly killed their applause, he was nowhere to be seen.
His signature glasses and brighter than usual smile didn’t fit the multitude of neutral faces that faced her.
Nonetheless, she kept on with her usual gig. She turned to the band, and signaled the band to start playing with a simple nod.
As a jazz tune, slow but certain, started up, she turned back to her audience. The applause died down completely, and all eyes were on her.
“This first one goes… out to him.”
She paused, not knowing how to take this in.
She kept scanning for a face. Any face. Something that took a hold of his shaders, his rather awkward pose, anything. Yet, she couldn’t find it.
“Wherever he may be.”
From the shadows of evil, into the spotlight, she stood there and cried out a lover’s lyricism. Her soothing voice assumed both a griever’s love and a symphonist’s concoction as she sang a cover of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”. A succinct, powerful vocal that ruled over the instrumentals, Catherine poured her heart and soul into the performance of something less akin to a tribute and more of a final letter to her lover.
She reminisced about the conditions on which they met again, as she slowed down her performance to let the instrumentals run through the room. The perfect blend of such kept more and more patrons attentive towards the main stage, as she dove back out of the spotlight.
As the background music continued playing, she descended back into an earlier time, again back to the first ever performance. An improvised song on the spot, she was nervous back then. The audience was few and far inbetween, and Jack stood amongst them. Waiting within the crowd, and behind a pair of otherwise illegal shaders to an already illegal and shady practice to begin with: a speakeasy.
There was a deafening silence.
Playing tunes that never bore any semblance to anyone abroad.
Lyrics that never did anything more than add into the illicit nature of it all.
“Well well well… aren’t ya the pretty voice for a pretty lady?”
The man in a green suit complimented - in poor words - as he approached the singer.
“And who might you be?”
“Someone who just… wants a talk.”
The figure smiled, as it soon faded back to–
“Catherine? Cath. Cath!”
The drummer’s shaking, some members of the audience looking very disconcerted as some murmurs and whispers rose up during the commotion.
She stood there, concerned. Yet, the show she had promised needed to go on, as Catherine - underneath it all - soon disproved a dissonance to her delight.
She didn’t feel the need to think back to such events. Something that happened in the past stayed there, and whilst a cornerstone for her rising fame, she can’t reduce herself towards her vulnerabilities on these occasions.
Her singing, coupled by the band’s instantaneous improvisation, proved the crowd’s conversations wrong. Jazz continued onto the club’s nights, and her vocals stunned the night once again.
Never again will she be reminiscent of a tragic love, one burnt over the soothing smell of a Sunset Rose Cocktail.
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So I realize I'm late to talking about this, but...
Although I personally find Snow White (2024) to be just as pointless as all of the other recent Disney live action remakes -- even the ones I think have some value like The Little Mermaid (2023) -- I haven't hated everything I've heard about it. I really like Greta Gerwig's work overall -- I mean, heck, she worked on that recent Barbie movie that everyone's gone gaga for, and I also loved her take on Little Women. Gal Gadot is a striking choice for the Evil Queen. Even Rachel Ziegler herself I had no problem with, considering she previously was in the remake of West Side Story playing Maria, which means she has the vocal range to perform the role of Snow, unlike some of the other actors chosen to play the leads in these remakes. *side-eyes the hell out of Emma Watson, Dan Stevens, and Mena Massaud*
That being said...I hope Snow White (2024) does finally spark a real conversation about how to truly embrace a film's legacy. Because here's the thing -- there are issues one can point out with the original Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs that could be addressed in a new adaptation. The Prince is woefully underdeveloped as a character, to the point that the Dwarfs honestly are the real heroes of the story. You could give the Dwarfs more depth and backstory, so as to give the actors playing them more to work with. (As much as Peter Dinklage’s comments about the original Seven Dwarfs were controversial and arguably resulted in other actors with dwarfism being shut out of the parts, I would like to write roles that can really showcase these actors’ abilities outside of comedy, so they like Dinklage can score more roles besides just as fairy tale Dwarfs.) And Snow is a bit young to be thinking about a committed romantic relationship if she's truly 14, let alone a romance with a full-grown man.
Even with these critiques, though, the idea that this film is somehow antiquated and unrelatable to modern audiences because it came out in 1937 is just flat-out not true. This film has been re-released to theaters seven times since its initial release, oftentimes when Disney was in financial trouble. 1944? Used to raise revenue during WWII when Disney was only able to release pro-American propaganda projects. 1952? Three years before Walt's expensive Disneyland project was opened. 1958? One year before one of Walt's most expensive films, Sleeping Beauty, was released. 1967? One year after Walt's death and arguably the beginning of Disney's "Dark Age." 1983? In the midst of Disney's "Dark Age" -- it wouldn't release another animated film until two years later, and that film was The Black Cauldron. 1987? Once again in the midst of Disney's Dark Age -- Disney's hand-drawn animation studio was on its last legs, with its heroic release of The Little Mermaid still two years away. Even Snow White's final release in 1993 made it the very first film to be entirely scanned to digital, restored, and then re-recorded to film. And every single time it came back to theaters, this film made bank. It was profitable every single time, even after over fifty years. And this doesn't even touch the home video/DVD/Blu-Ray or streaming markets.
On a personal note, I recently unearthed an old home movie of myself at age three, on Christmas. I was so excited about one particular present I'd received that I wouldn't let go of it for a good chunk of the home movie. You want to know what that gift was? A VHS copy of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, which had only just been put out on home video two months prior. My mum presumes that I'd known Snow White only as one of our storybooks and/or as a CD, and I was so, so excited to finally get to watch the full movie. The following year at a dance recital, I was asked to talk about myself, and when asked about my favorite movie, I boldly said Snow White, and when I was asked who my favorite dwarf was, without skipping a beat I said, "Grumpy!" This is all -- for the record -- coming from a child who was never as much into romance as magic, music, and adventure and would eventually come out as asexual (though still romantic) as an adult. I certainly never saw the original Snow White as just being about waiting for a Prince or True Love's Kiss. I saw it as being about a girl who has to go through some really scary stuff, but gets through it by being kind and befriending creatures and people who help her, and the wicked woman who takes her jealousy out on her and ultimately pays the price for choosing cruelty over kindness. And I don't think I was the only one who saw the story that way.
I don't think there's necessarily anything wrong with taking a new angle on a classic story, let alone offering good-faith criticism to an older, classic film. But I think the best way to honor Snow White's legacy is not to just take the original film and rip it apart in order to prop up a "new and improved" version. I look at how Guillermo Del Toro's Pinocchio doesn't take pot-shots at Disney's Pinocchio, or how the multiple TV movie productions of Rodgers' and Hammerstein's Cinderella or the film Ever After don't take cheap shots at Disney's animated film. Sure, I think one would be foolish to act like those filmmakers weren't at least somewhat inspired by Disney's work in places -- the 1997 version of R&H's Cinderella was even produced by Disney -- but they still did their own thing, often taking a completely different direction than Disney's film in places, even despite any possible inspiration. They didn't try to copy Disney's work. They didn't try to "fix" these already beloved films. They just tried to stand on their own merits. They told the original story the way they wanted to tell it, with their own characters, plots, music, themes, and distinctive tone, rather than take someone else’s adaptation of the material and pick and choose what they wanted to copy from it so as to leech off that adaptation’s fanbase. And I truly wish more Disney "remakes" would do that, as opposed to taking these pre-established films and then either ripping them apart and putting them back together Frankenstein-style or adding a whole bunch of insubstantial, fluffy whipped cream to an already perfect sundae. Then maybe we could have two special, unique films to enjoy as two separate entities -- the way we can enjoy films like Disney's Peter Pan and Peter Pan (2003), or Tangled and Barbie as Rapunzel, or (most relevantly of all) Disney's Cinderella and Rodgers' and Hammerstein's Cinderella simultaneously -- rather than having to act like we're "fixing" or even "replacing" old classics that a lot of people still really love and Disney clearly doesn't want to stop marketing.
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Hey! I'm Ruby and I'm new here on Tumblr. I've known Becker and the Liver boys for years from watching the games a few years ago. Can I ask for a cool fanfic between Jurgen and Ali? Maybe something hurt/comfort, to start the year off right?
Glad to see a new Liverpool fan on here :) Here it is
New Year, Same Liverpool
Tags: @millythegoat, @alissonbecksfan234, @moomin279
Warnings: OOC Mo, OOC Ali (though for a good reason)
Nobody ever listened to him.
Alisson smashed a bottle against his locker. The plastic canteen fell to the ground with a thunk that echoed around the locker room. He couldn’t care less.
Alisson was usually a quiet person, both on and off the pitch. He much preferred doing his job in the shadows than commanding everybody from the spotlight. He knew being vocal was important sometimes but it wasn’t for him, thank you very much.
Now he wished he was louder, scarier. He wished his teammates listened to him.
He’d sounded the alarm bells multiple times. He’d even taken to shouting, which hurt his throat, while organizing his teammates for setpieces. It was hopeless, because nobody ever took the time to consider if his words had merit to them. Nobody did—not Fabinho, not Van Dijk, not even Salah.
It was halftime.
They were 2-0 down at Brentford.
And for once in his life, Alisson Ramses Becker was mad.
He was mad at Van Dijk, who’d been nonexistent. At Nunez, for missing all those chances. At Konate, for scoring his own goal—even though Alisson knew he shouldn’t be.
One by one, the others bar Elliott, Tsimikas and Van Dijk filtered into the locker room. Alisson didn’t even want to face them, he was seething.
“Well…” Konate sighed. “That didn’t go as planned.”
You think? Alisson didn’t bother to say it.
Fabinho nodded. “We all played below our standards.”
He knew it was unlike him. But at this moment Alisson wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into Fabinho’s bald head.
We? There is no we. You played below standards. I saved your butts from being down by 6.
Salah shrugged, wrapping his towel around his shoulders. “Maybe you defenders should have listened to Virg. He’s the captain, after all.”
And where did THAT get us, Mohammed Salah? Alisson glared at the Egyptian, but he didn’t pay attention. As usual, nobody notices.
The bell rang, signaling that it was time for the second half. If Liverpool wasn’t goalless, Alisson would’ve sabotaged things so the match could stop.
Normally he would never think of doing that. But he was fed up with being ignored.
*
By some miracle, Alisson got his wish. Oxlaide-Chamberlain—of all people—halved the deficit with a header. Alisson prayed to every saint he knew for an equalizer, something to quell the foreign rage inside of him.
And then Brentford scored a third, right before the 90-minute mark.
This was getting ridiculous.
The final whistle couldn’t come soon enough for Alisson. He wasn’t even disappointed—just fuming at his teammates.
“What the hell, Van Dijk?!” he yelled at the Dutchman. Van Dijk, who’d been reading on his phone, nearly dropped it with surprise.
“Ali, do you have a fever or something?” Van Dijk scanned Alisson for anything suspicious. “Were you even talking to me?”
“Virgil Van Dijk, what the hell is that? What in the name of the devil do you call that? A performance?” he roared.
Van Dijk blinked in confusion. “I know we didn’t play well Ali, but—”
“WE?! The hell, there is no we! YOU played like absolute crap.”
Salah looked up from his phone. “That’s pretty accurate, actually.”
“Oh, don’t even get me started on you, Mo,” the goalkeeper seethed. “You were absolutely shambolic out there. Even Ox played better than you today.”
“Really?” Salah shot back. “I can count at least five balls Ox missed. You didn’t do much better either, Ali.”
The world seemed to screech to a halt around Alisson. “Excuse me?”
“You could’ve saved the third goal if you tried, easily. If you’d spoken up you could have organized the defense.” The Egyptian didn’t even flinch as he said this. “Ali, I know you hate criticism—”
“What are you talking about?” At least Keita was on Alisson’s side. He stepped out of the showers, glaring at Salah. “You messed your own chances up, Mo. Ali had nothing to do with it.”
“Mates, MATES!” Robertson yelled from the bench. “You know the gaffer wouldn’t like this.”
Alisson glared at the Scot so hard, he shivered in his shoes. “The boss should be proud of me. It’s about time I got mad at you all for the nonexistent protection you give me!”
He stared at Tsimikas and Matip. “You two are absolute jokes, just like Virg. When will we get actual players who care about the game? Me, Lucho, Robbo, Darwin, and Caoimhin are the only ones here who give an iota of a damn about our dignity.”
“Like father, like son,” Fabinho whispered to Elliott. Alisson wanted to shoot a laser through him.
“Are you okay?” Robertson had the sense to ask. “You don’t usually yell like this.”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. As if switching off a light, all the rage drained from his soul. One by one Alisson’s heart sank as he registered all the things he’d said to his teammates.
“Ali?” A hand rested on his shoulder, and another on his head. He couldn’t tell who it was. “Are you okay?”
*
He’d run away to a broom closet. After a whole display of rage-induced self-confidence, he’d ran away and hid in a broom closet as usual. How pathetic.
“Ali! Are you here?”
Great. Alisson groaned, facepalming. They told the boss I’m missing, and they probably told him what I said, too. He’ll be so disappointed with me.
“Ali?” The door began to open. “Tell me if you’re in here or not.”
“Present,” he said weakly.
The door opened fully, letting in all the sounds and light in the stadium. Alisson could still hear the PA system blasting Brentford’s anthem “Hey Jude”, which had been written and performed by the Beatles.
How ironic.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Klopp, taking a seat on a bucket. “I just want to say, Ali: those goals were not your fault.”
“Mo thinks so.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because nobody listens to me, even when I speak up,” Alisson admitted, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so maldito quiet all the time, nobody hears me out even when I have something important to say.”
Klopp pulled Alisson into his arms. “I know just how you feel. Back when I was playing I was pretty quiet as well. When I became player-manager it took a while for them to listen to my verdict on things.”
