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#napoleon: OH. OOOOHHH
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The Perfect Shot
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Pairing: Napoleon x Reader
Genre: Modern AU
Written by @rikumorimachisgirl
(So sorry for posting this late!)
"Lean back a little, and look to your right…"
Your heart was pounding like crazy as you clumsily moved to follow the instruction you'd just been given. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever imagine you'd be photographed by no less than top Fashion photographer Napoleon Bonaparte, but there you were in his studio, lying on the chaise, donned in a silky red dress with your golden brown locks tired in a loose bun, trying your best to follow his instructions as he snapped one photo after another. 
You had known him since you were six years old, but you doubt he'd remember. He lived right next to you, and went to the same school, although he was a few years older. The last time you saw him was the day before he moved away to college. The image of him grinding his hips against his girlfriend's as they made out in a forgotten corner of the school had been burned into your memory. 
"You're too stiff."
His voice quickly snapped you out of your daydream, and you schooled your features to hide your blush. 
"See, I need you to look sensual for this campaign, " he explained, his emerald green eyes looking straight at you. "Show me the face you make when you get off."
"Get off?" You mutter nervously, as you look away. Your heart thrashed wildly as he walked closer, his eyes never leaving yours. 
"You know we need to finish this shoot today, Nununche, so I guess I have no choice but to help you relax, " he finally said, and he patiently waited for you to nod. "First, I need you to relax. Lay back and close your eyes."
Hesitantly, you did as told and laid back on the chaise with your eyes closed. "Oh, you're still so tense, " he chuckled. "Just relax, and listen to me, yeah?" 
"Yes."
"Good girl." His voice seemed closer to you now, and you could hear his footsteps as he seemed to move around the chaise, watching you. "Can I ask you something? Have you ever been touched?"
"T-touched?" You felt your cheeks burn, and heard him chuckle.
"I suppose not, " he said. "Which is such a shame because you look absolutely alluring lying on my couch. Why, if I were your lover, I wouldn't waste any time at all in idle chit chat. No, I wouldn't dare make you wait. I'll use my lips and my hands to show you how beautiful you are to me." 
You gasped at his words and felt your heart speed up again. 
"Relax. I'll make you feel good, " he teased as he noticed you tensing up again. "Your lips look so inviting, so I will start my journey there. My lips will get to know yours over and over until we both come up for air, " he said, and you take a sharp intake of breath as you listened to his velvety voice. 
"And when I'm satisfied, I will move lower to discover your lovely neck. I want to know if you're ticklish, and where you're most sensitive. If I were your lover, I would mark you right there at your pulse point. I'll suck at your skin and leave proof that you and I had shared a moment together, and that you are mine, " his voice trailed off as he walked around the chaise once more. "I wonder if you'd like that. How would you react while my lips make marks on your skin, I wonder?" He saw you move an inch to your side and smiled. "Don't be shy, it's just us in the studio right now. You can move if you want."
You blushed furiously but nodded. "Good girl. Shall I continue?" 
You silently cursed him for teasing you, but you didn't want him to stop. "Yes, " you replied, your voice slightly higher. 
He chuckled again, as his eyes roamed your body and landed on your breasts. The silk fabric did nothing to conceal your now hardened nipples, and he bit his lips. "Hmmm… I'll bury my head on your chest next. I want to take your breasts into my hands, and see if they fit. I'll lick your nipples and suck on them until you moan. I'll push them together and move my tongue over your nipples, trying to decide which of the two I like more -"
A tiny moan escaped you, and you clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself. You gasped when you felt his hand take yours and move it away from your mouth. 
"No, no. I want to hear you, " he said. "I want to hear if you will react the same way when I move my mouth lower and kiss your stomach. I'm likely to leave marks on it, too."
You shifted to the side and he smirked. From where he stood, he could tell you were so turned on. Your body was flushed, and he could smell your arousal, the sweet scent drew him closer and he leaned over to breathe it in. "And then I'll move lower…"
"Nnn…"
"What is it? You don't want to?"
"No, it's… it's…"
"It's good… I'll make sure it feels good." He said against the fabric of your dress. "You're already wet, which is good because I'll immediately get to taste your sweet nectar. I'll part your legs and lick your pussy. I wonder if you'll like it when I lick you fast or slow, " he watched you squirm and rub your legs together. "I bet you taste so good, I won't be able to stop myself from plunging my tongue into you further and further, again and again until…"
"Nnggghh… Oooohhh…"
He watched in awe as you squirmed and curled your toes. "That's it, love. Let go. Those are the moans I want to hear, " he told you as he readied his camera and waited. 