“If I was like Hendo,” said Alisson, muffled by the gray puffer jacket, “maybe they’d listen to me.”
“No, this has nothing to do with you,” Klopp insisted. “The other guys need to learn to take you seriously during the matches. Just because you’re quiet doesn’t mean you don’t have valuable input. You could do better than some of those referees when it comes to the rules.”
“So can I yell at Virg if he doesn’t listen to me?”
This made Klopp laugh. “No, you can’t. But I will be having a talk with the others about listening to you. Your input is important Ali, and it especially will be if we’re going to make the top-4 this season.” He groaned, clutching his leg in one hand. “Now let’s get out of here, huh? My old legs are getting cramped.”
Alisson suddenly realized that his legs were cramping, too. He really needed to find better hiding spaces than broom closets. “Yeah.”
#alisson#alisson becker#virgil van djik#andy robertson#andy robbo#andrew robertson#mo salah#mohamed salah#naby keïta#jurgen klopp#liverpool#liverpool fc#liverpool men#lfc players#lfc#soccer fanfiction#soccer fanfiction by lynn#soccer#football imagine#football fanfic#football blurb#football
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My Lord of the Rings Musical Merch
I've been collecting LotR Musical merch for a couple of years now, so here's a list of all items I've acquired since 2015:
a mouse pad
contents of a Virgin Atlantic amenity pack: a pair of socks, a pen (with a tiiiiny logo on it), a sleeping mask & a bag tag (missing: a small flyer)
the Original London Cast Recording (2008) containing a CD (cast album), a DVD (cast album in better quality + alternative version of "The Song of Hope" + pictures) & a booklet [scan]; available to purchase
the Official Stage Companion book by Gary Russell (2007) [request scan]; available to purchase
a kitchen magnet
a mug from Toronto
a West End brochure containing lots of photos and a map of Middle-earth in the back [request scan]
an orange flyer featuring Laura Michelle Kelly (Galadriel) and Steven Miller (Boromir) on the cover [scan]
a green flyer featuring Rosalie Craig (Arwen) on the cover [scan]
a blue pre-West End opening flyer featuring the Toronto cast on the inside [scan]
a Toronto programme, June/August 2006 edition [request scan]
a West End programme distributed during previews, May/June 2007 [request scan]
a West End programme, opening night edition, June 2007 [request scan]
a regular West End programme, Original West End Cast, 2007-early 2008 [request scan]
a later West End programme, post-Galadriel change and swing additions, 2008; includes an understudy slip [request scan]
Merch not included in the pictures above:
a set of 4 colourful postcards (x)
a set of 7 white postcards (x)
5 posters: Aragorn, Gandalf, Boromir & Galadriel, Hobbits, Logo
a Cologne promo DVD featuring the West End press reels (x) [request files]
the West End vocal score [request PDF]
Lists of collectibles from Toronto and the West End available; they include promo CDs and flyers I've never seen anywhere else.
Items sold at the theatre(s) that are not part of my collection (yet):
a shirt inspired by Galadriel's costume, Toronto (x)
posters featuring Arwen (green) and Galadriel (yellow)
a poster featuring a Black Rider, Toronto
a t-shirt with the logo
a baseball cap with the logo
an opening night invitation card
a fan (x)
a key chain (resembling the kitchen magnet)
a board game
[previous post: April 2020 including later additions]
#lotr musical merch#lotr musical#lord of the rings musical#masterpost#emeraldposts#posting this for future masterpost reasons
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@cultepics and #MVDEntertainmentGroup are pleased to announce a new distribution deal for their catalog and future releases, effective June 1, 2022.
Cult Epics has an exciting new release schedule with several music-related films, slated for the summer is Naked Over the Fence (1973) featuring Sylvia Kristel on Blu-ray August 23, which will include a bonus CD of the soundtrack by cult composer Ruud Bos with Sylvia Kristel on vocals on the track “Hey, A Letter Came Today,” bundled with the first 1000 Blu-ray copies (courtesy of Universal Music).
The schedule continues with Just Jaeckin’s The Last Romantic Lover (1978) on October 25, who discovered Sylvia Kristel for the role of Emmanuelle after Naked Over the Fence. The Last Romantic Lover is his personal favorite of the films he directed, and stars Dayle Haddon (Madame Claude) and has a music score by Pierre Bachelet (Emmanuelle). Following that on November 22, with rights courtesy of the Estate of Gainsbourg, Cult Epics will release the soundtrack of Madame Claude by Serge Gainsbourg featuring Jane Birkin on vocals later this year and reissue the Blu-ray in an edition of 1000 copies with a bonus CD of the long-out-of-print score.
All titles will be available on Blu-ray and DVD. All new releases have been scanned in 4K and have additional bonus features.
@cultepics also released on June 8, 2022 the companion book to the Sylvia Kristel 1970s Collection Blu-ray and DVD collection (which is nearly sold out - last copies available thru MVD), Sylvia Kristel: From Emmanuelle to Chabrol by Jeremy Richey, Hardcover book available thru SCB Distributors and in book stores.
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On this day in Wikipedia: Saturday, 21st October
Welcome, Bienvenue, Willkommen, Bienvenida 🤗
What does @Wikipedia say about 21st October through the years 🏛️📜🗓️?
21st October 2021 🗓️ : Event - Rust shooting incident
A shooting occurs on the set of the film Rust, in which actor Alec Baldwin discharged a prop weapon which had been loaded, killing the director of photography, Halyna Hutchins, and injuring director Joel Souza.
"On October 21, 2021, at the Bonanza Creek Ranch in Bonanza City, New Mexico, cinematographer Halyna Hutchins was fatally shot and director Joel Souza was injured on the set of the film Rust when a live round was discharged from a revolver used as a prop by actor Alec Baldwin. The incident was..."
21st October 2015 🗓️ : Death - Marty Ingels
Marty Ingels, American actor (b. 1936)
"Martin Ingerman (March 9, 1936 – October 21, 2015), known professionally as Marty Ingels, was an American actor, comedian, comedy sketch writer and theatrical agent, who is best known as the co-star of the 1960s television series I'm Dickens, He's Fenster...."
Image by ABC Television
21st October 2013 🗓️ : Death - Óscar Yanes
Oscar Yanes, Venezuelan journalist and author (b. 1927)
"Óscar Armando Yanes González (25 April 1927–21 October 2013) was a Venezuelan journalist and bestselling author, considered a pioneer in Venezuelan broadcast journalism. He was awarded three times with the National Prize for Journalism...."
Image licensed under CC BY 2.5? by Guillermo Ramos Flamerich
21st October 1973 🗓️ : Event - Fred Dryer
Fred Dryer of the Los Angeles Rams becomes the first player in NFL history to score two safeties in the same game.
"John Frederick Dryer (born July 6, 1946) is an American actor, radio host, and former professional football player. He was a defensive end in the National Football League (NFL) for 13 years, participating in 176 games starting in 1969 until his retirement in 1981. He recorded 103 career sacks with..."
Image by Howdythere at English Wikipedia
21st October 1923 🗓️ : Birth - Samuel Khachikian
Samuel Khachikian, Iranian director, screenwriter, and author (d. 2001)
"Samuel Khachikian (Armenian: Սամուէլ Խաչիկեան Armenian pronunciation: [sɑm'vɛl χɑtʃʰik'jɑn]; Persian: ساموئل خاچیکیان; October 21, 1923 – October 22, 2001) was an Iranian film director, screenwriter, author, and film editor of Armenian descent. He was one of the most influential figures of Iranian..."
Image by Unknown. Published in 1964.
21st October 1821 🗓️ : Birth - Sims Reeves
Sims Reeves, English tenor and actor (d. 1900)
"John Sims Reeves (21 October 1821 – 25 October 1900) was an English operatic, oratorio and ballad tenor vocalist during the mid-Victorian era. Reeves began his singing career in 1838 but continued his vocal studies until 1847. He soon established himself on the opera and concert stage and became..."
Image by Photo by Barraud, Scan by Steven J Plunkett from private copy of book
21st October 🗓️ : Holiday - Christian feast day: Peter Yu Tae-chol
"Peter Yu Tae-chol (유대철 베드로) (c. 1826 – October 31, 1839) was one of the 103 canonised Korean Martyrs martyred during the Gihae persecution of 1839, and a son of a government interpreter named Augustine Nyou Tjin-kil, also a martyr. His feast day is October 21, and he is also venerated along with the..."
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The Mosley Review: M3GAN
Yeah, its about that time for a horror thriller to explore another side of the "killer doll" genre. Anybody else remember way back in the early 2000's when the biggest kids’s toy was the Baby Alive dolls? Back in the day, when I worked my first job in retail, I remember how creepy those toys were to stock or even walk past. After the store closed at night, we would clean up the aisles and put things back on the shelves. I always hated fixing up the baby toy aisle because of how I always felt those babies were looking at me. The main lights in the store were off and we had the "closed" lights on and everytime I walked down that aisle, one of those things would start to talk. I always wondered what if the day came that there would be an advanced version of those things. Well, here we are with the more grown up version that reminded me of those toys and the toys from Small Soldiers. To say the film was unsettling and creepy is easy, but what makes it great is the subtle visuals and expressions made by the character of M3GAN herself. The film also delves into the psychological nature of childhood trauma and attachments which I loved, but I felt it got wrapped up a little too easily. In all horror thrillers there are some dumb decisions that are made and this film really has some characters that lack some basic logic.
Allison Williams was good in the film as the emotionally disconnected roboticist Gemma. I liked her constantly calculating mind, but she is probably the dumbest smart person in the film. She created M3GAN and did so with such speed, that even Dr. Ian Malcolm would've asked her to stop and think if she should've. There are times where Allison comes off a little bland and didn't have any empathy which may be by design for her character, but I think more should've been done. Ronny Chieng was excellent and overly mean as Gemma's douche bag boss David Lin. He embodied that ambitious and impatient type of boss who treats his assistant like trash. Violet McGraw was fantastic as Cady and I loved the amount of grief and trauma building within her. You see her go through a whole spectrum of emotions after the intense opening moments of the film and she delivers a great example of a child dealing with depression and so much more. That all gets amplified once she meets the titular character and man was she impressive. Amie Donald provided the physical performance and Jenna Davis provided the voice of M3GAN and the two of them brought the character to life perfectly. The character alone was absolutely fascinating as she learned so fast that humans can be great and also horrible. Amie's physical performance was amazing as she moved so distinctively as a robot and so violently once M3GAN becomes "aware". Jenna's vocal performance was outstanding and made you actually empathize a bit with the character. She doesn't really know what it is to be "alive" and to know when to stop. She has her base programming to protect Cady, but there is something else so primal and eerie behind her silicone eyes. I loved M3GAN and I think she was one of the most intoxicating characters on screen.
The score by Anthony Willis was good and added to the tension and creep factor. One of the major standouts in the film is the amazing amount articulation the face of M3GAN goes through. The makeup and animatronic team behind the film have nailed the subtle expressions and reactions that M3GAN has when encountering a problem or even scanning a human's facial expression. She was so life like that it was ridiculously scary at times. For years Child's Play was the king of the killer doll genre, but I think M3GAN could possibly be on her way to challenge the thrown. Let me know what you thought of the film or my review in comments below. Thanks for reading!
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Chord piano is fun pdf files
CHORD PIANO IS FUN PDF FILES >>Download
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All frank sinatra songs download
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This was the first recording that Sinatra made with the Count Basie Orchestra. Sinatra-Basie) is a 1962 studio album by Frank Sinatra, arranged by Neal Hefti. Sinatra–Basie: An Historic Musical First (a.k.a.
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song of the summer - bang chan
→pairing: ceo bang chan x gn reader
→genre: kinda strangers to lovers
→synopsis: he runs one of the biggest music companies in the country, yet he inducts you to help aid him and his friends, each of them deemed as representatives of the ‘big three’, for their next official comeback.
→word count: 12.5k
→ warnings: swearing, shitty father figure
i.
A single question hangs over the dim conference room you’ve somehow scored a seat in. Does the general public want to see 3Racha? Bluntly, the answer is right in front of you. Glowing against the whiteboard from the overhead projector, the carefully curated slideshow answers the rhetorical question.
One of the dance representatives from the back of the room twirls his pen between his fingers. Leaning back in his chair, he apathetically wonders aloud, “So it’s true, then?”
“What’s that, Mr. Lee?” the marketing representative, a Mr. Choi, holds his remote between both hands as he leans toward the table. The word ‘full’ dances across his face as he steps in front of the projector’s path.
“That they’re making a comeback. A full one?”
Mr. Choi nods, scanning the rest of the patrons’ reactions with squinted eyes as he says, “That would be correct.”
Of course, the three who would walk onstage and perform aren’t here. Mr. Bang is probably running around, abiding by his role as the professional CEO who never skips a beat. Regarding the other two, you’re not sure. They’re not as predictable.
The project is pretty tight in terms of what needs to be met. Summer is around the corner, and everyone and their mother will be fighting to hold that mere title of having the temporary greatest hit. When the general public awaits their yearly easily digestible, flowery songs.
“Keep in mind that we are all under Bang! Entertainment,” Choi remarks, clicking to his next slide displaying headlines questioning the company’s next move. “It should go without saying, but all eyes will be on us as the season turns.”
You stare at the bolded words, trying to digest each of them. Joining the company was likely the best decision you’ve ever made, outside of adopting a cat named Loba. When you got scouted as a producer, you were under a different company. Bang! offered a contract, but didn’t require an interview because they ‘didn’t want to invalidate or question a talent they’ve already seen.’
It was an ego boost.
“I’m sure you all know what your roles are in this,” Choi says, taking glances around the room to make sure each face isn’t lost or distant. This is 3Racha we’re talking about. Everything must be perfect.
You take a glance of your own. A few belong to the dance department, some to hair and makeup; however, you are the only producer here.
You raise a low hand to garner Mr. Choi’s attention. “Why am I here?” you subsequently ask, dropping your hand and crossing it against your chest as before.
“The team personally requested you,” he says.
Connections, you instantly understand. In a place like this, in a time like this, they’re a necessity. Nepotism is practically required in the world of music, hence why it sucks for most aspiring indie artists. You didn’t choose to befriend a guy who happens to be best friends with one of the big three here. So, you cast a blind eye.
It’s all a game of luck.
The meeting doesn’t run much longer. A concluding statement with hints of a threat if anyone messes up rings through your ears. A project end date of July 20th, when the album is supposed to go live. You’re not nervous, per se. Simply blindsided given the lack of information. What’s the song about? When’s the due date? Will 3Racha come to you first, or do you have to take time out of your day to the CEO’s harrowing office? The uncertainties aggravate the impulse of opening a new document on your computer and delving into your producer rituals. You can’t create someone else’s project out of blankness. And that irritates you to no end.
Someone throws their arm around your shoulder in an attempt to throw you off your purposeful stride.
“Congrats,” the belonger says.
You glance over to look, even though you know the voice well. He is your connection, of course.
“Thanks.”
Minho pulls you back to a slower pace. Familiar faces from the meeting pass you to the elevator, a majority in a meaningless chatter. They expected an appearance on this project.
“What are you doing tonight?” he finally asks, stopping altogether and dropping his arm from your shoulder.
You shrug, looking curiously at him. Minho’s not one to beat around the bush.
“Hypothetically,” he starts, “how would you feel being invited to bro night?”
“And actually witness you or Felix puke on the lawn instead of hearing about it? No thanks,” you scoff, making an attempt to abandon the situation by following the distancing crowd.
He grabs your wrist, spinning you back to him. “Please?” His eyes are pleading, glaring back at you like an innocent kitten.
You tip your head and sigh. “Why?”
Instead of cutting to the chase, he sucks in a deep breath and says, “I’ll pay you.”
An eyebrow cocks. Regardless of your amusement—a desperate Minho doesn’t appear often—worries consume you. “What’s up? Why are you acting like this?”
Wary eyes jump around the hallway before they land back on you. “Follow me,” he mumbles.
His steps are calculated as he guides you to the elevator and presses the floor his office resides on. The ride is silent, as is the walk down the hall. You step into the room first, and he closes the door behind him. Despite the urge to ask if he’s about to murder you, you bite your tongue and take a seat on his upholstered couch. Identical to the one in your office.
Gently, he lowers himself into his chair. A few minutes pass of you simply staring at each other. Nerves crawl up your spine and you disguise them with a snarky comment. “Are you going to tell me why you’re willing to bribe me into spending time with your friends?”
In the time he takes to respond, you think about how the only mutual friend you have is Jisung. Sure, you know everyone on a name basis; but it’s not like you’ve known them as long as Minho. He doesn’t have other, more qualified, friends to drag to bro night?
“Chan’s kinda in a mood right now,” Minho’s words are slurred by the breath he releases as he speaks.
“And?” you press.
“I want you to see it before you work with him. And for him to understand you in advance. Y’know. You’re a little,” he hesitates, “forward sometimes.”
You should take this as an insult, but you can’t because words’ owner knows you too well. Minho never speaks unjustly.
“Touche,” you nod. It’s better to own up to your flaws. If you don’t, that’s how you end up walking into a carefully curated narcissistic personality.
His features loosen as he presses his forearms on his thighs. “So. You in?”
“I don’t really have a choice,” you emit a wry laugh. All in one sentence, you’ve managed to prove his point. It’s simple, really.
“You see, I’ve already told the boys you’re coming. Either way, I would’ve gotten you to go. The only other option would have been to threaten you with a knife,” he admits. As you gawk at him in awe, realizing you stand in the same boat, a proud grin grows on his face. With time, you begin to mirror the ones you admire. Friends, for example.
“I think Seungmin will like you,” he adds.
“Why do you say that?”
All you know of Kim Seungmin is that he’s in the vocal department, along with his younger counterpart Yang Jeongin, and that he’s a menace. Minho’s words.
“You’re both evil.”
That’s the last straw. You stand up without a word and stomp for the door.
His laugh echoes behind you, striking a quieter one of your own. Still, you stay in character and slip out into the hallway. Minho has won too many of these scenarios.
ii.
Loba sneaks into the kitchen as you wait impatiently for Minho. Thirty minutes. That’s how late he is. You consider texting him, but acknowledge the possibility he’s stuck in traffic or something. Agitation tells you to do it anyway since he only lives two blocks over.
The orange cat paws at your calf for attention, momentarily distracting you as you set your phone down on the counter. Minho’s chat is wide open. She, too, finds excuses for him.
Her head nuzzles against your palm as you scratch behind her ears. She meddles successfully enough to trick you into feeding her a few treats. While you reach for the top shelf of your pantry, a pair of footsteps sneak up behind you. Heavier than Loba’s.
“Did the cat convince you to spoil her again?”
“Son of a-” you recoil, whirling around to greet the man, the myth, the late bastard.
The familiar appearance of a sly smirk, mischievous eyes, and an outfit that makes him look like a casual runway model, pierce your vision.
“You’re late,” you mutter, stepping past him and scooping Loba up. You rest her head on your left arm, cradling her like a baby. She tilts her head up to stare back at Minho. Traitor.
Minho grabs the bag of treats for you.
“Sorry, I had to pick up Jisung. He’s in the car,” his voice trails as he slips his thumbs between the plastic fold and focuses on opening the difficult seal.
“Damn it,” he curses. Karma arrives faster in deserving situations.
“It took you thirty extra minutes to pick him up?”
He deadpans, “You know he likes to be presentable for the boys.”
When you don’t give him the satisfaction of a single laugh, let alone a change in emotion, he whines, “Oh come on, that was funny.”
“You trick me into going to your stupid hangout, and now you have the nerve to show up late?”
He sneaks a few treats to Loba. “You’re really not mad at me right now, are you?”
“Irritated, at the least,” you admit.
“Well, then I’m sorry. Jisung got off late so I had to wait at Bang! for him.”
The words sink into your skin, but you don’t acknowledge them further. The anger fades on the walk down to the car, a great distance separating you and Minho. It’s practically dissipated by the time you climb into the backseat of Minho’s Kia Soul.
Jisung turns in the front seat and offers his hand at an awkward angle. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”
You hold your seatbelt in one hand, accepting his with the other as you force a measly smile. “Same for you. Thanks for suggesting me to Mr. Bang.”
Confusion warps his face, twisting his eyebrows in a weird knit as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. Must’ve been Chan.”
Minho drops himself into the driver’s seat, suspending any further questioning.
Jisung returns to his original poise as when you approached the car. Eyes focused on his phone, actively typing something out.
You click your seatbelt into locking. An unnatural feeling plagues your gut. Mr. Bang wanted you on the team? It feels unlikely, but you know Jisung wouldn’t joke like that. Even if he were the type, his acting of unawareness gives away the truth.
Minho glances back at you in the mirror. “Ready?” he asks as his hand rests on the gearshift.
You press your lips into a line as you nod. “Mhm.”
You stare down at your hands carefully folded in your lap. For the first time since before producing, the itch to create is drowned by an intense, overwhelming brew of something lingering in your veins.
The expectation of you has pierced through the roof and is shooting out of the stratosphere.
Chan—Jisung quickly advised you to drop all formalities, so you’re rewiring your thoughts—has a home in Gangnam. Fitting for his status, but smaller than you expected. It’s still able to fit at least four of your apartment in it, though.
Jisung and Minho walk ahead of you up the stairs. The elevators in rich apartments on this end can only fit two people if you really scrunch together. What’s the money for, then?
“Today’s Monopoly night, right?” Jisung examines Minho’s side profile as he cautiously lifts one foot after the other. The stairs here are steeper than any you’ve seen. Hiking sounds better than this.
He hums in approval. “I guess we’ll sort teams later. We probably won’t live through the night with last week’s.”
A brash laugh escapes Jisung’s lips, subsequently echoing against the walls and bouncing back to your ears. “Right.”
You tune out their conversation for the rest of the climb, settling for watching your shoelaces sway with each step.
Jisung pushes on the door for the fourth floor, holding it open until you’re fully into the hallway. “Chan’s the second door on the right,” Jisung nods to one of the identical doors along the hall—appearing more expensive than your monthly rent with its rich stain.
Minho doesn’t bother knocking, instead opting for trying the doorknob. It allows access to the gigantic living space and the loud chatter previously muffled by walls.
You must be the last to arrive, but you probably could’ve guessed such.
“Hey,” Jeongin looks up from his conversation, inspiring a round of greetings from all the others.
“You all know each other enough so I’ll skip the introductions,” Minho glances between you and the group, starting for an empty end of the couch.
When Jisung follows his lead, you take a headcount. It appears everyone’s present except Chan—his birth name still feels awkwardly informal in your thoughts. You glance down the dark hallway to your right, counting one, two, three closed doors. Nature drags you into curiosity.
Seungmin, your alleged evil twin, waves you over.
As you take the empty spot beside him, he says, “Sorry, you looked a little awkward just standing there. Thought I’d save you before Hyunjin said something.” He shoots a pointed nod at the long-haired blond lounging between Changbin and Minho.
“Oh. Thanks,” you force a little smile that imitates gratitude. You didn’t feel awkward observing, but maybe your aura screamed otherwise.
Jeongin leans slightly over Seungmin’s shoulder with an inquisitive eye. “How did Minho convince you to come?”
“Blackmail,” you nod. Not attempting to summon a laugh, but managing so in the process.
“That’s Minho for you,” Seungmin tips his head in a slightly disbelieving manner.
“It’s okay, though. We’ll make tonight fun for you,” Jeongin raises his hand, and you meet it with a high-five.
Bro night might not be as bad as you thought.
“If only Chan comes out from his room,” Seungmin mutters, particularly to himself, as he leans his arm on the back of the couch and twists his body to look back into the hallway.
Questions. You want to ask them, but then Minho’s words return in full, blaring effect. Forward, he said. Meaning: blunt. In your face.
You bite your tongue. Redirect the temptation, you think, as your eyes scan the room. Admittedly, it’s odd seeing all these people away from their respective passions. However, Changbin’s phone is cradled in his hands, and his fingers are typing away potential lyrics. Felix, too, is hiding the fact his fingers are mirroring the directions of his recent choreography. Maybe passions are always a shadow of you.
“Should we just fix teams?” Minho says above the impatient silence.
“We can,” Hyunjin leans his forearms on his thighs. His hair falls in front of his shoulders like he’s some kind of Greek god.
“Team captains?” Seungmin asks.
“Let’s do the oldest of each unit, but since Chan’s God-knows-where, Changbin can represent,” Minho nods, glancing around for looks of satisfaction.
“Sure, rock-paper-scissors for who goes first?” Seungmin pushes a strand of hair out of his eye.
Short story short, Minho wins the first round with a victorious cheer of, “Easy!”
“You only say that because you know they always pick scissors first,” you accuse.
Minho points a finger at you, “Allegedly.”
You land a spot on Minho’s team since he got the first pick of the litter. Then, by Minho’s attempt at matchmaking, Chan lands on your team.
As you’re moving spots, you shoot Seungmin a sad, unmoving look.
He laughs, pushing you towards Minho. “Maybe next time.”
“What?” Minho glances between you. “Are you planning a coup against me?”
“You wish, Lee Minho,” you sigh, falling into the empty space beside him.
After a few beats of silence, for good measure, Minho leans down to your ear and says, “I told you you’d like him.”
“Yeah, he’s like a better version of you,” you turn to see the predictable look of offense on his features.
“Fine then, get Seungmin to drive you home,” he pouts, crossing his arms against his chest and pushing his back into the couch.
“Oh come on,” you nudge his elbow, laughing at his exaggeration.
You see a smile tug at his lips before he breaks, letting a chuckle break through his barrier.
In the remaining meantime that you wait, Minho calls dibs on the cat. Seungmin’s team claims the dog, with an offhand comment from Minho going, “You would choose the dog.” Finally, Changbin’s team chooses the hat.
“Is that a joke because you’re so short? So you can gain a few inches with the hat?” Hyunjin jabs.
Changbin reaches over the couch to try and hit him.
From this end of the couch, you can look directly into the dark, mysterious hallway. You watch as the second door knob slowly turns. You focus on it, and the shouting dispute fades out in your ears.
Chan steps out from the room, carefully closing the door behind him so as to not bring all the eyes on him at once. You fight your facial expressions to remain neutral as you take in his appearance—which is shockingly normal. Suits are his workplace fashion, and consequently, all you’ve seen him in. Now, he wears black basketball shorts and a black tee. His hair is even loosening into curls. Is this the same man who runs a massive music company? Are we sure?
His cover is blown the moment he steps into the light of the living room. Jeongin warily points a finger in your direction, “You’re on their team.”
Chan presses his lips into a makeshift smile as he approaches you and Minho. He pushes out a small ‘hey’ before taking his spot on the other side of Minho.
His reclusive figure makes your heart wrench. You wish you could have talked Minho out of going. To him, you’re just an outsider he has to put a front up for. But, the thing is, he isn’t trying to build a barrier. It appears that he doesn’t have any more energy to try.
You catch yourself staring when Minho nudges your knee with his. “You take the first roll.”
Collecting the die, you notice your hands trembling a little. Not good. You manage, somehow knocking Seungmin’s dog in the process. He feigns shock, whining in an accusatory tone, “You’re no different than Minho.”
The choir of laughter shuffles you back into reality when you glance back at your accused teammate, catching the look of the other. The corners of Chan’s lips are slightly turning up into a smile.