It didn't take long before your face was filled with ecstasy - too consumed by your orgasm, you hadn't noticed the shutter go off. He finally succeeded. The perfect shot. 
Watching you come down from your high, he realized he had quite a problem of his own, too. "Nununche, don't open your eyes yet, " he instructed. "Just lay there for a little bit more." 
Feeling drowsy after your intense photoshoot, you had no problem doing just that and soon after, you drifted into a dreamless sleep. 
You woke up from your nap an hour later. The studio was empty save for Napoleon's photography equipment and a few files neatly stacked on his desk, along with your purse and your change of clothes… and a hastily written note that read, 
'You grew up just as beautiful as I thought. May I continue exploring how much you've changed tonight?' 
He scribbled his number below, and you immediately grabbed your phone to let him know he didn't have to ask. 
The end. 
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certifiablyplatinum · 4 years
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Can you save my heavydirtysoul?(Please say you can.)Twenty One Pilots concert story, 10/22/19
As I had missed my GA Floor seat show in June at home in Cbus due to my woeful injury,  I decided to buy tickets when the boyz announced their second leg and  stop in Cincinnati.  I mean, why not? Fangirling all over the place here. Of course, I was taking Jordan, as the summer of 2016 was the Blurryface summer and we played it out on our deck almost every night. I am secure in my vast music knowledge and boldly admit my love for Twenty One Pilots just as I do my more bizarre and obscure bands. Diversity is where it’s at, babies, ya like what ya like.
The brilliant blue October day arrived, and my preparations were made.  
First, I chose a hotel north of Cinci. I had a work retreat on the south side of Columbus the next morning, so shaving off those ends saved me time.
Secondly, I told the wayward Jordan “Meet me at XXX South High Street with your bags packed at 3:30 pm.” (referring to the event space I needed to be at the day after the show.)  Jordan: Huh? Where? Why?  Me: Just meet me there.
Third, I called the event space to ensure I could leave a car parked there overnight.
Fourth, I packed an overnight bag with 17 different outfits. I am not sure why.
 I left work and drove to the space I was to be at the next morning, and Jordy showed up VERY promptly. (Me texting her: It’s just past the bridge going over 71.  Her reply: I have GPS.)
 She tossed her bags in my car,  locked her car up, and off we went together.  She drove, as I needed to focus up with a call and verbal beatdown to  A T & T and a little light  bill paying. An hour and a half later we arrived at our Blu hotel in Blue Ash, freshened up, poured a Citron and G2, and called an Uber to US Bank Arena.
 Our driver pulled up, we tossed our cardboard coffee cups in the trash, and hopped in. He looked back at us randomly asked, “Do you like country music?”  I diplomatically and cheerfully answered, “I do if you do!” He seemed to doubt my sincerity, as he wordlessly handed me his phone. I chose a 90s alt-rock playlist and, well…. Pearl Jam’s Jeremy came on first.  I believe this set the tone for the whole evening and led to my overall uninhibited abandon. Because here’s the deal—I have this thing where I have a primal need to sing Pearl Jam loudly and also in a PREEEEETY spot-on Eddie Vedder voice. I simply can’t not do it. So when  I began to bellow along in my Eddie voice, Mohammed turned the radio up so loud that my ears were bleeding, as if to urge me along. Still, I sang on. (OOoooh my jaw left hurtin’, OOoohhh dropped wide open…)
 Anyway, we got dropped off and headed to get food and drinks at the Holy Grail Tavern.  Both Jordan and I couldn’t stop looking at our attractive server.  It got so that we were laughing out loud when she whizzed past us because we (the server and me) were always accidentally locking eyes.  I said, “Oh my God she’s going to think – who is this perv staring at me?”  And Jordan said, “Well,  *I* get to see her as she walks away and she has a great butt.” This led us to the conclusion that we couldn’t stop looking at her because we, as a species, are so used to ugly being the norm  (“Have you BEEN to the BMV, Elaine?”) that we can’t stop looking at people who are attractive.  We drink them in like a scarce hidden spring in a dusty desert.   The server asked, “One check or two?”  as soon as we finished our food and apparently I spoke loudly and with a bit of shock: “Well I am HAVING another drink!”  