Whew. You’re amazed by the amount of relief that little smile gives you.
iii.
The game trails into the early hours of the morning, and a few times a boy will point at Chan and say, in an attempt to be lighthearted, “This is all your fault.”
To the dismay of the rivals, Changbin’s team manages to win. Jisung, a member of Seungmin’s team, flips the board twenty turns too late at the news. “This game is stupid!” he laughs through his words.
“You’re cleaning that up,” Changbin says as the money flutters to the rug beneath the glass coffee table. A cue for the group to laugh blinks above their heads, each varying in intensity. Hyunjin even claps a few times, for his vocal contribution pales insufficient.
Jisung slumps to the ground, “I know.”
Chan lifts himself from the couch to aid him with a lingering smile from all the laughs. As the night progressed, he seemed to slowly inch into his ‘normal’ state, as Jisung had referred to in the car.
Minho slips his phone out from his pocket. At the single-digit time, nearing close to sunrise, he heaves a sigh and pushes himself up. “Guess I should get you home.”
He extends a hand to help you up.
“You’re leaving already?” Seungmin asks.
“Uh, yeah. It’s like three A.M.,” Minho squints at him, turning his lit home screen at him for proof.
Chan snickers as he stacks all the thousands. “That’s early for me.”
See? He’s even making jokes now. This is a weird normal, considering all you know of him is his status, but admittedly better than whatever funk he was previously in.
“See you on Monday, I’ll just spend the night,” Jisung lifts his hand in a semi-wave.
Chan doesn’t protest. Instead, he looks up at you and sticks his hand up. “Can’t wait to work with you,” and smiles. Dimples indent his cheeks in a way that makes your stomach churn.
You take his hand and mirror his smile, though it’s rather genuine in comparison to the one you offered Jisung.
Minho has the decency to wait to call you out on it until you’re in the soundproof safety of his car.
“I saw that,” he says.
“What?”
“The smile. Don’t like Chan. That’d be way too awkward for me.”
You laugh, examining his twisted face of disgust as he starts the car. “Why?”
You’re not asking out of curiosity. You don’t like Chan, and you don’t see yourself liking him anytime soon. Or in the far future, for that matter. It’s just so easy to mess with Minho.
“Uh, my best friend dating my other best friend? That’s third-wheel central. I’m too hot to be a third wheel.”
Later, as you’re unbuckling your seatbelt to venture into the apartment building, Minho mumbles, “But, I mean, if you like him it’s whatever. I don’t want you feeling like you have to hide anything from me.”
You punch his arm.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You’re getting all sappy on me again. You don’t have to worry about stuff like that, dude,” you frown. Above anything Minho can say to you, his insecurities taking over his words hurts the most.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, then adding, “Unless you want to come over sometime this weekend. I’ll be home.”
He smiles, though you sense the differing thoughts behind his eyes. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” you say before shutting the door.
iv.
In all the wrong ways, Monday comes too fast. Faster than you can process Friday night, essentially.
You try to scramble your remaining thoughts into order as you walk into the lobby.
Is Chan going to be normal today? Hoping so. Why was that relief so astonishing? Did Minho catch onto something-
“Hey, Y/N!” Jisung intercepts your thoughts.
Your eyes involuntarily widen as he pops out from seemingly nowhere. Your gaze drifts to his outstretched hands, offering you one of the drinks each brandishes.
“I didn’t know which you’d prefer, and Minho wasn’t awake so I couldn’t text him. So, I got coffee and tea.”
You take your pick and nod a ‘thank you.’
“How was your weekend?” you find yourself asking as he leads you to the elevator.
He shrugs, “I did absolutely nothing other than a brain detox for this project. You?”
Despite his back being to you, your chin twitches into a nod. “Same as you, pretty much.”
“I think Chan’s in a good enough mood,” Jisung glances back at you as he reaches for the up arrow on the elevator’s panel.
“Sweet.”
Minho is your gateway to an easy conversation. Of course, he’s not here, but you slightly wish he was. You’re forced to meander in an abrasive silence until the elevator takes you up to the eighth floor.
Eight, because Chan detests the idea of being too close to anyone. He doesn’t want his presence to divide anyone’s attempt at creating their best. An icon in distancing, Minho joked as during your first week under Bang!
Jisung sucks in a deep breath as he turns into a room whose door is partially cracked. “Here goes nothing.”
On the far side of the room is an L-shaped couch. Resting upon the vertical side as if he were in his own bed is Changbin. A laptop sits in his lap, closed, but his phone is inches away from his face as he types.
“It’d be more effective if you used that laptop,” Jisung comments, resting his drink on the coffee table and sitting by Changbin’s feet. Giving Changbin the perfect opportunity to wedge his foot between the younger’s ribcage. A cry of pain shoots out of Jisung’s mouth. Truly, he should have seen that coming.
“Dude!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and clutching his side.
“I told you not to mess with me,” Changbin’s eyes narrow into a warning gaze, but Jisung laughs anyway.
“You are not scary, bro.”
You start for the opposite end of the couch, pressing your back into the armrest as you watch the scene unfold. Cupping your drink with both hands, you’re unsure if the warmth stems from it or the sibling-esque fight before you.
Changbin slides the laptop off of his lap and pulls himself to his feet. He stands before Jisung, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, as his eyes flutter open, he brings his fists up.
“Come on. Fight me.”
Jisung takes a step back. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Changbin shakes his head. “I’m not.”
Jisung’s eyes flit around the room for help. It would be that when the muscle man wants to fight, the only person physically capable of pacifying him isn’t here. Pure, unadulterated luck.
“And when you break my arm, then what?” Jisung’s eyebrows raise in taunting interrogation.
“Then I break your arm? What about it? You can perform with a shattered humerus. Right, ace?”
By chance of a higher being granting Han Jisung a break, Chan enters his office with a manila folder in his hand. Only a few steps into the room, he has to halt. His hand finds his hip, releasing a big sigh as he clutches the folder. To no surprise, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Black, of course. But with a surprising navy undershirt, which you give him credit for.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to cause injury in my office? Can you imagine the lawsuit? Would you do that to your beloved friend?” he asks a stream of questions.
He seems relatively happy.
Changbin drops his fists to his sides, gaze dropping back to his abandoned laptop. He scoops it up before reclaiming his spot. To fully conclude the argument, he opens the laptop’s lid. “Jisung started it.”
The accused boy looks at Chan and silently pleads his case. His hands clasp into a prayer.
Chan waves him off with a smile and a breathy laugh before starting for his desk. He acknowledges you with a small raise of his hand.
“Ah, where to begin?” he asks, to no one in particular, as he tosses the folder onto his desk and sinks into his chair.
“Han, can you turn the projector on?” Changbin takes the initiative, reaching over the couch’s back to grab a white USB cord.
He does as told, warily trying to avoid another pseudo-fight, before rushing to the light switch and fading the room into a mass of darkness. Chan must not like having his blinds open. Black world he lives in.
Changbin’s screen presents against the vacant wall across from him. A pre-written document appears, with the title ‘TT Ideas’ and a dashed list. 1.5 spacing, you admire.
“Okay, I did my homework,” he sighs, dragging his cursor over the highlighted ideas for the title track. “These are my personal favorites, but I’m up to debate.”
Jisung shivers at those words. Debate. Meaning: duel.
In the darkness, Chan steps in front of you. He sits halfway between you and Changbin, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the list. You notice that his lips pout as he focuses, and his eyes squint a little.
You shift your own attention, for you’ll lose pacing if you stare at Chan the whole day. Changbin has highlighted unrequited love, turning the aura of summer into a song, unique abilities, and simply ‘flexing our equities’.
“Yeah, I definitely think that last one will go over well,” Jisung sardonically comments.
Changbin sighs in defeat and drags his cursor over his beloved idea, hitting the backspace in pity, “I knew you’d say that.”
“Can you elaborate on the unique abilities?” you ask, quieter than anticipated but still reaching its aim.
“Not to tute my own horn,” Changbin starts, running a hand through his hair, “but we’re sought after. When people see our names on tracklists, they immediately know the song is going to be good. They don’t sit and wonder if they’ll be disappointed, because they know with 3Racha that’s unpalatable. Hell, I saw someone tweet the other day that their favorite artist was spotted here, and the fandom went fucking crazy.
“People know what they expect from us, and that’s excellence. We deliver. You can’t say the same for a lot of producers. Doubt is inevitable for a lot of them, even if it’s only personal.”
“Couldn’t have said it better,” Jisung smirks, leaning his extended hand out to Changbin for him to high-five.
“What if we did it with an,” Chan hesitates, tilting his head at the screen to try and ease out the right words, “unnatural sound.”
“An experiment no one else could attempt,” you mumble, not expecting him to hear. His head snaps over to you, snapping, pointing a finger, and nodding.
“Exactly.”
The boys look between each other, bobbing their heads in agreement. “We can do that,” Jisung grins.
“You know, I had a feeling you would say that,” Changbin slips his phone out of his pocket, swiftly unlocking it and opening his notes app. “So I’ve already written my verse.”
“No way,” Jisung cocks his head at him.
“Okay,” Changbin mutters, “I had verses written for all the highlighted ones.”
“You are insane,” Chan chuckles, but not in an insulting tone.
From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.
v.
Until Jisung pats the pockets of his jeans two weeks later. “Shit,” he mutters, glancing back at the elevator you had just come from.
Midnight was around the corner and Jisung had promised Minho they’d go see the late-night showing of the latest horror film.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
He turns to you with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “I think I left my phone in Chan’s room. I’m gonna be late. Minho’s gonna kill me.”
You cease his rambling by putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go get it. Just tell Minho to text me when you’re done so you can pick it up. ‘Kay?”
So what if Loba’s waiting for you at home, probably pawing at the front door and meowing like, “I’m hungry”? You have a profound soft spot for Jisung. And not because Minho threatened you if you ever showed any disliking. Plus, Loba’s spoiled in all other walks of her life. She can handle you coming home a little later than usual for one night.
He breathes a sigh of relief, looking up at the high ceiling in some kind of grateful manner. “You are a lifesaver, Y/N.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you smile, starting back to the elevator as he continues his path.
The company is rather unsettling without its daytime bustle. It’s even worse on the eighth floor. A usual ghost-town, except with an increased darkness and an odd chill trailing down your back.
The hallways feel stuffy as you get close to Chan’s office, your gaze set ahead. A sniffling sound seeps into your range of hearing, though you don’t think much of it. You can get colds in summer.
Naive to think a man as esteemed as Mr. Bang would succumb to a measly cold.
As you sneak your head between the cracked door, placing your hand around its width and slightly pushing forward, the view sends your heart crashing into your stomach. Chan’s head is lowered, either hand cupping his head as incessant tears drip from his nose.
Awkwardly stepping forward, you clear your throat.
His glossy eyes, rimmed with red and slightly puffy, jump up to you. Instinctively, he attempts to discard the evidence.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he croaks, pulling his sleeve over his hand and gliding it across his damp cheek.
That’s something he could learn. If someone’s a witness, you can expect them to ease into questions. It’s only nature.
“Do you need a hug?” you attempt. Don’t be forward, don’t be blunt, don’t be mean. Minho’s reminder blinks across your vision.
He laughs, “Maybe.”
A pitiful smile creeps onto your lips as you step around the desk. Your arms link semi-awkwardly around his shoulders. He presses his cheek against your collarbone, silently crying a little. You take careful breaths, trying to stabilize your chest for him.
“Does anyone know?” Your hand rubs soft circles against his back. He shakes his head against your body. A small hiccup shakes his frame.
“You can tell me if you want.”
“I don’t want to burden you,” he manages through his tears.
You pull back a little for him to look at you. “I will smack sense into you if you say some stupid shit like that again.” In spite of his eyes crinkling into a smile—looking at you like you’re a childhood friend who he knows like the back of his hand—you try to recover. “I swear, you won’t burden me.”
He takes in a shaky breath. A blaring thought curses the forefront of your eyes. “Do you mind if we go to my apartment, though? I have a hungry cat waiting for me.”
Your arms retreat to your sides as he nods and drags the back of his hand across either cheek. “Yeah, no problem.”
You glance over at the couch, and the object of your mission stares back at you. For a second, you swear it’s glowing gold and screaming, “Your quest ends here! Bring me to my owner!”
You shuffle for the couch and scoop it up. When Chan looks at your hand in confusion, you offer, “Jisung left it. I’m the delivery service.”
“Right.” And he smiles. Comfort engulfs your body when you notice the flood has stopped.
Since you normally walk or ride the bus to work, Chan drives. His shiny sports car looks rather alien beside your used, well-used, car.
“I should warn you,” you turn to him as you push your key into the lock, “Loba’s a cuddler.”
“Sweet. I’d feel bad asking you for more hugs,” he jokes.
Sure enough, Loba is lying before the door. She scrambles to her feet and stares up at her guardian and the new intruder. Conveniently misplacing her cries for food, she scopes out the new man.
“What’d you say her name was again?” Chan asks, squatting in front of her and scratching behind her ears.
“Loba,” you say, opening the fridge to dish out Loba’s expensive special food. Adopting a cat with stomach issues, am I right?
“Loba?” Chan repeats, stifling a laugh.
“I didn’t name her,” you turn to him in defense.
Chan lowers himself, crossing his legs as Loba climbs into his lap. The love-hungry cat doesn’t even notice when you set her ceramic bowl next to her water station. She’s too absorbed in her newfound friend.
Rather than forcing them to relocate to the couch, you sit offset from them on the tile. Smiling down at the orange cat, you admit, “She’s not even like this with Minho.”
“Really?” Chan’s amused face stuns a vibration in your chest.
You appeal confirmation.
“That’s crazy. I’m a dog person, normally,” he coos down at the lovebug.
Don’t let this distract you from the task at hand, you remind yourself.
“So,” you drag. How do you say this without tempting the tears again? Admittedly, it would be nice if you had an ounce of insight. You’re walking into a minefield without a blueprint of where they lie.
Chan sighs, acknowledging his cue. “My dad doesn’t really like me all too much,” he wryly laughs.
“He seems stupid then,” you offer, not thinking further than trying to comfort him, “You’re very likable.”
“Thank you,” Chan drags his tongue against his bottom lip.
He continues, “Moreso, he dislikes his father. The one who skipped a generation when trying to continue his legacy. By association, I kind of take the brunt of it.” He looks at you through blurry eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think you were the only person who could have continued the company. Your dad seems,” you hesitate, “insolent. You, on the other hand, are an ace.”
“I try to tell myself that. He makes me go to all of his business parties to keep his reputation up, as well as mine in a way. You don’t want the broken family running a huge corporation,” he mimics what he’s been told.
“So you can’t tune him out,” you echo.
“Yep,” he drags the word out, prompting a heavy sigh.
“I’m not really good at the whole comforting thing,” you study the creases of your palms. “But I’ll say that you are, by far, the most amazing person I could work for. You’re really admirable. Plus, Minho really likes you. You’re kind of like the brother he never had.”
“God, you’re gonna make me cry,” he laughs, staring up at the light as he pulls a hand away from Loba to wipe at his waterline.
“I’m serious,” you chuckle. “Would I blow smoke up your ass if you’re crying on my floor with my cat in your arms?”
When he hesitates to respond, you do it for him. “The answer is no. I don’t even do that for Minho.”
“That’s comforting,” he admits.
“I’d hope so. Now, hand me your phone,” you stick your hand out.
“Why?”
“So I can give you my number. Text me if stuff goes downhill, now that I’m in the loop.”
He looks at you quizzically.
“What? Do you think I’m going to let you suffer in silence now that I know?”
He leans to the side, cradling Loba protectively, as he draws his phone from his pocket. Unlocking it before he hands it to you.
As you type in a new contact, you say, “Do you want something to eat? I can order a pizza.”
vi.
Unfortunately, peace is temporary. Always and forever.
When you enter Chan’s office a few weeks after the father debacle, prepared to start the official recording of the album as decided on the previous day, you’re met with two confused men. Admittedly, you’re a little late, but not enough for them to be lost.
Changbin looks up at you as you cross the threshold. “Have you seen Chan?”
You shake your head.
“Heard from him?” Jisung follows.
Again, you shake your head.
“Shit,” they both fall back against the couch cushions in defeat.
“What’s wrong?” The grip on your bag tightens. Despite your inquisitive words, your gut gives you a fair answer.
“We haven’t heard from him since five this morning,” Changbin looks at Jisung for confirmation on the details.
“No one’s seen him?” you follow up.
“No one. He won’t answer our group chat either.”
Your foot taps against the floor as you try to remain composed. He texted you last night about his dad’s upcoming gala but was sparse about details. Or about the fact he would straight up disappear. Obviously, you can’t offer this information to them. A promise is a promise, even if half unspoken.
“Should we work through it? Get his parts whenever he decides to show up?” Changbin speaks.
“We can’t exactly meander anymore. Tracklist goes out at noon,” Jisung shakes his phone as annoyingly clear evidence.
“And you still need to learn the choreo for the title track,” you add. There’s only a month left. You bite your tongue, allowing the pain to slightly calm you down.
“God, what horrible timing,” Jisung laughs, but no joy laces through his tone.
You point harsh eyes at them, heavy steps leading you to the microphone stand designated for recording. “Come on then. Let’s get ahead before we can fall behind.”
vii.
You leave work the moment recording is done for the day, a discovery pulling you from focusing on anything else. Chan shared his location with you a few days ago when he offered a reciprocal to what you’ve done for him. “So you can always find me,” he said via text.
Though not for the right purpose, per se, you’re going to find him. And when you do, you might have to smack sense into him this time. With love, you convince yourself as you pull up to the stadium.
Who in their right mind rents an indoor stadium for an evening party? Rich people, evidently.
You find Chan’s car, among its shiny counterparts, and park as close to it as you can. As you get out, you pull your phone out of your pocket and call him. Not expecting him to answer, honestly.
“Hello?” his voice penetrates your ears.
“I’m outside,” you say, fighting the heavy heartbeat echoing in your head. Your hands tremble at the thought of him here, all dressed up and acting like nothing’s wrong.
“What?” he mumbles.
You look up to the big screen above the gate. “Gangnam Public Stadium, right?”
The background noise slightly fades as he says, “Wait where you are, I’ll come meet you.”
“Parking lot,” you offer before he hangs up.
You step into the shade and lean against a brick wall.
Today’s one of the finer days of summer. It’s mid-June. The solstice is just around the corner. A light breeze brushes against your skin and gently ruffles your hair. It probably helps that you’re surrounded by wealthy cars. A mood booster, in a weird way.
Quick, heavy steps draw closer. You turn your head to the source.
Chan drops his hands onto his knees as he pants. “You shouldn’t be here,” he manages.
“You should’ve told someone why you wouldn’t be at work. We all have our regrets,” you nibble on the inside of your cheek as you stare at him.
“God,” he mutters, straightening himself before standing next to you against the wall.
“You’ll get your suit dirty,” you comment, but he doesn’t care.
“You should leave.” His eyes, heavy with an emotion akin to irritation and sadness, scan over your face.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you did this,” you stand your ground. Just like Minho would hate in a moment like this. “To get to a person, you have to ease them into it,” he guided at one point. Frankly, you couldn’t care less right now.
He avoids your eyes as he tries to flatten his staggered breathing. In due time, he composes himself and finally looks at you. His features have loosened, and you note his brow is no longer creased.
“I didn’t want to lose my cool in front of them,” he admits.
“Scared to?”
He nods. “It was scary enough having one person see me cry.”
The place between your heart and ribs begins to pulsate heat.It begins to spread across your bones and through your muscles. For once, you have to think about what to say next. You can’t be mad at him, for his reasoning makes more sense than it had before. God, this is irritating.
“Let’s make the song of the summer, then,” you reassure him with a curt nod. “Pull you out of this monster field around you and let’s make history.”
The dark surrounding encasing him cracks away as an unbelievable smile finds its place. One like you have never seen. One that pierces your heart with its joy. “Let’s do it.” And he drags you into a hug. Despite the roles taking a quick turn, you feel comforted. But he’s squeezing the life out of you.
viii.
You’ve done all you can do for 3Racha within the next week. The album is complete, as far as instrumentals and lyrics. All that’s left is promotion, along with all the theatrical elements left to be discussed. But that’s separate from you.
It feels bittersweet that it’s come to an end. You know that sometime in the future you’ll return to the studio with them, working alongside creative geniuses to invent a piece. Together. That’s the key. But it feels so far away.
You sit in your empty office, staring at the broad window as raindrops fall down the glass. Recounting the process in your head with distant gratitude. Title track: God’s Menu. You’re proud of it, viewing it as your child. Watching it grow into a real song, with real words and sounds attached to it. Wow. You catch a glimpse at the meaning of life as you watch two raindrops race down. It’s this: blossoming art from a tiny idea. Admittedly not entirely your own, but the principle remains.
The other tracks enlist an equal amount of precious memories for you. Late nights felt normal with the unreal energy coursing through your veins. You notice the products of effort as you consider all those extra hours. Admiration shoots through your body, leaving it numb.
It was all them, though, you acknowledge. You were only there as a caretaker, offering your own hint to mark the music.
3Racha is like a shooting star. It's fantastic, in a sense. Not everyone can say they’ve seen a shooting star in the same way not many can say they’ve witnessed the production process with three of the most talented producers in the game. They’re unreal.
A knock against your doorframe shocks you out of your thoughts. You drag your foot against the floor to turn your chair.
Chan, dressed in an outfit similar to that of boys’ night, awaits your attention. Sweat lines his forehead, glistening his skin. You can guess where he’s been.
“Hey.”
“I need your help.” His words were trailing your simple greeting so close you could say he interrupted you. Seriousness brings his face into a dimness, slightly intimidating you.
“With?” you prompt.
He leans against the frame with his arm, replaying his words in his head over and over before spitting them out, “I kind of told my dad I’d bring a date to his next party.”
“Oh?” you say, slowly realizing. “Oh.”
“Will you do it?” His features twist into a nervous reflection.
“Sure, if you pay for my outfit.”
You say this as a joke, but he fails to convey it this way. “Deal. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Does Loba need a cat tree by any chance?”
He doesn’t await your answer as he slips back into the hall. Was that conversation even real?
An indistinguishable whiplash conquers your body into a sudden realization. You turn to your desk, scooping your phone into your hands and texting Minho, beginning with, “When you see this…”
ix.
Certainly, Chan is a man of his word. From the mere month you’ve known him, you should have gathered this. But as you stand in his living room, decked out in some outfit he carefully chose for you, it blares against all of your senses in bright, evident clarity.
Minho’s message buzzes against your palm.
Lee Knows: Loba’s conked already, two minutes after she ate. Have fun ;)
You: Lol thanks again for taking care of her.
Lee Knows: Of course. Anything for my bestest friend in the world. Now, a night of yearning!
The only way to describe this feeling rooted in the base of your stomach are the words: raw emotion. It’s a cluster. Jitters mixed with a blend of uncertainty and a weird elation? To be fair, you are about to lie your way through expensive drinks and hors d’oeuvres. What even are those?
Regardless, one thing is certain. Minho was right. It’s...discouraging to admit. Frankly, you’d ignore it for as long as possible if you could. But adoration is difficult. In your face. Forward, some would refer to it as.
God, this is all Minho’s fault.
“Ready?” Chan’s shoes click against the hardwood as he departs from his dark hole of a room. He looks stunning, though his attire isn’t much different from his office wear. A small sign of rebellion appears in his appearance, which ignites a flame in your chest.
Chan brings a hand to where your eyes are burning a whole into—his hair. The curls are there, less accentuated than bro night, but evident. “Ah, I didn’t really want to straighten it. I’ve already had fried hair one too many times in my life.”
“It looks nice,” you smile. Your throat tightens as you swallow. “You look nice.”
“Same for you,” he allows a prolonged scan of you. Sheepishly, you do one of those cheesy twirls you always see in the romance movies before Prom night or whatever expensive evening the protagonists are attending. Sincerely, with all the love rampaging through your chest, you’re going to kill Minho for cursing your life like this.
He snaps out of his trance, starting for the door. “We should get going.”
Aside from the quiet hum of the radio, the ride to the venue is silent. It wouldn’t be complete without hitting every redlight, either. Jisung’s luck must have rubbed off on you when you had that group hug.
You sit at one now, red gleaming against your face as you stare out at the sidewalk vacant of pedestrians. No one’s even at any of the other lights.
“You okay?” Chan asks.
“Yeah,” you turn back to him.
“Good,” he nods, instantly averting your eyes.
Perhaps you should have found a way to decline. Even Loba would have been a better date option. At least she has chemistry with him.
x.
To no one’s surprise, the venue is huge. Potentially larger than the stadium. From ceiling to the carpeted floor, decorated properly with the black tie theme.
Chan reluctantly grabs your hand before you tackle the crowd. If you were cold, the warmth radiating against your palm is sufficient for heating the rest of your body. Unluckily, though, you aren’t cold. Your hand feels clammy in his. If he wasn’t attracted to you before, he certainly isn’t now.
You stare at your shoes as you follow.
“Just a heads up about my dad,” he glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there, despite the tether between you, “he most definitely thinks we’re dating, so be prepared for questions.”
“Oh great,” you mumble. How do you cure a lovesick heart? What an ambiguous question offering up to a plethora of potential answers. One incorrect answer, though: acting out romance. In real time, too.
“Sorry, I probably should have told you sooner. Kind of slipped my mind,” he squeezes your hand in apology.
Even when you break out into a free space, his hand doesn’t pull from yours. Instead, he slightly tightens the hold as he approaches an older man. Without any prior knowledge (ie. not Googling his dad after he cried on your kitchen floor over the bastard), you could guess this is his dad. They practically have the same face. Striking differences, however, given some context.
“Hey,” the man grins, eyes shifting curiously between you and his son.
You dip your head in respect. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.”
His hand claps your shoulder as you look up. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.” Silence hangs onto the end of his sentence as he glances at Chan for help.
“Y/N,” Chan offers. Your name sounds pretty coming from him.
“Y/N,” his father repeats. You want to sock him for saying your name.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Would have been nicer if Chan had given a little notice,” he laughs for you, alternatively offering a subtle, but not unnoticeable, glare to Chan.
Reflexively, your unoccupied hand clenches until you feel your nails pressing sharply into your skin. Discreetly, you nudge Chan’s arm with your elbow as a sign that you’re here. Slightly, his hand loosens in yours as his nerves slowly ease.
“Sorry, it’s kind of recent,” Chan laughs. His eyes crinkle into a faux delight.
“Of course,” his father nods. “Haven’t seen any articles about it yet, which is good. You might not want this being exposed to the GP.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Chan manages through gritted teeth, albeit hidden in a way only you could notice.
Then, as if the attack didn’t have a cooldown, he reaches up and tugs at one of Chan’s curls. “Your hair looks...interesting.”
It’s really difficult trying to remain neutral in the face of backhanded advice and compliments. Especially in front of this man, who shouldn’t even be given a title as esteemed as that. He’s scum stuck to the back of your old, rusty car that won’t go away in spite of however many power washes.
“Mr. Bang,” a waiter appears behind him, stealing his attention long enough for you to drag Chan in the opposite direction. He’ll find his way into a business conversation soon anyway. With no recollection of what he said to his son whatsoever. Considering his words will always stick with Chan, your face heats up.