 We chugged away and then around 7 we headed out the door.  I was in a bit of a conundrum because I had already walked a great deal and I didn’t know what side of the stadium we were on, and I didn’t want to walk in circles for nothing, as BabyCalf and BionicTendon were a lil sore. Just then, (of course, because this is how things happen to witchy little me), a jolly man called from one lone open-air shuttle across the street: “Need a ride?”  And how!  Not only did we get a ride, we got the VIP drop off at the secret back elevator!  Up we went,  got scanned in, and found our kickass seats—basically 6 rows up from the floor.
 Once we knew where our seats were, we went up to the stuffed and crammed hallway overflowing with yellow and camo-clad Cliquers, and made our way to a hallway bar cart.  The windows behind the bar cart looked out to the open air terrace.  We figured we would go out and get some fresh air rather than wait in our seats, and asked the bartender, “Can we have someone let us back in if we go out there?” She said “No, but you can keep walking around the corner and come back in the main entrance.”  No problem! But was it? We soon found it was, as we wandered back up to the main entrance with our brazenly open containers and were told, “No re-entry!” by a shocked looking person who may as well have added, “You dumbasses!”
 “BUT! BUT! She said we could come back in this way!” I eloquently burst forth.
The ‘who are these stupid people’ gate attendant said with some ‘tude: “Who. Is. ‘She’?”
“The bartender!” I pouted.
“You can’t have open containers either!” he parried again, noticing our drinks.
“Well what do we DO!?” I demanded, my Scarlett O’Hara inconvenience bubbling up.
He sighed and pointed. “That guy in the blazer is the manager. Go talk to him.”
 Another witchy win: the plaza was empty except for the one, lone, blazered manager, talking to a cop! What are the chances he was right there?  I strolled up, my drink still blatant AF, and explained our predicament.
“No re-entry,” he said.
“Oh my God! We were clearly here! We had to get in to even be here with a drink in our hand. She told us we could go out on the terrace and walk around to get back in!”
“Who is ‘she’? And no open containers.” he chided.
 Amazingly,  our damsel in distress act got us back in and the manager bellowed “Let ‘em through!” to all the ticket attendants, and we sailed on through, triumphant. “Comin through!” I waved my hands. Back to our seats we went!
 MIsterwives opened up, and I get it, auburn-maned singer Mandy Lee has a wild falsetto that yips and yodels and leaps around, putting me in mind of Kate Bush’s vocal style. Their wavy, colorful set and lighting was bright and cheery with rainbow tones and pops of pinks and yellows. The highlight was their cover of Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts”.   Ballsy move!  They bopped, boogied and bounced with great gusto all over the stage and when they finished with a rollicking “Our Own House”  with its zesty horn riffs, the crowd was getting into it.  (Jordan and I happened to be sitting in the “Family Section” and felt chastened by the uncertain-faced teens at their first show, not quite sure how to let loose, and their basic and somewhat resigned parents – neither of which group had a drink in their hands. Jordan made several trips up and back, soaking these poor people with vodka as she sloshed her way back to her seat.)
 FINALLY – the main event! The arena seethed with anticipation when the curtain billowed back and forth, sooo close to unveiling the set and stage. Finally, in a burst of red lasers and flames, Josh and Tyler appeared on the scene and ripped right into Jumpsuit, performed as a car on fire burned behind them. JUMPSUIT! JUMPSUIT! COVER ME! He screamed at the close, as we all did.
 Visually, the evening was a treat for the senses.  Kaledoscopic shifting colors and shapes, lasers, catwalks, a B Stage…. Costume changes and bridges,  Josh Dun and his abs on full display, Tyler with his various hats and costumes and instruments,  a glittering swath of twinkling lights for the gentle “Neon Gravestones” shining like stars caught in a net: The production of this tour was top-notch and stunning, allowing for a visual orgy to accompany the talent of the hometown boys. I stumbled across a line that I think puts it perfectly:
“This wasn’t a band rocking out, despite how hard Dun plays the drums. This was a post-apocalyptic rapper-hero performing songs with his drummer-sidekick nearby, in the midst of lasers and explosions.” They really do have a kind of anime’,  lone-wolf kind of renegade vibe going, especially with the way their albums tend to run with storylines: The Blurryface character, and now the bishops and mysterious DEMA of Trench.
Their setlist was packed full of the goodies…. Stressed Out (“what’s my name?” Tyler would chant rhythmically.)  The frenetic insanity and staccato rapping of Heavy Dirty Soul. My favorite from Trench, The Hype, or as I say “The song with the best ukulele-backed bridge ever written.” God that song is tight! They shifted stages during the end of “Nico and the Niners” and returned back on the main stage by the time Holding On To You started….. ahhhh, where Josh does his perfectly timed backflip from the piano! Lean with it, rock with it. Swoon, y’all.   Tyler’s laid-bare confessions are what resonate, causing the band’s wildfire-like leap to global fame.
 Something that is becoming a bit of tradition with the duo is that every show, as far as I know, has always ended with Trees. It’s a euphoric communal outpouring to close the night, everyone jumping up and down singing “LA LA…. LA LA LA LA LA LA….. HELLOOOOOOO!”  It’s a soft start, a gentle and sad build, and then a sweaty screamfest at the end. PERF!
 As we made our way out the doors and across the plaza, we made up songs like “My momma needs to take an elevator because of her busted tendon” – Jordan, and “OOooh but I got ma fishnet stockings on, yeahh” -Me.  Jordan also stepped on my foot and I howled in pain as she knelt before with remorse, boozily patting and stroking my foot.
 Sooo we grabbed another Uber, and here’s where things shifts from a normal boozy concert night to one for the books. Our dude, Dean, pulled up with the license plate that began with LGR.  Our relationship began with my opening sentence: “Your license plate says LIGER, like Napoleon Dynamite.  It’s a lion—and a tiger!”  And bam! Merrily we roll along!
 I am not quite sure how this went from polite chatter to veering off the rails, but I will condense and recount what went down as best I can recall.
Jordan: She had her achilles’ tendon repaired!
Dean: Oh, I can fix that.
(Like, totally matter of fact. Oh, I can fix that.)
 Jordan: Really?  YES!
Dean: Sure. We’re all made of electricity.  We’re just made of electric particles and neurons. I consult all over to doctors because I fix people.
Jordan: Why are you driving an Uber?
Me: .
Dean: Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.
Me: …How???
Dean: Electricity.
Jordan: How do you know how to do this?
Dean: I’m just kind of brilliant with this kind of stuff.
 OK, so, I’m kind of brushing it off at this point, thinking I’ll ditch him when we arrive at the ol’ Blu. Dean says he’s going to find a place to park and he will be right in. Jord and I get out and stand outside for a minute as we watch him drive around the corner.  “Let’s just go in,” I say.  “Yeah,” she agrees, “I think he left.”  My brain was so jumbled with confusion I wasn’t sure what was going on.  Was he actually planning on coming up to the hotel room?  “Let’s get inside,” I said, relieved that he probably was just messing with us and took off.
 The automatic glass doors blew open to the lobby and we walked in. Right behind us, a dude with a bag of City BBQ carryout and a gray medical-looking case followed us in.
Jordan: What’s that?
City BBQ dude: This is my (blah, blah, blah.)  It uses electricity to heal injuiries. (He says a name similar to   something like the Electralux El Diablo 5000.)
Jordan: She tore her achilles!
City BBQ dude: Yes, this equipment will heal it.
ME: (whipping my head back toward him):  OH MY GOD!!!! MY UBER DRIVER JUST SAID THAT TOO!  WHAT ARE THE CHANCES!?
Like, seriously, I am thinking this guest of the hotel is maybe a doctor in for a conference, or whatever.  It was only through muddled bits and pieces clicking together in my brain during the ride up in the elevator and ending when the bbq-toting man did not go to his “room” but walked in OURS that I fucking realized…
This guy WAS MY UBER DRIVER.
Not 2 separate people, both coincidentally on a mission and willing to fix bodily injuries with a machine with the equipment on their person.
 I was so confused when faced with this reality it was like I was living in an alternate universe.  As I am sputtering around saying, “Oh my God, I never really saw your face in the car, just the back of your head” Dean is busily and efficiently placing electrodes on my ankles, calves, shins, even my goddamn glutes.  I find myself saying, “You know, my shoulder has hurt a bit lately too” and he briskly whips my arm around and jams his thumb right where it hurts, murmurs the word “Release…..” and then slaps an electrode on my shoulder. THEN he hooks Jordan up. “Is this a TENS unit?”  I ask. “Pfft.  This makes a TENS unit look like child’s play” he retorts proudly.