You ignore Chan’s repelling tug, and his words that go in one ear and out the other. A hidden area near the bar is the only place where he has enough courage to stop you. But only because you let it happen.
“If we stayed there much longer, I would have caught an assault charge,” you huff.
“You handled it well, though,” he admits, “Even if you were about to break my hand.”
In the face of anger personified, he manages to smile and crack a laugh.
“Sorry,” you mumble, finally pulling your hand away from his.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, glancing back at the bartender serving an established looking woman a margarita. Likely strawberry from its tint.
You shake your head, “I’m good. Thank you.”
“Well, then, I’ll be back,” he reaches out to rub your shoulder before slipping back into the crowd. You’re jealous of the effect he has to just become invisible.
You pull your phone from its hidden spot and open Minho’s awaiting text.
Lee Knows: Has he made a move yet?
You: Why would he?
Lee Knows: Idk you’re kind of obvious.
Before you can answer, an incoming notification from Seungmin pops up.
Seungmo: Is it true that you like Chan?
Minho. Lee Minho. You grimace.
You: No comment.
Seungmo: Sweet. Jeongin owes me twenty bucks. But ew. Who would romantically like Chan?
The text really ties together with the barfing emoji.
“Who’s that?” the subject of both text logs peeks his head over your phone.
You snatch it back, instinctively turning it off. “Seungmin.”
“I didn’t know you were friends with him,” Chan observes, placing the black straw between his lips. His drink is also tinted pink, but not in a margarita glass.
“Minho built the bridge during bro night. Now we plot behind his back,” you joke, promptly making Chan choke. He coughs, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he sputters.
“Don’t do that when I’m drinking!” he laughs.
Your chest heaves as you try to stifle the laugh building up in your chest.
“Oh come on, you’re even gonna have the nerve to laugh at me?” he tips his head to look at your quivering frame. He finds this funny, but he can’t just not tease you. That’s not in the rule book.
“I’m not laughing,” you try to convince him, lips pressed into a fine line as quick breaths leave your nose.
“Right,” he rolls his eyes.
If he were being honest with you, he was doing this as a ploy to take your mind off of his dad. Honesty isn’t one of his finer points, though. So he stays quiet.
“Do you want a sip?” he offers the fruity looking drink to you.
“What is it?” you ask, but accepting the glass anyway.
“Just a strawberry mimosa.”
Again, if he were honest, he’d tell you he only got it to share with you. It was a shot in the dark, neutral enough. But, again, not one of his stronger urges. Minho would refer to this as him ‘making a move’, unbeknownst to you.
You take a quick sip. Humming in approval, you hand it back to him. “It’s good, I can barely even taste the alcohol.”
He fixes his hair absentmindedly as a passing conversation arises. Subject: Minho. Goal: offering both parties ammunition for his next offhand comment or prank.
“Did you know that Minho talks in his sleep?” you laugh.
Chan pulls at a curl, pulling it straight. “He seems like the type.”
You reach up and flick his wrist.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Stop thinking about what your dad said,” you scold. The nerves in your stomach dissipate as your hand ruffles his hair, fluffing it out. He looks more relaxed as you pull away.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t apologize, or I’ll punch you next time.”
“I can see why you and Minho get along so well.”
xi.
By the time you’re set free from the hell of socializing with all of Chan’s dad’s friends who last saw him when he was ‘this high’, the effects of the single mimosa wear off. Luckily for Chan, you drank most of it, so he’s set to drive.
“My feet hurt,” you complain. Maybe it would have been smart to break in the fancy shoes Chan invested for you before the event.
“Do you want me to carry you?” Chan asks, turning to you.
Against all voices inside of you screaming to decline, your pain receptors answer for you. “That’d be great, since you're offering.”
He bends his knees slightly and holds his arms slightly out. When you jump onto his back, he doesn’t even react.
“Do you religiously workout or something?” you joke, though true curiosity shines through your words. You’re pretty obvious.
“Duh. Every breathing moment I’m not working or crying over my dad. It’s a stress reliever.” Your arms, hanging from his neck, feel each vibration in his chest as he laughs.
As he readjusts his hands beneath your thighs, maintaining a steady hold of your body against his, your body grows warm and you can envision your cheeks glowing red. Minho was so right. And the field day he’s going to have with the upcoming weeks until the joke grows stale. You shiver at the thought.
“Are you cold?” Chan asks.
“Oh, no, I was just thinking about Minho.”
“Scary,” Chan mimics his own shiver at the mention.
You press your cheek against his shoulder, his steady steps drawing your eyes shut.
The silence you find is unparalleled to the one in the car earlier. This one is comfortable, homely even. So much so that you feel yourself fall asleep.
xii.
When you get to his apartment, he nudges your shoulder.
Your eyes slowly open, fighting against the dull light from the roof of his car.
“You can spend the night at my house. I’m not confident in pulling a sleeping body out of a car. Putting you in was hard enough,” he chuckles.
You manage a smile and hazily push the passenger door open. From the rest, your feet should be fine walking to the elevator (since there’s one less body than bro night, you’ll fit) and to his apartment. Still, he wraps his arm around your shoulders to steady you all the way up to his front door.
“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he says as you fall onto his couch. You didn’t acknowledge how comfortable it was just from sitting on it. Honestly, it feels like a normal mattress.
He returns from his room quickly with a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Both black, as you could have guessed.
You walk to the bathroom and sleepily tug your fancy outfit off, careful not to ruin it. As you pull his shirt over your head, a rush of his cologne hugs you. You fight off the ‘I could get used to this’ comment that floats through your head.
You don’t remember walking back to the couch. But you remember Chan pulling a blanket up to your chin.
xiii.
Chan pokes your cheek, drawing you away from your precious dream of living in a cottage on the seafront—conveniently with him. You whine, pulling the blanket over your head in an attempt to ward him away. Dream Chan is waiting for you.
“Y/N, come on. You can’t sleep on my couch all day.” The worst part is: you can hear the faux pout in his voice. And potentially worse: you definitely could sleep on this couch all day if your life depended on it. Even if it didn’t, to be honest.
“Go away,” you grumble.
He sighs. His presence beside you disappears for a few moments, long enough for sleep to momentarily return. The bubble of peace pops eventually.
“Hey, Minho,” his voice returns, slightly muffled by the distance and the cloth pressed against your ear.
This is enough to spring liveliness into your bones. You sit up, hateful eyes shooting in the direction of the voice. When you see him laughing, his dark phone pressed against his ear, you reel. “One of these days, I’m gonna leave your company and then your stocks are gonna plummet,” you groan.
“Is that the best insult you can come up with?” he counters, dropping his hoisted arm to his side.
“I have more, but they're still closed off. You know, since you’ve rudely interrupted my sleep.”
“I’m sorry. Not really, though. It’s like noon.”
“And?”
“I can’t leave you here alone,” he laughs.
“What, do you have a date to attend?”
Awaiting his response, you reach for your phone on the coffee table. Two missed calls. A few Snapchats from Seungmin, likely pictures of his new puppy, but no matter.
“I wish. I have to meet up with Jisung. Pressing news he has to tell me, too confidential to be told over text.”
“He’s gonna confess,” you shoot him a look.
“Yes, because Han Jisung would be in love with me,” he starts for the kitchen. An extended arm pulls at the fridge, and he pulls two waters out.
“To be fair, if I were Jisung, I’d probably be in love with you,” you say, obviously without much thought behind it.
Okay. In your defense, you were a little too focused on reading Minho’s latest string of confusing messages. Trying to decipher the code, Chan’s response passes right through you like a ghost.
Lee Knows: Y/N you won’t believe this.
Lee Knows: Loba’s gonna be so happy.
Lee Knows: I know you’re probably cuddled up with Chan or whatever but call me ASAP.
Chan lowers himself beside you, tossing the cold water in your lap. He peeks over your shoulder. “Huh. That’s pretty much what Jisung said to me.”
“Why are you invading my privacy?” you glare at him, considering elbowing him precisely between the ribs. Ultimately deciding against it, of course. Through tense internal conflict.
“Really? You’re sitting on my couch, in my clothes, refusing to leave, and you wanna talk about privacy?”
Just because he has a point doesn’t mean he should voice it. Plus, he offered the clothes. And the couch for you to sleep on. It really just seems like a self jab to you.
“Should I call him?” Your finger glides across your bottom lip as you look at him for an answer.
“Sure, why not?” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Let’s see what Jisung and Minho have conspired this time.”
The ring echoing sparks a nervous pit in your stomach. You pick at the sticker of the water bottle. It feels like forever by the time he answers.
“Morning, sunshine,” Minho’s sweet voice reeks of sarcasm.
“You’re on speaker, by the way,” you close your eyes to avoid looking at Chan’s burning eyes.
“Oh perfect, you are too,” Jisung joins in, a dry laugh escaping his throat.
“We have some questions,” Minho begins, but fails to continue.
“Such as?” Chan prompts.
“Are you guys dating yet?” Jisung bluntly jumps to the case.
Your heart rams against your chest. That ‘yet’ tugs at your insides.
“Uh, no,” you draw out.
“The media sure thinks otherwise,” Minho jabs.
Chan’s already searching for the articles by the time you can react.
“Fuck.” He throws his head back against the couch in frustration, tilting his phone towards you so you can see.
CEO Bang Chan Lands a Date Weeks Before Comeback.
Bang Caught With Employee?
Bang Chan, CEO, Makes a Striking Appearance at Dad’s Gala.
“What? Did you really think there wouldn’t be journalists there? Come on Chan, do better.” You never knew Jisung had this cutting edge to him. If the words were aimed at you, you know you’d break down. It’s a miracle that Chan is this composed.
“Can you calm down? My god,” you say without realizing. “It’s not like we can’t fix this.” How, though, you ponder?
“If it makes you feel any better,” Minho reluctantly says, like this sentence could put his life on the line, “you looked cute.”
“Thanks,” you mutter. In any other circumstance, you’d be quick to mock him. Well. At least he’s not outwardly making fun of you. Another one of Minho’s late night insights seeping into your thoughts: see the positive.
A text notification drops down against your screen. Despite having the luxury of using his voice, it’s Minho.
Lee Knows: Would now be a bad time to out you?
You: Horribly.
“Well,” Jisung draws in a sharp breath.
“Good luck,” Minho finishes for him.
After he hangs up, promptly after letting you know he fed Loba this morning, you pick up the water bottle and place it against your cheek. The shocking chill redirects your nerves momentarily.
You try not to look at Chan, but you know he’s looking at you.
After a moment to catch your breath, he sighs, “I have an idea.”
It takes an effort to pull your attention to him. A war against yourself.
“Play along with me for a second,” he says, pulling his leg beneath him as he repositions himself beside you. Fully facing you, taking in your entire being—which doesn’t help your burning skin. You’d give anything to be invisible right now.
“What if,” he starts, “we go along with it?”
You laugh in his face. “Are you sure that wouldn’t blow up even worse? Imagine people finding out we faked it. That wouldn’t be good for you.”
He messes with his fingers, suddenly finding an intense interest in the linework of them. He rubs his thumb against the crease of his ring finger. “I don’t think anyone would have to find out it’s fake, per se.”
“How are you so confident?” You look at him in awe. Even when he’s spewing absolute nonsense and under pressure, he looks like a god. Calm as ever. It’s horrifying for your heart. And for common sense, but that’s not as important right now.
“I don’t think Minho would lie to me.”
“What does Minho have to do with this?”
His dimple shows itself as a measly smile crosses his lips. “He may have told me.”
Regardless of what he may have spilled, you know instantly. “You’re kidding me,” you huff. What was the point of his dramatic message, then? A distraction, maybe.
“I mean it’s okay. It’s not like it’s not reciprocated or anything.”
“You are unbelievable,” you shake your head. “How did you know and not say a single thing?”
His hands shoot up in defense. “To be fair, I didn’t find out until after you fell asleep last night. For the second time. He texted me with this whole ‘I know something you don’t’ facade. I wasn’t going to act on it until I had a stupidly romantic plan, but then this happened,” he gestures around the room, as if it’s the decor’s fault. He’s quick to add, “And I couldn’t do that as soon as they said anything about the articles. That’d kinda ruin the mood, don’t you think?”
So Chan’s probably not good with looking amazing under pressure—he very well could be, but you wouldn’t know that right now. Which slightly irritates you, but no matter.
“Well,” you sigh. “I guess that solves the problem.”
He nods, looking at you solemnly.
“Your dad’s gonna be pissed, though,” you comment, and he laughs.
“I know.”
Funny. As soon as the problem jumped at you, the imminent solution scared you just as fast. Your head hurts from the whiplash. That must be a pattern with him.
“You know what’s kinda perfect about this?” he says after a moment.
“Tell me.”
“We can write love songs together now. Isn’t that cool?” The sheer joy in his face shatters any aggravation left in your veins. A smile creeps up on you.
“You’re such a nerd.”
“And you’re madly in love with a nerd so I don’t see what your point is.”
You pull the pillow out from behind your back and chuck it at his head.
“Oh so you’re trying to kill your beloved love interest? Real classy, Y/N.”
“Please just shut up and kiss me already,” you lean over halfway and wait for him to meet you.
Kissing a major CEO doesn’t feel much different than kissing a normal person, but there’s a striking flare of passion to it. Maybe that’s a personal thing.
His lips fit against yours in a way that makes your soul instantly tethered to him. You hope he can’t feel your heartbeat against your lips, for it’s pulsing rather loud and antsy for you.
Chan radiates warmth in every piece of his body, extending all the way to his aura. If it wasn’t for your pesky lungs running out of air, you’d never pull away.
xiv.
In spite of his idea for a romantic confession going down the drain as soon as he decided to think one up, he makes up for it with incessant gestures. Bringing you snacks when he should be in meetings. Buying you sweets when you get stressed. Purchasing Loba a huge cat tree, even though she doesn’t need to be spoiled further. Spending the night at your house even when his is way more comfortable for the sheer reason that Loba would feel lonely.When you mention taking her with you, he’d say, “I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable with the new environment.”
He even postponed bro night because you got sick and wanted to be the one to take care of you.
You don’t need reminders that he loves you, but it’s all the while heartwarming when he says it.
Even now, with his arm wrapped around your waist and his chin propped on your shoulder, he’s thinking aloud in romance land. “What if we went on a vacation to France for Christmas? Isn’t Paris the city of love?”
You watch the TV, but his voice drowns out all of the dialogue. “I don’t know, Chan. Why can’t we stay here?” you shift in his arms to roll over and face him. This close, as you’ve grown accustomed to these past months, you can count all of his eyelashes. And you can see tiny freckles scattered across his cheeks. It must be an Aussie thing.
He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “We can stay here. I’m fine with that.”
Loba jumps onto the bed, her collar jingling with her sudden movement to warn you she’s arrived. You pull away from Chan a little to make room for her between you. “Here comes the princess,” you feign disappointment with a sigh.
She claims her spot between your chests and curls herself into a ball, burying her face in Chan’s chest. Per usual. She often forgets who feeds her around here.
“Anyway,” Chan leans over her, kissing your lips gently, “I’m okay wherever. As long as you’re with me.”
After a beat of silence, you cup his cheek delicately and say, “Let’s go to the moon.”
“Yeah,” he grins, “Let’s go to the moon.”
xv.
He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, setting a bottle of water in front of you.
Jisung gags from across the room. “Get a room,” he complains.
“You are a grown man and you can’t handle a couple being affectionate?” Changbin criticizes. “Get a life, dude.”
“Yeah,” you chime in, “Just ‘cos you live a poor, single life doesn’t mean you can hate on us.”
“Jeez, I didn’t sign up for slander on this Monday morning.”
“You definitely asked for it, but let’s get to work.” Chan draws his phone from his pocket and prepares for the official meeting regarding 3Racha’s next comeback.
God’s Menu was well received from the public, sending Chan’s dating scandal into the shadows. Minho basked in the compliments on the choreography. Seungmin whined when no one on Twitter noticed he was the vocal coach—and Minho didn’t make it much better by rubbing his glory in Seungmin’s face every chance he got. And you couldn’t get Chan to stop showing you funny Tweets and praise for nearly a month. Likely longer.
Here you sit in Chan’s office at the beginning of the new year. A lot of things can go south during six months, but things can shoot north too. Generally, for you, it’s been pretty north.
This time around, Jisung has calculated his homework and broadcasts his thoughts onto the wall.
“I already know what you’re gonna choose for the title track, so let’s choose B-sides,” he adds the disclaimer before anyone can mutter a peep.
“I don’t know about you all,” Chan dips his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leans against his desk, “but I’d say I’m pretty confident in writing a love song right now.”
You groan alongside Jisung. “Stop talking.”
Here we go on the hunt for the song of the new year. Conquer the competition before anyone has a chance. Like you did in creating the song of the summer.
#skz au#skz imagine#skz chan#skz#stray kids chan#stray kids imagine#stray kids x reader#chan x reader#chan au#bang chan x reader#stray kids au#stray kids scenario#bang chan#skz bang chan#chan oneshots#skz oneshots#stray kids oneshot
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Chaconne: Part 2 (Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader)
Summary: After auditioning for who is often considered to be the world’s scariest conductor, you begin working for Agatha Harkness and the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra.
Word Count: 4.9K
Link: Dvorak’s New World Symphony: Movement 4 (Performed by the Vienna Philharmonic)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGdtkUiKaA8
A/N: Hi everyone! I’m back with part two of Chaconne. I’ve included another link to the fourth movement of Dvorak in case anyone would like to listen, (it’s one of my favorite recordings and I definitely recommend it) but if classical music isn’t your jam I understand. Also, I would like to warn this is going to be major slow burn, but I promise there is a light at the end of the tunnel...eventually. Part 3 should be uploaded in a few days! I hope all of you enjoy it, and as always please feel free to leave a comment :) Oh! Also I think I’m going to make a taglist for this story, so if you would like to be added just comment or send me a message.
A week later marked the first symphony rehearsal of the season. You had barely seen Agatha all day. The woman was running from meeting to meeting with investors and the board so she had given you small tasks to complete in her absence. You were busy rearranging the small personal music library she kept in her office when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” You called out as you began sorting through the Baroque Era.
The door opened a moment later and you were glancing at a few different scores when you heard someone clear their throat. Looking up, you saw Wanda Maximoff standing in the doorway.
“Well hello there,” Wanda drawled out, clearly looking surprised. It took you a second to wonder why until you realized you were in Agatha’s office. “You’re not Agatha.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “No...um, no I’m not. I’m Agatha’s new assistant, Y/N.”
Wanda gave you a curious glance. “Her assistant,” she mused, taking a step further into the office. “Does she treat you well?”
You shrugged. “She feeds me a few times a day, buys me coffee. It could be a lot worse.”
Wanda chuckled. “Well it is very nice to meet you. I’m Wanda Maximoff.”
“I know who you are,” You blurted out before realizing how creepy that may have sounded. Glancing at Wanda, you were relieved that she seemed more amused than anything else. “I mean, it’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maximoff. I’m a huge fan of yours.”
“Call me Wanda,” The pianist insisted. “You’re sweet. I’m surprised Agatha hasn’t had you running for the hills.”
You felt strangely defensive over the criticism regarding Agatha. “She really isn’t bad. I’m learning so much from her.”
Wanda looked surprised but smiled nonetheless. “You’re a very sweet girl, aren’t you? Do you know when Agatha will be back?”
“Um...” You trailed off and tried to remember when Agatha said she would be done. “It might be a while.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” Wanda said confidently, taking a seat in a leather chair. “I can keep you company.”
So you spent the next half hour sorting through music. At some point Wanda had offered to assist you, and although you assured her you were fine, she insisted. Which is how you found yourself discussing your favorite eras of music with one of your favorite musicians.
“Well isn’t this cozy,” Agatha’s voice rang out from the doorway causing you to jump.
The conductor had a scowl on her face and you could practically see the anger seething out of her. Wanda, on the other hand, smiled brightly at Agatha. “Agatha, so lovely to see you again. I was just getting to know your assistant. She’s a delight.”
Agatha glared at the woman, before giving you a quick once over. “Of course she is. What are you doing in my office, Maximoff? We aren’t rehearsing with you until next week.”
Wanda shrugged, not phased by the other woman’s attitude. “I thought I would stop by to catch up. It’s been a while since we’ve worked together.”
Your eyebrows furrowed at that. When did Agatha and Wanda work together? Agatha certainly had a lot of negative thoughts regarding the younger woman, so it would make sense that they had worked together at some point. You were just surprised Agatha never brought it up during one of her many long ‘Maximoff Rants.’
“I’m very busy,” Agatha replied, appearing to grow angrier with every word that came out of the red head’s mouth. “Right, dear?”
At first you wondered who she was talking to, until you noticed the pointed look she was giving you. You offered Wanda a polite smile before slowly heading over towards your boss. “Of course, Miss Harkness. You have to leave for your meeting with potential new investors and then we have to discuss new programs and publicity posters before rehearsal this evening.”
“I see,” Wanda was giving both of you a look that suggested she knew you were lying. “Well I should be on my way then. Lovely seeing you again Agatha, and it was a pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” she said sweetly as she gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze on her way out of the office.
Once she was gone, Agatha all but slammed the door shut and your eyes widened at how angry she appeared.
“What did she say to you?” Agatha asked curiously eyeing you.
You shrugged, because Wanda didn’t really say anything to you. At least not anything important. “Nothing really. She asked who I was, insisted she wanted to wait for you to come back, and then she offered to help me sort through the music.”
“I didn’t realize the work I gave you was so complex it required a second set of hands,” Agatha spat out as she slowly moved closer to you, and you wondered what you said to get that reaction.
“It wasn’t,” you argued, feeling your temper grow and getting more flustered as Agatha moved even closer to you. “She was just being nice.”
Agatha huffed and stalked back to her desk. “Fine. She was just being nice. Now no more talk of Maximoff. I’m starting to get a migraine.”
“I’ll go get you some tea,” You offered, as you had become more familiar with the conductor’s frequent stress migraines.
Agatha merely nodded and began sorting through her scores for rehearsal and you set off to brew some tea in the kitchen. You brushed off her strange behavior as the anger that came with seeing Wanda Maximoff.
The rest of the afternoon passed by smoothly. Agatha eventually told you to go home for a few hours despite your protests to stay. She was still a tad bit grumpy from her run in with Wanda, so she all but shoved you out the door and said if she saw you back here before 6:00 that she would make sure it would be your last time attending rehearsal.
Finding yourself back at the concert hall an hour before rehearsal started, you made your way to Agatha’s office and used the key she had given you to let yourself in. You had to grab the boxes filled with folders of music, as well as Agatha’s scores and her favorite baton. Your eyes scanned the dozens of identical batons that the older woman had before you found the one she requested you grab.
There weren’t many personal items in Agatha’s office. Granted she had only been here for around a month, but still. It was basically bare, save for a few photos of her pet bunny, Señor Scratchy. You had often wondered what the conductor did when she wasn’t here, but you had never felt comfortable enough to ask. Agatha was...private, and while you respected her privacy a part of you wondered what she was like when she wasn’t in scary conductor mode.
A quick glance at the clock alerted you to head to the hall before the players started to arrive. You quickly locked up the office before hurrying through the building, arms filled with boxes.
“I should’ve brought these in before I left,” You mumbled out loud as you balanced the boxes in one hand to unlock the stage door with your other hand.
“Well yes dear, but that would’ve required thought,” Agatha said with a smirk as she came up from behind you.
You cursed and jumped, glaring at the woman who scared you half to death. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Agatha held the door open for you and shrugged in response as you passed her. “It’s not my fault you’re so easy to scare.”
“You’re evil,” You told her, but your tone was teasing. “And you’re early.”
“It’s my first rehearsal, I want to be prepared,” Agatha explained but you knew her well enough to know what that meant.
“It’s okay to be nervous, you know,” You said reassuringly as she grabbed one of the boxes from you to set on the stage.
Agatha scowled and gave you a dirty look. “I am not nervous. I’m Agatha Harkness. I don’t get nervous.”
“Right and you’re also nothing like Wanda Maximoff, right?” You fired back, enjoying the glower she gave you.
Agatha huffed. “I liked it better when you were afraid of me.”
You laughed as you began placing the folders on their respective stands. “I was never afraid of you. I was afraid of disappointing you.” And you were still afraid of disappointing her, but you would never vocalize that.
Agatha gave you a look you couldn’t decipher before she helped you with the folders. “Where’s your violin?”
“In your office,” You reminded her. “Remember, I told you I was leaving it there until after rehearsal?”
“Well how are you going to play in,” She checked her watch, “Fourty-five minutes without an instrument?”
You stared at her in shock. “But...but I thought I didn’t get the first violin spot?”
“You didn’t,” Agatha admitted. “But I haven’t hired anyone else and I still need to update our sub list. So there will be an empty chair for rehearsal.”
“Which means?” You pressed, needing to hear the words from her.
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Needy as ever for the praise I see. Grab your instrument and get your ass on stage in ten minutes before I change my mind.”
You practically skipped off stage, not believing what you were hearing. You were going to perform with the Manhattan Symphony! Sure it was just a rehearsal, and the first rehearsal at that, but you didn’t care. You were on cloud nine and nothing could bring you down.
By the time you returned with your instrument, some of the players had started to arrive. You recognized a few of the violinists from different gigs you had played over the past couple of years. Scanning the stage, you spotted Agatha in one of the first rows in the audience, drinking a bottle of water. She noticed you staring and motioned for you to come join her.
You set your case down next to her bag. “Thank you for letting me play in rehearsal today.”
“Why are you thanking me?” Agatha questioned, looking at you with curiosity. “I need a violinist for today’s rehearsal. You’re my assistant who will do whatever you can to please me. It’s common sense.”
You rolled your eyes at her but smiled nonetheless. “You really can’t let me be nice, can you?”
Agatha laughed and patted you on the arm. “You’re finally catching on, dear. Now get on stage and warm up. I can’t have my assistant embarrassing me in front of the entire ensemble.”
You did as you were told and sat in the last chair of the first violin section. The other members of the ensemble gradually made their way to their respective seats to begin warming up, and Agatha stayed at her spot still drinking her water. Your stand partner eventually made their way over to you and smiled.
“Hi, I’m Monica,” the woman said politely as she sat in the chair next to yours.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N,” you replied with a small smile. “Have you been with the symphony for a while?”
“This is my fifth season,” Monica replied with a shrug. “Should be a little more interesting with Harkness in charge at least.”
You vaguely remembered the rumors that the last music director had been voted off by the board due to his age, but you couldn’t remember his name.
“Yeah, she’s really great,” You said happily. Monica gave you a curious glance. “I’m actually her assistant.”
Monica raised her eyebrows at that revelation. “Oh, wow. What’s that like?”
You shrugged, and noted that was the second time someone had that reaction. “Pretty standard I guess.”
“I was wondering who she hired for the section after cancelling the blind auditions,” Monica admitted. “She gave those violinists quite a scare.”
“Well I’m not hired for this,” You quickly backtracked. “She just hadn’t filled the seat and she needed a sub for today so-“
Monica laughed. “Hey, it’s okay. I get it. It’s nice to have you here. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
A few minutes later, the chatter and warming up abruptly stopped when Agatha took the podium. The ensemble stared at their new conductor, curious as to how she would start their first rehearsal. Instead, Agatha raised her baton and the ensemble lifted their instruments in preparation.