Jordan and I are now are standing next to each other looking like inmates of The Green Mile and sizzling with pulsating electricity.   Dean eats his corn pudding, yanking the current up and down based on our grunts of discomfort. My phone is in my hand at all times with the first two numbers of 9 – 1 punched in and on high alert.  But as he contentedly moves on to his green beans with his feet kicked up on the table in front of him, I have to admit he looks pretty harmless.  
 I think Dean the Electrode Machine was in our room until midnight, giving us confident tips on how to heal, saying he could bring his machine anywhere in the world, and I finally started giving signs of get-out-I’m-tired. In a gentlemanly way, he bid us adieu, as I babbled on about leaving him a big tip.  I mean, he invited himself to cure me, but isn’t his time and trouble worth something?  I tipped him 30 dollars and added him on Facebook.  
 Jordan and I try to get ready for bed but she then runs into a couple of questionable characters and starts talking to them. The three of them are standing outside (why did we go back outside? Perhaps to bid Dean adieu, I believe.) They start cooking up plans like long lost homies.  I say “Get upstairs” and take her arm.  (She can be hard to manage once she crosses that line.)  We get in bed.  It is nearing 1am. Jordan lays on top of me crying and blubbering “Promise me you won’t ever die.”   I say kindly as I smooth her hair, “I will though.”   We laugh about being electrocuted by our Uber driver.  I say I can’t believe he just invited himself to our hotel room.  She casually says with the air of a jaded and well-worn matriarch: “Please, Mom, everybody hangs out with their Uber drivers in their hotels now.” Then she gets up again and walks out the door.  I am fading fast but I manage to say, “GET BACK IN HERE! Where are you going?”  I close my eyes for a minute and I open them when I hear the door open again and Jordan puts her face right next to mine and whispers in a low, clear, concerned voice:
“Mom. There is a naked man sitting in the egg chair in the hallway masturbating.”
“Huh?” I whisper back.
She repeats it.
With STRANGE AND STOIC CALM considering my inebriated and disoriented state, I pick up the desk phone.  The next thing I know, I am whispering as calmly and clearly as Jordan did: “Hello. This is Room 303. I want you to know there is a naked man masturbating in the egg chair up here in the hallway.”
 DEAD ASS PAUSE on the other end. Finally: “Umm, ahh, ok, I… I .. uhhh… I’ll come check it out.”
Five minutes later the phone startles me out of my slip into slumber.  
“Hello?” I answer.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. The man. No man.”
“Okay.”
 It is 2:30 now and I don’t just fall asleep—I hurtle into it like a plane crashing into the ground, fading to black.  I don’t wake up until I hear something.  It sounds familiar.  It’s a ringing sound.  It’s that thing that makes you wake up. But where is it?  “Jordan,”  I hiss. “Huh?” she moans.  She bolts upright and grabs her phone and stares at it. “This is new,” she whispers.  “Make it stop!”  I cry. The ringing continues.  I realize it’s coming from my phone which is on the floor.  I remember how to make it stop.  It’s 6:45 am. I lay in exhausted torment until 7:15. Then 7:30.  Then with every ounce of strength I can muster, I get my ass up and get to the excruciating business of  getting my shit together and getting my shit together…( sayin’ wake up, ya need to make money!)  At 8:10 Jordan and I are both in the car with a cup of coffee.  You’re not hard core unless you live hard core, like Dewey Finn says.
 I sail up 71 without incident.  The coffee kicks in and I’m actually feeling pretty okay. At 9:49, I pull into the venue we are at for the day at work. Jordan’s car is safe and intact.  I find a parking spot, wave to my friend, and tell Jordy to wake up.
 She sits up, opens her eyes, retches, opens the door, and promptly vomits down the side of my car.
I squeal, then chant prayerfully: OMG PLEASE DO NOT PUKE IN FRONT OF MY CO-WORKERS!
 I don’t even see her leave.  She is gone, slinking away to her car, as I had practically pushed her out of a moving vehicle.
 So.  That’s my review of Twenty One Pilots and a little story thrown in to boot.  
 PS My foot doesn’t feel any better.
PSS Pics below of Tyler, Josh, me, Jordan,and Dean.
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