“Movement four of Dvorak,” Agatha said and allowed everyone a moment to flip to the respective movement.
She raised her baton again and you felt a rush of adrenaline as you waited in anticipation for her to begin. Over the past few weeks you had studied Agatha’s conducting technique. Watching her move her hands in formation was so beautiful, she was easily the most skilled conductor you had ever observed. Her eyes raked over the ensemble and landed on yours, and with a smirk she gave the upbeat to begin.
Dvorak’s New World Symphony was one of the first full symphonies you remembered playing back in your high school youth symphony. It was breathtaking, full of colorful phrases and swirling melodies in every movement that left both the player and listener eager for more. The fourth movement seemed to tie it all together.
Despite it being the first rehearsal, the ensemble played relatively well. Agatha was mindlessly conducting, her gaze fixated on different ensemble members, and you knew she probably had so many quick witted insults stewing in her brain. You meanwhile couldn’t keep your eyes from watching her conduct. Sure, watching old videos of her conducting different orchestras was great, your personal favorite was of her performance conducting Tchaikovsky’s 4th Symphony with The Chicago Symphony. You also loved sitting in her office and watching her get lost in her scores, seemingly oblivious to your gaze locked on her baton and the way her fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.
But this...this was pure beauty. It was like she was painting a canvas using her baton as a paint brush. Even with her gaze focused elsewhere, she knew the score backwards and forwards and you saw her give every cue without even taking a second to glance down at the music. It was magical; she was magical.
The movement progressed and you had reached one of you favorite spots. There was a phrase transition that featured a slow and melodic theme that was passed throughout the orchestra. It started in the winds and you smiled at the serene sounds of the oboe that featured accompaniment from the strings before the melody was eventually passed to the violin section. While most violinists enjoyed playing fast and thrilling passages that left their fingers aching and bow arm sore, you had always secretly preferred the sweeter themes, the soaring melodies that kept growing and filled your heart with so much warmth.
Closing your eyes to play a passage you had long ago memorized, Dvorak had always been a favorite, you took a second to enjoy the unique feeling that every musician shared. Making music was an intimate experience. The ability to bring together dozens of people from different walks of life. To put aside any problems from everyday life and just take those brief moments to focus on nothing but their craft. Your happiest memories were of the time you spent in orchestra rehearsals. All of the hard, and sometimes grueling, work that went into perfecting each measure and making sure each section played as one giant instrument. All of it was worth it once you made it to the performance, and you swore there was nothing that could bring you more bliss than a live performance.
The movement progressed and Agatha was fully in her element. The woman was the most confident conductor you had ever encountered. Sure, she was a bit...cocky...but she had every right to be. This was the only first rehearsal you had ever attended where the conductor had effortlessly led the ensemble through tempo changes and cues without any faults.
With a whirlwind of fast passages and high notes that had you breathless, you reached the grand finale. You would occasionally glance up to check you were following Agatha’s tempo, and it took everything in you to not keep your gaze entirely fixated on her.
Agatha left her baton raised for a moment before finally lowering it, and you could tell by the passive look on her face that she was not pleased. “Well that was disappointing. Have any of you played in an ensemble before today?”
Directing her gaze to the principal flutist, she waved her hand. “And don’t even get me started on the mess over here. Are you trying to make my ears bleed? I’ve heard first graders who have a better tone than you.”
The principal flutist frowned. “With all due respect Maestra, it’s our first rehearsal and we’re a little rusty.”
“Did I ask for excuses?” Agatha questioned, and you knew the rest of rehearsal would only be downhill from there. If there was one thing Agatha Harkness hated it was excuses. “What’s your name?”
“Dottie Jones.”
“Well, Dottie,” Agatha sneered. “Since you apparently know more than I do, why don’t you come up here and conduct?”
Well shit. You didn’t see that coming. You glanced over to Monica and found she had the same shocked expression on her face as you did.
“Maestra I don’t-“ Dottie tried to argue, and you couldn’t help but feel a small amount of pity for the woman because you knew Agatha always got what she wanted.
“Now!” Agatha yelled and threw her baton on the stand. “Let’s see what you can do.”
“Is she always like this?” Monica whispered to you and you shrugged.
That was a good question. In the few weeks you worked for Agatha, you had grown used to her intense presence and ever changing mood swings. You would never admit it to her face, but you actually found it kind of charming in a weird and twisted sort of way, because you knew Agatha only acted this way to assert her dominance. The music world had predominantly been led by men. The vast majority of the most famous and beloved composers were men. For the majority of your playing career the conductors you encountered were men. Hell, even the majority of symphony orchestras had male concert masters.
“She likes to keep things interesting,” You whispered back while keeping your gaze locked on the scene occurring on the podium.
Dottie had reluctantly made her way through the ensemble to stand on the podium where Agatha stood to the side with her arms folded across her chest.
“Any day now, Dottie,” Agatha mocked and you grimaced. Not even a half hour in and she had already lost her temper.
To Dottie’s credit she appeared relatively calm as she picked up the baton Agatha threw on the stand. The orchestra readied themselves to begin, but you kept your gaze locked on Agatha. What was she playing at?
Dottie gave the upbeat and the opening notes of Dvorak rang out. The flutist was a decent conductor, but you knew it was a losing battle. Her technique was nowhere as refined as Agatha’s and you could tell she was trying her best to keep the ensemble from falling apart. You made it through ten bars before Agatha made her way to the podium and raised one hand, and everyone immediately stopped.
“Well Dottie what do you think?”
“I think I should go back to my seat and leave the conducting to you,” Dottie offered weakly.
Agatha arched an eyebrow. “Ah. I see.” She waited for Dottie to sit back down before continuing. “Some of you may find my methods crazy. Some of you may say that I’m too mean, that I’m pushing you too hard. However, there is a reason for all of this.”
She pointed her baton at the principal oboe. “You? What’s your name?”
“Oh, um...” The man stammered and Agatha rolled her eyes.
“Name!”
“Jimmy Woo.”
“Jimmy Woo,” Agatha repeated with a frown on her face. “How long have you been with the symphony?”
“This is my third season, Maestra,” Jimmy said with a smile.
Agatha nodded. “I need to hear more of you. We need to work on your projection to come over the strings without making it too nasally. Not bad for the first rehearsal, Woo.”
“Thank you, Maestra.”
“Now Woo, how would you say the past three seasons have gone?” Agatha prompted.
“Maestra?” Jimmy asked, appearing confused by the question.
Agatha let out a huff. “How have you felt the orchestra has performed for the past three seasons, Woo?”
“You want my honest opinion, Maestra?”
You watched Agatha tense up and you internally sighed. Another thing Agatha hated was pointless questions.
“No, Woo, I want you to change into a tutu and do pliés,” Agatha dryly commented.
Jimmy let out a bit of nervous laughter which quickly ended when Agatha glared at him. “Right. Well, I guess I feel like we’re losing our touch.”
“That’s putting it lightly. Thank you, Woo,” Agatha said before turning her attention to the rest of the ensemble. “The Manhattan Symphony was once the world’s finest orchestra. But all of you have gotten too comfortable. You’ve stopped making music and now are simply playing notes on a page. You’ve gotten lazy.”
There we go. The third thing Agatha hated. Laziness. You swore the woman was constantly on the move. There was one Friday afternoon where you had suggested taking a half day to enjoy the sunshine, which led Agatha to go on a twenty minute long rant (you timed it) that you could enjoy the sunshine when you were dead in a grave. Needless to say, you never asked to leave work early again.
You watched the conductor place her baton on the stand and wave her arms around. “I want this orchestra to regain its rightful place on top of the musical community. But this is going to require work from every single individual in this room. So, this is your first and only warning. If you are not going to put your entire soul into this orchestra, consider this your last rehearsal. Everyone is replaceable and I promise you will not be missed.”
You raised your bow to signal you had a question. Agatha’s head whipped around to look at you, and you could practically see the gears turning in her head. “Something you wish to add?”
“And if we stay?” You asked, thinking back to the very same question you asked her the day of the audition.
That earned you a smile so small it was almost impossible to see, and it went away as quickly as it appeared. “If you choose to stay, I am going to work you hard. I don’t want to hear any whining or complaints, only promises to do better. Are we clear?”
Silence from the room was taken as a yes. Agatha raised her baton. “Good. Flip to measure 21. Woo I want to work on your entrance. First violins, I know you love being the center of attention but you need to follow the dynamics on the page, circle them if you must. Flutes please try to not to fuck up your eighth notes otherwise I will make sure the only orchestra you play for is in the middle of Antartica.”
The rest of rehearsal went better than it started. Agatha was her usual slightly snarky self, and the rest of the ensemble was learning not to question her. You went to pack up your instrument when Monica motioned for you to come join her.
“I’m not sure if you have any plans but a few of us are going to get drinks if you want to join,” Monica offered and you were touched by her kindness.
“That’s so sweet but I’m actually pretty tired,” You said apologetically. Which was partially true, but you also wanted to make sure Agatha went home and didn’t stay cooped up in her office all night.
“Well if you change your mind, shoot me a text,” Monica insisted as she handed you her phone to put in your contact information. She took the phone back and sent you a message. “There’s my number.”
You thanked her again before heading over to where Agatha was silently stewing. A quick glance at her confirmed that she was still in a bad mood and you chose to silently pack up your instrument while shooting her quick and cautious glances.
“I can feel you staring,” Agatha finally looked up at you. “I want to redo the string parts for Maximoff’s piece. We need to fix a few of the bowings. I want everything to be set for our first rehearsal with her.” She noticed your hesitation. “Unless you have other plans.”
“Oh no, my dream Friday night is being holed up in your office marking Rachmaninoff,” You joked and grinned when she rolled her eyes.
“Funny, dear. Very funny,” Agatha deadpanned, motioning for you to follow her. “But I don’t pay you to make jokes.”
An hour later you were done with the bowings while Agatha had spent the time reading a book. She had a pair of glasses on and her feet were up on her desk, it was the most relaxed you had ever seen her.
“You’re finished?” Agatha asked, not looking up from her book. “Good,” she said and slammed the book closed. “Now, we didn’t get a chance to do this earlier due to my Maximoff induced migraine, so grab that violin and come with me. I want to see how relaxed your bow hold is after rehearsing.”
“Actually, I was going to suggest that we call it a night?” You asked tentatively, gauging her reaction. “You’ve had a long day and-“
“And what? I’m so old I need to be in bed before ten?” Agatha inquired, slowly taking off her glasses.
“You’re not old,” You blurted out and Agatha smirked at you. Blushing, you looked at the floor. “But maybe it would do you good to get some rest?”
“Trying to give me orders again, darling?” Agatha teased and even though you weren’t looking at her, you knew she was still smirking. “I’m not so sure I like that.”
“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” You mumbled whilst Agatha laughed.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Agatha said. “If it will get you to shut up, I’ll call it a night and go home. But I expect you back here tomorrow morning so we can make up our session. We’re finally starting to crack the surface of your true potential and I won’t have you wasting it because you need to sleep.”
You had waited for Agatha to pack up her bag and followed her out of the building. This was the first time you had left at the same time as the older woman. She usually sent you on your way long before she was ready to head out for the evening. She had her town car waiting for her out front, and she frowned as she watched you prepare to walk home.
“You’re not planning on walking alone at this hour are you?” Agatha questioned and looked at you like you were an idiot.
You shrugged. “I only live a few blocks away.” Which was a bit of a lie, but she didn’t have to know that. “And if anyone gives me a hard time I can just whack them with this.” You motioned to your hard case violin.
“You’re an idiot if you think I’ll allow you to wander the streets like a lost little puppy,” Agatha reprimanded you. “Get in the car.”
“I’m not getting in your car,” You argued. “I’ll be fine.”
“Darling I’m not going to tell you again. Get in the car,” Agatha repeated and then smirked. “Unless you’d rather I drag you kicking and screaming.”
You glared at her. Damn her for making everything sound so...suggestive. “Fine.”
“Good girl,” Agatha said as you followed her in the car, and she patted the seat next to hers. “Now where do you live?”
You gave her driver the instructions to your apartment and then made yourself comfortable in the car. There was a few minutes of awkward silence which you spent staring out the window, and Agatha spent staring at you.
“Ya know, you usually call me out for staring at you,” You finally spoke up, the silence starting to eat away at you.
“I am not staring at you,” Agatha lightly argued before changing the subject. “I never asked how you thought I did tonight.”
“What?”
Agatha frowned at you. “How do you think I led the rehearsal?”
That was new. Over the past few weeks Agatha had never asked you for your opinion on anything regarding her conducting, because why would she? Agatha was the most confident person you had ever met, and a part of you was envious at how she presented herself to the world.
You took a moment to glance over at her and found yourself staring into bright blue eyes. “I...I thought you were brilliant. But, you were a little too nice. I don’t think I saw anyone cry.”
Agatha’s expression lightened and you felt your heartbeat grow rapid at the sight of her smile. “Still making jokes, darling? Perhaps I’m going too easy on you.”
The rest of the car ride fell back into a more comfortable silence, and before long Agatha’s driver pulled up to your modest but nice apartment building.
You grabbed your violin case and offered Agatha a small smile. “Thank you for giving me a ride home.”
“Thank Hank, he did the driving.”
“Right,” You frowned. “Well, goodnight.”
Agatha briefly touched your arm as you went to exit the car, and you felt goosebumps at the sensation. “Goodnight, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”
#agatha harkness x reader#agatha harkness#agatha wandavision#wandavision au#wandavision#marvel au#agnes x reader#agatha harkness x you
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